Ellis had been working on an autobiography for many years.  I tried to compile his digital files here… I am missing some content (chapter 32), as I get more of the content I’ll keep adding it to this post:

 CHAPTER   1

 

A CHILD OF THE OREGON HILLS

April, 1926, Wendling

It was a warm Spring day in Oregon and all the fruit trees were finally in bloom, the daffodils and narcissus added their splash of color to the landscape and the happy little breezes picked up the delightful aroma of the lilacs wafting it into the little country cottage.   This was a special time for Ethel^[1] as it would soon be her birthday, her 32nd, and near the time to deliver her third child.   The first child was born prematurely because of an auto accident and never survived, her second child she named Lawrence, he became the oldest child from this time forward.   Ethel’s husband, Harry^[2] carefully kept their small farm productive while he also worked in the local sawmill.

 

April 18, Her birthday arrived along with labor pains.   Mrs. Lathrop, the midwife was quickly sent for and the “birthday present” soon arrived, another boy and he was named Ellis after the name of one of her college professors.

 

The mid-1920s were times of wonderful expectations, phone lines were being strung across the countryside along with electricity carried by magical wires into every home to ease the drudgery of household work.   Now darkness could be dispelled by light that flooded a room from a glass bulb when one pulled on a string.   Another invention now taking hold was the wireless (radio), nearly every home had one, why you could listen to music being played in New York City and even the President could speak to everyone in the nation at the same time.   There were electric washing machines, electric stoves, irons, churns, pumps, mixers and a host of new inventions flooding the market daily.   It was boom time across America, roads were being built for the automobiles that bounced along, chugging and honking, frightening the horses and scattering the chickens.

 

This new nation was rapidly crisscrossed with railroads and overhead, airplanes were droning along with passengers, mail and cargo.   What a wonderful time to live.   It would be another 3 years before the Great Depression was to smother the land with bleakness and poverty, it would be 10 years before the rise of Adolph Hitler with the dreaded Nazi Party and the destruction of Europe.   But 1926 existed in that idyllic time of happy innocence with nothing but a bright promising future ahead and into this time I was born.

 

Harry and Ethel cleared this 6 acre piece of fertile land, built a house and a barn, then added a chicken house, a pig pen, a smokehouse, a woodshed and an insulated pantry for storing canned fruit and vegetables.   Even when times were hard there was plenty of food for us that was produced from the land.   The cow gave us milk to drink and cook with and from which we churned butter and made cottage cheese.   We gathered eggs from the chickens and converted the hogs into bacon, ham, lard, pork chops and sausages.   The young steers were butchered and turned into roasts, steaks, chops, soup stock and many other delicious products.   I remember dad planting: corn, beans cabbage, turnips, parsnips, radishes, lettuce, potatoes, beets, cucumbers, squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, spinach, etc.   You can see from this that even in a depression, life in the country was far different that the soup lines in the city.

 

We each had our chores to do, I started out by bringing in wood and kindling each evening for the early morning fires, shortly thereafter I began the animal care chores by scattering scratch feed to the chickens and gathering eggs, I soon advanced to slopping the hogs, and fetching hay and grain to the cow and horse.   Outside of the daily chores that we did, we all worked together when it came time for planting, weeding, harvesting crops, and putting up hay.

 

My older brother Lawrence was the adventuresome type, so with me in tow he explored every nook and cranny of the property.   We climbed on top of every building and to the top of every tree on the place (much to the dismay of our mother).   One day while thinking of something greater to do He struck off with me in tow as usual and left our property for the hills and the forest, our mother called to us to come back, but on we went.   To this day I don’t know how we came back out of the forest and ended up in the middle of the sawmill with machinery on all sides banging, clattering, whirring and screeching.   We stood in the middle of this in amazement, what a wonderful place!   In the meantime men from around our home had fanned out in the forest looking for us, with no success.   Back at the sawmill, one of the men making deliveries of wood, I believe, stopped and inquired as to who we were and where we lived.   I probably didn’t even know my own name but Lawrence did and we were soon back home, what a glorious adventure, but mother did not see it in the same light, we were grounded.   The search was called off with a lot of angry men walking by the house, muttering, “what they need is a good spanking”.   Mother had a better remedy, she started telling us stories, scary stories of cougars, bears and hobgoblins, “that will get you if you don’t watch out”.   That cured us good, the bad side was that we were too afraid to even go to the outhouse by ourselves after dark.   Those cougar stories still haunt me to this day!

 

My first terrible taste of soap occurred at this time.   Lawrence and I were in the barn where dad was milking the cow, or at least trying to, when the cow who was not cooperating at all switched her tail and knocked his hat half way across the barn, then she lifted her foot and kicked over the bucket of milk.   This rebellious action was too much for dad and our soft spoken father uttered such a torrent of obscenities and profanity at this miserable, ill-begotten creature, that we were rooted to the spot in amazement.   Returning to the house Lawrence and I began practicing our new vocabulary, that is until mother overheard us.   After explaining to us how dirty and nasty these words were, she grabbed a bar of soap and began to wash them out of our mouths, demanding where we heard such talk. “Daddy said them to the cow”, we cried through our tears and the froth and foam bubbling from our mouths, after getting this answer, mother rinsed our mouths and set us in chairs facing the wall.

 

Mother waited for dad to come in and they had a conference out in the kitchen, then they entered the room where we were sitting, mother turned us around and washed dad’s mouth with soap as she did ours (or at least pretended to) saying, “you are never to use these words again, do you understand?”   We understood, and we never did to this day^[3].   We understood a couple of lessons that day, the second being, even though father was big and strong our little mother was the final authority over conduct such as this, even over father.   God bless her.

 

My next adventure wasn’t so pleasant.   Dad had a large fir tree on the ground that he was going to saw up into firewood and since making cuts every 16 inches would be a time consuming task, he borrowed a drag-saw from his brother Norton.   This was a mechanical saw built on an “A” frame powered by a gasoline engine.   The saw blade was about 6 feet long and similar to a crosscut saw except much stiffer since it had to be pushed and pulled rapidly by a mechanical arm in a reciprocating motion.   This machine after being started would continue to saw all by itself, leaving the woodsman free to split and stack the wood he had already cut.

This particular day dad was sawing and splitting wood, Lawrence had climbed on top of the log and was running back and forth and I was left on the ground playing with chips and little blocks of wood.   The blade eventually ran into a very pitchy area of the log and began to bind, the saw started to go very slow so dad stopped it, came around the log, lifted the blade and shook kerosene all over it, then dropped it back into the cut.   I watched this maneuver with great interest, “that is much more exciting than little blocks of wood”, I thought so I grabbed hold of that big blade and began pulling on it.   Meanwhile dad was now on the other side of the log preparing to start the saw again.   He would start it by jerking on the flywheel, usually several times before it would begin running, this he now did and as my fingers were between the teeth when the blade went back through the log, they were severed.   The stubborn engine did not start or I would have been cut up into little pieces.   So from about 3 or 4 years old I lived without the tips of 2 fingers, this was to play a significant part in my later military service, recorded in chapter 11.

 

Mother took the oversight of our spiritual development since dad was noncommittal about such things.   Dad was not opposed to religion, he was just indifferent to it at this time. By Now I had several younger brothers and sisters and mother made sure we were in Sunday School and Church every Sunday.   At that time it meant the Methodist Church.   There were 3 churches in town; The Methodist, a Catholic^[4]and a small Open Bible Standard Church, but the Methodist was the real church in town, it was large, it had influential people attending it but it was the farthest away from our home (over a mile).   The only way to get there was to walk, we had no car, but even people who did have cars walked, everyone walked in those days unless it was raining or snowing.   But even when it rained or snowed, we walked, and we never missed a Sunday service either.   If mother was sick or had to care for a sick baby, we still walked by ourselves.   When I was about 6 or 7, my sister, Josephine and I were taught the names and the order of all the Books of the Bible, so on an appointed day we went to the platform and sang our way through these 66 Books.   The people clapped for us and I remember feeling so important that day.

 

• ^[1]Ethel Bowers Warner 1894-1982
• ^[2]Harry E. Warner 1885-1976.   Married Ethel Bowers, a school teacher, in 1920.
• ^[3]Out of a family of 9 children none use obscenities or profanity so maybe the soap was also put to good use on our younger brothers and sisters as well. Ellis.
• ^[4]The Catholic Church had a small following in Wendling, no priest.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

THE FIRST GRADE

It was now time to put away childish things and step out into the real world under the authority of others.   It was time to enter Grade School.   Since I was a rather timid child, this was especially difficult for me, but I did have Lawrence to walk with me and he was a veteran now having already spent two years at this institution.   So he showed me the rest room, the drinking fountain, the playground and the classroom, that’s all one needed to know the first day.   My teacher’s name was Miss Jordon, a small lady with big glasses and a kind smile, best of all she just loved children.   My fears all disappeared and I was on my way.   My mother had already taught me the A,B,C’s, I could count to 100, spell and read simple stories, this was easy!   How I loved that First Grade.

 

One jarring word of fear entered my vocabulary that first year, Millican’s Cattle. In order to get to School we walked up the county road about one mile, now this was not straight but it twisted and turned until it finally crossed Mill Creek at the Wendling Covered Bridge.   Once we crossed the bridge we were safe for the school was there on the right hand side of the road.   Safe from what?   Why Millican’s cattle of course!   These were range cattle that would be driven out of the hills from their summer range.^[1]   The cattle would be driven along by real cowboys on horses, right through the center of town and down the county road to winter pasture about 15 miles away.   This brings me to the fear of that dreaded phrase, “Millican’s cattle are coming!”   Since school started in the Fall and the time to move the cattle was also in the Fall it was inevitable that we would meet face to face on the one and only corridor through town.   In Oregon we had a lot of cold foggy days in the Fall of the Year this added to the mystery of this fearsome event.

 

I was walking along the road to school, the thick, wet fog by now had penetrated to my bones, so my coat collar was pulled up tight to my face, my warm wool cap pulled down over my ears when through the thickened fog less than 60 feet away loomed the shaggy head and horns of a wild range bull, my heart stopped, then a spurt of adrenaline shot through my veins and I leaped like a jack rabbit toward the barb wire fence at the side of the road.   The cattle were nearly upon me as I rolled under the bottom strand of wire, they moved like a river of tossing heads and bodies, and filled all the space from fence to fence and the road between.   When I caught my breath I turned and yelled my loudest to any student plodding along behind me, “Millican’s Cattle are coming, Millican’s Cattle are coming!”   Now I heard a bawl, then a moo from a cow, a whistle from one of the drivers or the bark of his dog.   On and on they came, the soft clopping and scuffing of their feet is about all that I can hear now.   I was still trembling, the reaction I suppose of facing certain death (in the mind of a six year old) and escaping.   They moved through the mist and fog like demons from hell for the next 15 or 20 minutes, then a large apparition loomed near me at the fence, it is one of the cowboys bringing up the rear, he raised his hand to me in a salute, a man to man salute, I salute him back.   They’re gone! They’re finally gone!, so I crawled under the bottom strand of the barb wire fence being careful not to snag my   new jacket and continued on to school.   “I made it, I made it” , I say, but tomorrow or the next day, or the next there will be another drive, I just hope that it won’t be in the fog.

 

During those early years of school we all seemed to catch our share of childhood diseases.   First it was measles and this one hurt us because mother was of the school that believed a child with measles should be kept in a dark room and of course with no reading or writing.   It was to ‘protect our eyes.’   That’s what hurt the most, immobility with nothing to do after we began to feel better.   Next came the dreaded whooping cough, which was combated with doses of powdered alum mixed with something else, which I don’t remember.   We coughed until we could scarcely catch our breath, it was difficult to talk, AND we had to remain indoors. It was like being in jail.   It seemed just as we were completely recovered from one disease, one of the kids in class would become ill with a fever and sent home, but that was enough to infect the rest of us, so another round of these childhood infections began.   The good news was, once we had one of these infections, our immune system recognized that bug and stopped it in its tracks, we never caught it again.   Once the teacher announced to the class that one of the pupils was absent with chicken pox, so we knew what was coming, it wouldn’t be long until we all had it, and we did.   What an itchy, scratchy period of time for us.   We had to be careful not to scratch the pustule directly since that would leave a scar and most kids did end up with at least one scar somewhere on their body, the itching could be somewhat relived with a home remedy of cleansing these itching places with a mixture of baking soda and water.   And so it went until we made it through all of these miserable times, but we were soon in a free state with nothing left to catch.   Nowadays there are shots for all of these, so children won’t have to go through what we did.

 

As soon as dad arrived home from the sawmill, we had supper, then after a brief relaxing time with the paper, dad headed for the barn to milk the cow.   We liked to go with him as it was extra time with him. By now it was dark and as we walked along each of us begged to carry the coal oil lantern, dad settled it by making us take turns.   While dad milked the cow, we poured some of the milk in a pan for the cats, got hay and grain for the cow and fed the calf some milk and mash and hopped around in the mysterious, dimly lit barn.   Once as we were returning to the house, a brilliant meteor streaked across the sky in a southerly direction, disappearing over the nearby ridge.   Dad thought that it probably landed in Cartwright Canyon, about two miles away, so on the very next day, Lawrence and I headed straight for the spot where it landed (we thought), but no meteor could be found, though we searched diligently for it.   Two days later dad read in the paper that it landed in Northern California, about 250 to 300 miles away.   That would have been some hike, even for us.

The first grade is finally over and the most important thought I now have is, did I pass?   Yes gentle reader, students did fail or “flunked” in those days and had to repeat the grade so I was on pins and needles until I received my report card.   “Wheee! I passed, Miss Jordon passed me and I’m going to the 2nd grade next year” I shouted to my friends as the exuberance of the moment lifted me to cloud nine.

 

 

 

 

Second and Third Grade

Wendling Grade School

1933

 

 

It has been 66 years since I sat with these students for this picture. I know the memory is a bit rusty, but I will attempt to name as many as possible.

 

Back row- Miss Jordan (Teacher), Lilly Sturgess, Ryan Remont, ___________, Douglas Skurdahl, ___________, Wayne Littrel, Marjory Littrel ?,________, Ruth Saur.

Middle row- Ron Byers, Rodney Rogers, Merle Rattery, Ed Allen, Red Kinkaid, Nelly Fisher, Lawrence Warner.

Front row- Oliver Bailey, Rosemary Mills, Bobby Hoffsteder, ___________, Ellis Warner, Ione Helms, Raymond Smith, Audry Byers, Bud Hall, _______ Aldus.

 

I’m sure that the spelling is off a bit on some of the names, but it is as close as I can remember.

 

 

 

• ^[1]In the Spring the reverse was true, they would be driven from their winter pasture through town to the hills for the summer.

 

CHAPTER 3

 

WENDLING WINTER

Each day now was a new exciting adventure as the entire world revolved around me, my family and the little country town in the hills of Oregon.   In fact my basic horizon did not reach much farther than the cities of Springfield and Eugene^[1] to the west and Fall Creek to the South^[2], that is until I entered high school.   But now let’s return to the little house in the Oregon hills.

 

Our original house was built by father on the 6 acre parcel of land which he first cleared of brush and trees and then proceeded to farm.   Then in 1935 grandmother Bowers passed away^[3] leaving the original home place to the children. Father and mother decided to buy this property since the house was much larger, the land more fertile and it boasted a large orchard filled with apple, pear, plum and cherry trees. There were also two enormous walnut trees in the front yard with some hazelnut trees along the creek bank.   The concord grapes grew in the back yard and completely covered an old arbor and climbed onto the adjoining cherry tree.

We always referred to our original place as the “Old Place” and our new home as “Our Place” or “Home”.

The entire north boundary of our new home bordered Mill Creek, which provided us endless hours of summer enjoyment.   We fished, swam, waded and explored along the banks by the hour, but as tranquil as Mill Creek was in the summer, it could be just the opposite in the winter with a raging, roaring torrent of water rushing by and flooding all low lying fields to the north of us.   During flood time we were very careful not to get too close to the banks as they sometimes caved away.   Once during flood time my youngest brother George^[4] and a friend^[5] were playing along the bank, suddenly George fell into the swift current, his little friend grabbed a long stick and ran along the bank trying to reach out to George, he finally did and pulled George to safety and from certain death.   That surely makes one believe in Guardian Angels doesn’t it?

 

The winters at the “old place” always seemed the most severe to me (probably since I was so young, from day 1 to 10 years).   They usually began in November with the cold, wet, windy storms sweeping down upon us followed by lots of freezing cold and snow, but inside our house it was as warm as toast, since father had plenty of wood in the woodshed for heating and cooking (our food was cooked on the wood burning cook stove).   This was accomplished by building a fire in a compartment on one side and adding wood piece by piece all day long.   This type of stove cooked food on the range top or in the oven and kept food warm in the warmer oven.   The heat of the fire was regulated by the draft controls in front and the damper in the stove pipe, (chimney).   We did not need a heating stove in the kitchen since the cook stove kept us warm there.

 

Evening darkness came early in January because of two primary reasons, first we lived in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains and the sun disappeared over the mountains while it was still afternoon, second, Wendling was at 44 degrees latitude and that is far enough north to make the nights long in the winter and the days short.   But today darkness descended even earlier than usual as the sky began to fill with thick black ominous clouds from noon on and as the wind picked up in force so did the intensity of that melancholy wail produced as it gusted through the tall firs, there is no other sound quite like it anywhere, wheeooooo it began low and deep but it wasn’t long before that soooooing sound became a screaming banshee.   Then bitter cold swept across the countryside as it began to rain.   “You boys get the wood in now, for we are in for a bad storm tonight” said father as he hurried to the barn to milk the cow and see that all of the animals were bedded down for the night.   Shortly after supper we climbed into our beds and mother piled so many extra quilts upon us, we could hardly move for the weight, but we could still hear the storm slamming against our little house and feel the icy cold air freezing our noses (that’s all that stuck out from under the covers).   We had just drifted off to sleep when we were awakened by a loud crash, as a large limb was torn from a tree and slammed onto the roof right over our bed, we were terrified that our house was crumbling down around us.   Soon we heard father moving around in the other room and then we saw the soft glow of the kerosene lantern through our doorway as he went out to investigate^[6].   I suppose mother heard us whimpering because she came into our room comforting us and trying to put our fears to rest.   Then we heard the door slam shut with the force of the wind as father jumped back into the house soaked with water and covered lightly with snow, “it’s all right,” he said, “I’ll fix it in the morning, but we are in for freezing rain tonight.”   It was harder to go back to sleep this second time, but we finally drifted off and slept fitfully until we heard father lighting the fires in the early morning.   When we climbed out of the warm bed, we raced for the old heater stove and got as close to it as possible without actually touching it, my it was cold!   Mother was clattering around in the kitchen and soon we could smell the delightful aroma of breakfast.   We had ham and eggs, pancakes and syrup, oatmeal, biscuits and hot cocoa waiting for us, yum, yum.   Just then father stepped onto the back porch having already milked the cow and fed the calf.   As he entered he said,” you kids have something waiting for you outside this morning, but you have to eat your breakfast first and put on your warmest clothing.”

 

When we finally were allowed to go out bundled up like little Eskimos, we got the surprise of our lives, as far as we could see it was blinding white with everything covered by ice!   What a wonderful winter wonderland.   Everything around us gleamed and glistened, the house was encapsulated with ice, the trees appeared to be made of ice, the power lines that were about 1/4 inch in diameter were now two inches or more thick as were the branches of the trees. When we attempted to walk, every slippery step put us flat on our backs laughing with glee.   Huge icicles hung from the eaves of the house and the pump^[7]was frozen solid (the only way to get water from it now was to bring hot water from the house, pour it in the pump until the plunger was thawed so that it could move up and down, then more hot water to prime the pump while pumping like mad, finally water would begin to come out, first a trickle, then a full flow).   We quickly filled up pots and pans along with the wash boiler and carried every utensil into the house.   This freezing rain and snow had the surprising name of “Silver Thaw”, it was silver all right, but not really a “thaw” to me since everything was frozen solid   This “silver thaw” condition always brought broken branches from the trees, downed power lines, frozen radiators in cars and a number of other minor inconveniences.

 

Later as we were older and had our own cars, we found that we could drive slowly on frozen roads by pouring purex over our tires, (it allowed them to have a very good adhesion to the icy road) although we preferred ice chains on the tires.   Since we didn’t often have antifreeze we put alcohol in the radiators to keep the block from freezing,   That was fine, but when we drove, the alcohol would boil at about 180 degrees and would soon be boiled away with no protection left.   I can still remember the smell of alcohol vapors wafting into the car from those days.   One morning my gasoline line was frozen solid, so I crawled under the car with the temperature hovered near zero degrees and kept pouring boiling water on the metal line until the gasoline returned to a liquid, no doubt there was water in the gas, blame it on the Marcola gas station.

 

The winter time was not always stormy, sometimes it just rained and rained and rained… But then again at other times the sky was as clear as crystal and it appeared as if there were a million glittering, scintillating stars overhead hovering just above the tree tops.   Father showed us the Big Dipper and the North Star, but that is about all I remember from him concerning stars.   Then one evening as I was going to the Boy Scout meeting I met one of the leaders and walked along with him to the Cabin.   “Do you see that bright star over there,” he said, “well that is not a star but that is the planet Jupiter, the largest of all the planets.”   I was amazed, “how do you know that”, I replied.   So on the way to the meeting, my scoutmaster began teaching me the names of stars, constellations and planets, he also told me of books in the library to check out on this subject.   I became fascinated with astronomy by then and it has been a fascination for me to this day.

 

One day while in Los Angeles, California I drove to the Griffith Observatory with my family and while there purchased a telescope mirror kit.   I thought much about this as eleven dollars was a lot of money then, but in this kit was everything that I would need to begin and finish a real observatory quality telescope, so I purchased the kit which contained: a Pyrex mirror blank, a ceramic tool, an assortment of grinding grits from 80 carbide to 320 then emery grits up to around 2000, finally there was the pitch for the polishing lap along with jeweler’s rouge for polishing.   I was ready, nothing would stop me now!   Well that was not quite true, I had not reckoned with time and time along with patience is a big factor in building a telescope.

 

I began with one more expenditure, a “how to” book and as luck would have it I got the very best, MAKING YOUR OWN TELESCOPE, by Allyn J. Thompson.   I still refer to this book today even after I have ground and polished ten astronomical mirrors for telescopes.   I found a 55 gal. drum, filled it with water to keep it stable, then with the tool on the bottom and the mirror blank on top I placed some 80 carbo. with water between the two and began a grinding motion , back and forth.   I cleaned the components then with a fresh charge repeated the operation, and again and again and again until I had the correct curvature I needed for the finished mirror.

 

Now it was time to change grits, so after cleaning the components, I started all over with 120 carbo. then 180, then 220, etc. Finally it was smooth with no pits but it was not possible to see through it unless it was wet, it had the appearance of frosted glass.

 

The next step involved melting pitch and pouring it into a mold lying on the mirror, then immediately pressing the tool on the mirror, the mold and the pitch.   I then began the polishing stroke (similar to the grinding stroke) until the mirror was shiny smooth and as transparent as window glass.   Now came the trickiest part figuring the surface of the mirror to conform to that of a paraboloid, at least trying not to deviate more than 3 millionths of an inch from one.     Soon I had accomplished my mission with the primary mirror!

 

I determined to make a mount just as Mr. Thompson recommended.     The mount would be equatorial (in order to follow the path of a star, galaxy, or planet with one motion, and remain fixed to the object after one locked onto it), it would also be constructed from pipe fittings since they were easier to acquire.   At that time I met a man by the name of Cecil Colson who told me that he had a large pile of pipe and pipe fittings and that I was welcome to go through them and take anything I needed.   How nice of him, he will never know how much his generosity meant to me at that time.

 

Finally I had a finished, workable telescope with a near perfect figure, my first telescope, with it I could see the rings of Saturn (and 2 separations in the rings, Cassini and Enke), the Galilean moons of Jupiter along with the great red spot, comets, double stars and numerous galaxies and nebulae.   Our very own moon became a favorite place to visit each evening as it revealed new detail with the changing phases.^[8]     This telescope is 6 inches in diameter and has a focal length of 49 inches, total cost was about $40.00.   It is now in the hands of my eldest son, Mark, who lives in the high Sierra’s.

 

Two harbingers of Spring are forever etched in my memory, the first was the muted cries of the wild Canadian geese (honkers) flying northward to their summer home.   Their soft haunting cries drifting toward me in the still night air stirred a responsive chord in my heart, “I want to follow the wild geese and someday I will”, I promised myself, as I strained to hear the last faint, fading cry from those mysterious travelers.   That may sound irrational, but there was just something about the freedom and independence of these creatures of God that prompted such a response from me.

 

The second harbinger was the symphonious sound coming from the frog pond.   After the silence of winter (omitting the occasional storms), spring now burst forth with nature’s choir singing the Hallelujah Chorus, again no other sound quite like it anywhere.   On the way home from school we boys would detour across the railroad tracks where these frozen ponds were now thawing out and cautiously approach our quarry without (1) slipping into the mud and (2) frightening the thousands of frogs into silence.   What an inspiration to be in the midst of these simple creatures croaking out their joy of rebirth.   The sound surged and rolled and varied from the deep, deep boom of the big bullfrogs to the shrill peep of the little bitty frogs.   We were transfixed with the wonder of it all.   What an event!   What a privilege to be a part of this glorious awakening.

 

Another sign of the revitalization of nature at this time was the annual bursting forth of those enigmatic pussy willows.   Such a simple event, not a flower, not even a blossom or even a leaf, but a soft little grayish colored bud, as soft as the fur of a kitten on a starkly naked branch of a tree.   We all tried to be the first to bring a handful of these budding branches to the class and triumphantly present them to our teacher.   Our long-suffering teacher would throw up her hands in delight, expressing amazement at this wonder of nature (for the umpteenth year in a row), she would then find a large vase and oh so carefully arrange those special pussy willows, because our first lesson of the day instead of the dreaded spelling test would be to create on construction paper a vase full of pussy willows.   It was the excitement of events such as this that made school so special to me, but the real secret, I realize now, was my teacher who allowed me to see and enjoy the simple things of life through her actions.

 

As days went by, Spring developed into a world of profound beauty, fruit trees blossomed-out completely covered with popcorn-like blossoms of white, delicate pink, or bold crimson flowers while the busy little bees buzzed from blossom to blossom, their bodies covered with pollen.   The ground was no longer covered with frost and snow nor soaked from the winter rains, but everywhere one looked was a carpet of the greenest grass sprinkled with a myriad of colorful wildflowers. The sky had also changed from winter gray to a soft cerulean blue with large puffy white clouds occasionally drifting by creating imaginative castles above us, always moving, ever changing and leading us into adventures as far as our minds could reach.     Perhaps the greatest noticeable change of all now was the warmth of the sun.   Our source of heat and life had reached its lowest point and shortest arc on the southern horizon on December 21 and was now moving northward again.   Each day the sun stretched a little higher into the sky, rose a little earlier and set a bit later with an accumulative effect of bringing to us the wonderful warmth we could only dream about during the past four months.   I could go outside now without a sweater or coat, the scratchy, long woolen underwear was traded for soft comfortable “B.V.D’s”^[9] or cotton undershirts and shorts and the girls could replace the long thick woolen stockings with new thin cotton stockings.   We all felt re-born.

 

This was a busy time for those on a farm, since there was soil to be plowed, disked, harrowed and run over lightly with the clod-masher before planting.   Then dad began planting, first the early vegetables followed by the grain crops (all by hand).   Mother usually planted the peas and lettuce and we helped dad by planting corn, pole beans, squash, pumpkin, tomatoes, radishes, etc. Dad was the expert on potatoes, so he instructed us on cutting the potatoes, making certain that we had an “eye” in each piece, then he would gather these up and soak them in a solution of blue vitro to keep the bugs from eating our potato crop.   We then planted them, 2 or 3 to a “hill”.   Dad always had the best potatoes around and several of our neighbors would get potatoes from us.

 

Our irrigation system consisted of a stationary gas engine with a pump sitting on the creek bank pulling water^[10] from the creek to where it was needed in the garden.   This system worked fine, allowing us to produce all the vegetables that we could eat.

 

Springtime^[11] was also the beginning of the fishing season.   In my younger years the season began with dad providing us with a pole and line and several hooks, then we struck out along Mill Creek or hiked south to Cartwright Creek early in the morning to begin an exciting day.   Our basic fish from these creeks were rainbow trout, (usually from 6 to 12 inches in length)   These little fellows would put up a great fight when hooked, exciting us beyond measure.   After landing our prize, on our hook would go another salmon egg or worm and we would cast out for another. These were idyllic days, days to cherish forever!

 

As I grew older I loved to fly fish on the McKenzie River and one of its tributaries, the South Fork; or along the Willamette, or on the high mountain lakes.   There I would not only catch Rainbow Trout, but also Cutthroat, Dolly Varden, etc.   Fly fishing was by far the most exciting way to fish.   My cast would begin with the line played far out over my head, back and forth I worked it until it was just right to gently drop on the surface of the water just below a small riffle in the otherwise placid stream.   From the bottom I could see a dark form streaking toward my artificial fly^[12] and when he hit, there was no question, Did he bite?   Out of the water he shot with my fly in his mouth, at least 2 feet above the surface he jumped before arching back with a sharp splash, then away he went.   He zigged and zagged, sometimes away from me, sometimes toward me but never still a second.   I would reel him in some then I would have to release line to keep it from breaking, then in again, then out, all the while pulling him closer to my position, finally after about 10 minutes he became exhausted and I removed him from the water.   What a beauty, fully 12 inches long without a flaw.   This was fishing!   This was also great eating, a cold water trout is incredibly delicious and the firm flesh is not to be compared with a warm water soggy farm trout.   During the late thirties and early forties this was my favorite past-time.

 

 

^[1]Springfield was 18 miles away and Eugene 22.   Eugene was the BIG city and county seat of Lane County, about 20,000 pop.

^[2]Our grandparents along with many uncles, aunts and cousins lived here.   It was about 40 miles from our place.

^[3]Addie Betzer Bowers b.4/3/1865 d.5/2/1935.   Grandfather had already passed away 3/7/1931 at age 78.

^[4]George was about 6 years old at the time.

^[5]About the same age.

• ^[6]We had electricity in Wendling at an early date because of the Booth-Kelly sawmill, in fact the mill made its own electricity from a hydroelectric plant and could supply the town with power if Mountain States Power Co. was down for any reason, but tonight all power was off because of the storm damage.   Every household had lamps and candles for such an event as this.
• ^[7]We had a “dug well” and a pitcher pump to bring the water to our buckets.   To get water, we pumped the handle up and down and after a bit water would began to flow.   Sometimes the pump had to be primed with water from the house to get it going, we did this by pouring in a little water while pumping vigorously. There was no running water in the house!
• ^[8]I could see craters down to 1 mile in dia. and fissures down to 1/2 mile across, I spent hours on end, and still do, with this hobby.
• ^[9]V.D.’s were a thin, one piece cotton undergarment with short sleeves and legs, while the “Long Johns” were long sleeved and long legged.   Long Johns were either made of wool or thick cotton.
• ^[10]Since the creek was about 20 feet below the level of our garden, water had to be pumped up and out of the creek and into the garden.
• ^[11]Mid-April.
• ^[12]Some of my favorites were: Royal Coachman, Black gnat, Yellow May and a couple dozen others I had always had with me.

 

CHAPTER 4

 

THE TOWN PICNIC

The lazy days of summer began for us at the conclusion of the school year and the participation in the annual town picnic.   On the last day of school everyone in the tight knit community of Wendling gathered at the grade school with baskets of food for a grand, all out, all day picnic.   The games were organized by the school staff with plenty of activities to keep every child busy throughout this wonderful day.   We played baseball, tag, marbles, volleyball, badminton, threw horseshoes, went around and around on the merry-go-round and swung in the swings.   Some of the smaller children climbed the ladder to the top rung of the big slide then with a whoop zipped down the polished metal or gathered at the monkey bars to climb, twist and swing as if in a jungle.   This was great fun for us, but excitement picked up as the sawmill ceased operations early and the men from the mill (our fathers) walked over to the school site.   The sawmill crew would challenge the planer crew to a game of baseball, this of course would be accepted amid shouting and an uproar that would awaken the dead.   With wives, teachers and children as spectators the game would begin with each side predicting victory.   This annual rivalry concluded just as the women, who had quietly slipped away in the eighth inning to the food tables, informed one and all that they were ready for us to eat.   My! what a spread.   Every dish imaginable was laid before us^[1] then when we thought that we could eat no more, Booth-Kelley Lumber Co. opened up gallons and gallons of ice-cream for us, an added pleasure to be sure.   As I staggered off toward home that evening, I thought, “what a wonderful way for school to end each year.”

 

Today we boys agreed to hike to Windy Point^[2]just for the simple pleasure of being out of school and free to do anything we wished to do, so we headed for the hills.   We crossed the railroad tracks and carefully crawled through a barb wire fence (one of many to cross this day) and into a field owned by Ben Grant, from this point we began climbing uphill terrain, across a corner of John Downing’s land, through the Government stand of old growth timber^[3] here we picked up a trail that we followed until we crossed the final fence and stepped onto Booth-Kelley land at the foot of Windy Point. Now the land was steeper yet and we had to detour around old fallen trees or climb over them in order to progress.   The mountain itself was devoid of timber so now we could see for miles.   The day was warm with bees and other flying insects buzzing about, the sky was of the most intense blue with several buzzards riding the thermals around in lazy circles (there were always buzzards soaring over Windy Point).   This again points to the fact of the abundance of life (and death) in logged off land.   Now and then we could spot a deer nervously stepping through the tangled vines and around the old decaying logs and stumps and then when startled, bound effortlessly over rocks and logs until finally disappearing over a distant ridge , we could also hear the sound of a mountain boomer^[4], a marmot-like animal that lived in a large hole dug in the side of the mountain.   There were also range cattle grazing here and there, but nothing for us to fear.

 

From the top of Windy Point I could see Mt. Nebo to the east, the largest mountain in the area with a fire lookout tower on top.   Mt. Nebo was a long mountain that came to a knife-edge summit nearly the entire length.   Then to the northeast was Oshkosh Mountain (some of the older residents called it Bunker Hill), it was the symbol of the town of Wendling.   From Springfield 20 miles away one could see Oshkosh, and know the location of Wendling.   To the west I would be looking out over the town of Marcola, the Mohawk Valley, the cities of Springfield and Eugene and looking on toward the Oregon coastline about 80 miles away.   What a thrilling experience to view this grand panorama spread out around us.^[5] After two or three hours of exploring or just lying on the sun warmed grass gazing straight up at the changing shapes of puffy white clouds, we concluded our pilgrimage and descended the mountain.

 

As the hot days of summer slipped by we were in perpetual motion; swimming at the Wendling swimming hole, fishing, hiking, exploring, building tree houses and forts, actually some time was also spent in working.   There was winter wood to cut, split and stack in the woodshed, berries to pick for mother to can and preserve, money to be made from peeling chittum bark from trees for medicine or ferns to cut and bundle.   Never a dull moment in the country.   The Warner boys hiked through nearly every square foot of forest land south, east and north with a radius of 10 miles of town (sorry, no bigfoot sited).   Dad taught us directions so we feared no challenge of the forest, for there we were at home.

 

When one lived in the forested hills of Oregon, there was one natural enemy that we all feared, a forest fire.   There was not a lot that we could do except hope for the best and pray that the men could get a fire brake cleared between it and the town before we were burned out.   Chapter five will address this subject.

• ^[1]The town of Wendling was comprised of many nationalities and ethnic groups.   There were German, Polish, English, Russian, French, Spanish and others I am sure.   So you can see from this that the diversity of food would be impressive.
• ^[2]Windy Point was a mountain about 2 miles south of Wendling.   It was cut-over land (had been logged) so it was very productive in wild blackberries, blackcaps (wild raspberries), huckleberries and hazelnuts.   This cut-over land was also home to dozens of species of animals that simply could not flourish in the old growth forest.   For each deer you might see in the forest there would be 100 to see in the new growth of logged off land feeding, living and multiplying.   One seldom went hunting in the old growth forest, old logged over land was the place to go.
• ^[3]Large, tall virgin forest of trees over 200 years in age.   There was little shrubbery in this dark silent cathedral, but mosses grew everywhere.
• ^[4]The mountain boomer produced a low distinct booming sound that would carry a considerable distance.
• ^[5]Since we lived in the Cascade foothills, we lived among hills and trees, trees and brush were everywhere, the species of trees prevalent were: Doug fir, cedar, hemlock, white fir, red fir, pine, alder, maple, oak, larch, willow, cottonwood (bam), etc. Brush being comprised of vine maple, rhododendron, salal, manzanita, buck brush, grease brush and dozens of other species that my mind can’t recall.

 

CHAPTER   5

 

THE FOREST FIRE

The long hot summer was drawing to a close, it was now the first of October and the Brush was as dry as the driest tinder.   The woods crew^[1] began their work early in the morning before daylight in order to catch a little humidity hanging around the forest.   Soon it would dissipate and work was over for the day, couldn’t take any chances with bone dry brush and a little spark.   The year was 1933 and now there was a strong dry east wind swirling over the Cascade Mountains and racing westward along Mt. Nebo, across Deer Creek where it met the spark needed for a conflagration.   This devastating fire started with a bright flare-up then it raced up a dry cedar snag^[2] immediately setting it ablaze sending out cinders and sparks upon the surrounding forest.   The fire was now alive and moving with great speed through the tree tops of the forest canopy, moving toward our town only 8 miles distant. As night fell, the hills around us were brightly illuminated by burning trees and brush and we retired for the night with a great deal of apprehension.

 

The next morning there was a dark pall covering the land, the sunrise revealed a soft, dark red ball that never grew brighter, but rather got dimmer until it finally disappeared completely.   By two in the afternoon it was dark!   Mother brought her washing in from the clothes line^[3] shaking the burned ashes from them, they appeared as dirty now as when she first washed them. Ash was now falling from the darkened sky in recognizable forms, a twisted, blackened piece of fern, a manzanita leaf, needles from fir and cedar trees, all shriveled and blackened as well.   These were lightly falling upon us now with no let up.   The next morning was the same, only no sun at all.   The day was stifling hot, the night as well, as there was fire all around us, but still at some distance away.   The men were all out fighting the fire, the mill was not running^[4], still the fire burned on, when the men came back for food and water, they were as black as coal miners, they slept some and then were back on the line.   How many days?   I don’t remember, but it seemed as if the sun had completely disappeared for good.   In the town and at our homes we used shovels and wet sacks to keep the hot embers from setting more fires.   Finally the smoke began thinning a little as the wind changed direction and it began to lightly rain, and with this light rain there came a mixture of blackened mud all over the ground, which we tried to keep from entering the house on our shoes, but it was a losing battle.   Finally after a week or so the fires were contained , not out, but contained, so life could now go back to some degree of normalcy, however the smell of smoke was still heavy in the air but we could see the sun again, bright red at sunrise, pale orange throughout the day and the sunset became a brilliant blaze of glory.   The Autumn rains finally began to fall and the dampened ground now restricted any flare-ups, the fire season was finally over for the year!

 

As we hiked into the forest after the fires were out, we could see the war-like devastation, the land was stripped and desolate, deer were lying among the burned and blackened trees, struck down as they were trying to flee the fire storm that rushed upon them.   Smaller animals were also scorched and burned beyond recognition, how sad was the scene.   But like a Phoenix, the land arose, revitalized and vibrant, soon new grass appeared, little bushes sprang from the soil, seedling trees took root and soon chipmunks and squirrels appeared followed by rabbits, deer and bear.   In a few years you would not know of this tragedy by walking through the area.

 

We lived through other forest fires, many were caused by careless people; throwing a cigarette out the car window, campers not completely putting out a campfire, by hunters, by men working in the woods, by equipment emitting sparks, by trains, etc.   After the first Fall rain, the loggers would push the debris from logging operations into piles and burn them in a controlled burn (slash burning) this was great preventative maintenance against future forest fires, however sometimes these would get out of control and what they were trying to prevent would become their present nightmare.

 

1910: The town of Wendling was burned in 1910, and all the people were evacuated.   However the mill was rebuilt along with new housing.

1922: The mill was burned, and again rebuilt.

1933: The devastating Deer Creek Fire, the logging camps were evacuated, the town was saved.

Annual: We survived other fires started by lightning.   More on this coming up.

1946: The mill had shut down permanently for lack of timber and was being dismantled when a fire of unknown origin started in the late evening, and by morning all that was left was twisted metal and ashes.   We were at our home in Wendling when it started, so we raced to the area. The Booth-Kelly mill was large and it appeared that fires were coming from several places about us.   We started in from the north side to see if there was anything we could do, but the power plant was being devoured by flames with electric lines and transformers shorting out, sending lightning like bolts of current flashing around us.   Someone hollered to us not to linger in that area, it was too dangerous.   By now the big transformers were humming and buzzing ominously and as we moved away, one by one they exploded.   Over on the planer side there were 55 gallon drums of roofing tar (I think) exploding in fireballs with drums turning end over end high into the sky, spewing out flaming liquid.   Finally the supports for the mighty overhead crane burned through and down it came with an enormous crash, sending plumes of fire upward.   We could see quite well now because of the large amount of flames around us.   There were no fire engines to come to the rescue, so the heart of our town, our mill, burned to the ground for the final time.

 

The lightning caused fires:

With all of the precautions taken by loggers, campers, hunters or travelers, nothing could quite prepare for natural disasters from mother nature.   The lightning fires were ignited periodically and each one did considerable damage.   I would like to narrate just one of them.

 

It was during the Autumn months after a hot, dry summer and before the Fall rains began that thunder storms did their greatest damage.   Far off the muttering and grumbling of thunder was heard as thunder heads quickly mounted into the brazen sky, louder it sounded as the storm moved southwest along the Cascade Mountains, racing toward us.   Finally as the sky darkened, we could see the brilliant flashes of lightning accompanied by large crashes of thunder that came on the heels of each individual flash, until it seemed as if there were no end of the one or the beginning of another.   The evening was hot, sticky hot, so we sat outside for this grand display, excitedly pointing out to one another each intricate, blinding bolt, not realizing the damage that was being done in the forest about us. There would be a hundred fires set by the lightning of this storm tonight, but most of them would be extinguished by the heavy rain that was to follow. Finally as rain began to fall around us in large heavy drops, or hailstones peppered about us, we quickly raced into the house and finished our watch through the windows.   Eventually mother made us get away from the windows as she was afraid that we too might be struck by lightning.   However the bright flashes continued to illuminate the room through the drawn blinds.   By the next morning we would hear the news, that several fires were burning in the hills around us, and many of the men were out fighting fire.   Sometimes the damage was minor, but at other times serious fires moved through the forest.

• ^[1]These were the men who felled the trees (fallers), those who cut them into specified lengths (buckers), those who brought the logs to the landing in order to load them onto the flatcars (donkey puncher, cat skinners, the loaders, and the trainmen who hauled the logs to the mill.
• ^[2]A snag was a dead tree still upright, but all dried out, there was no green foliage to be seen on it.
• ^[3]There were no automatic clothes dryers in those days (1930’s)
• ^[4]Fighting fire then was with shovels and gunny sacks (burlap sacks). The bulldozers were blading a road free of brush, trying to circle the fire so that it would not have fuel to cross.   Some of the men were falling burning trees back into the fire.   It was an all-out effort, a war against a relentless foe.   There were no water dropping planes or choppers.

 

CHAPTER   6

 

 

MURDER MOST FOWL

During the summer months most of our life was very predictable.   Up in the morning to a hot breakfast, then a decision to go fishing, swimming, hiking, exploring, or playing ball.   Today we decided to fish in the morning then some baseball in the afternoon.   This went along as scheduled with a ball game^[1] at the school diamond.   The day was warm, so we weren’t too energetic, just hitting some fly balls and playing a little work-up when another friend peddled up fast, too fast for that hot of a day and shouted to us as he locked his brake and slid to a stop in a cloud of dust, “CRISSY SHOT WICKS!   CRISSY SHOT WICKS!” When?   Where?   How?   What are you talking about?

 

Mr. Dominicio Crespo was a local resident we kids referred to as, “Crissy” ( not to his face of course), while others called him, “the Spaniard”.   Crissy used to live across the creek from us, but now had moved up toward the mill on the southwestern edge of town about 4 blocks away.   We still saw him now and then, but only from a distance as he was rather reclusive.   I never knew a Mrs. Crespo, or any relative of his at all.

Crissy was in the fowl and egg business and had purchased a large, long two story building that was suitable for keeping his chickens, of which he had a considerable number.   He also resided with them in living quarters on the second floor of the building.   On a couple of occasions Mr. Crespo dropped by and gave us a chicken to eat   Mother or father would thank him graciously and accept his gift in the spirit in which it was given.   While he was quite generous to us, we never cooked or ate the chicken, since he only gave away chickens that had died a natural death or one that had succumbed to some ill-fated disease.   These were our only contacts with him, but when my grandfather Bowers was alive they would sit down together and chat at great lengths.

 

Crissy bedded his chickens in straw, which he changed often, the spent straw and manure was then wheeled out with a wheel barrel and piled up in the back of his chicken house. He would then burn the pile of straw along with the manure mixture, but since the straw was damp, it never really burned with a flame, rather it just smoldered with a thick pall of suffocating yellowish smoke which drifted away, low to the ground.     Unfortunately there were many people living in the area and they caught the full brunt of this choking, malodorous cloud day after day, Darrell Stolberg was one of them.

 

On this tragic day of June 14, 1937 the air hung heavy with the stench of burning chicken manure and it was all that Darrell could stand, so he went directly up to the front door of the residence/chicken house of Dominicio Crespo and demanded that this burning be stopped.   After a some heated words Crissy went back into his house and Darrell left, but Crissy soon returned with his shotgun and from the doorway took a shot at the departing person who angered him so.   Part of this charge struck Darrell in the leg, wounding him, but he managed to run to a footbridge that crossed a small gully and disappeared from Crissy’s sight in the trees and brush.

Wendling’s resident deputy sheriff^[2] was quickly notified and he immediately walked over to the chicken house.   Knowing that this was a simple (though heated) dispute between two men over the burning manure, he assumed that he could soon settle it, arrest Crespo for shooting at Darrell Stolberg and let the court sort it all out.   However when Deputy Wicks arrived Crissy was still in a rage and again went back into the building for his shotgun, when Wicks saw this, he decided he had better get away from there right now and come back armed and with re-enforcements to make this arrest, but before he reached the footbridge he was struck in the back with a full charge of buckshot^[3].   Dominicio Crespo then went back into the house and shut the door, but some who had witnessed this shooting quickly spread the grim news while deputy Wicks lay dying just a few feet short of the footbridge.   Since deputy Wicks was still exposed to Crespo’s line of fire, the first men who arrived decided to cut a hole in the wire fence and pull the body of Wicks through the brush and into the gully where they were protected from Crespo’s fire.

 

It was then that we heard the report from our friend on the bicycle.   Immediately we threw down bats, balls and gloves, jumped on our bikes and raced off full speed to Crissy’s chicken house.   When we arrived, we saw a few men with rifles half hidden behind the large firs in the area watching the house.   Down went our bikes and soon we had snaked our way around sheds, houses and trees until we were in front with a clear view of the chicken house about 30 yards distant.   “Look!” one whispered, “upstairs”, and there a dirty white curtain was slightly pulled back, the scene was being surveyed by Crissy.   That brought a quick shout from one of the men, “you kids get out of there, ol’ Crespo will kill you too.”   We knew that Crissy wouldn’t shoot us kids, at least we didn’t think he would, but we backed off and relocated behind some large firs to watch the enactment of this drama.   Had he chosen to do so, he probably could have shot a dozen of us milling around in front of his place.

 

The State Police had been called and they instructed the men of the town to surround the building, making certain that Crespo not escape, they would be there as soon as possible.   “As soon as possible” would be some time yet, since the State Police office was 22 miles away in Eugene.   The sun was now getting low in the sky and townsmen continued to arrive with rifles and pistols taking up positions around the chicken house, concealing themselves in shrubbery or behind trees.   We boys were joined by other boys, who would stay awhile then move to a “better place” to watch.   Finally the State Police arrived and immediately took charge, their first command was ,”get those kids (about 40 or so) out of here.”   We had to fall back, but as soon as it was dark we sneaked back to our original position, whispering at what we thought we saw or heard.   The police had been talking to Crespo with a bull-horn, demanding that he surrender, but they received no response from him in return.   It now appeared that an impasse had been reached.   About then another boy wriggled up through the dust and fir needles and whispered that Crissy had escaped out the back door in the darkness and was now in the hills (not true, but rumors flew among us).   We told him all the information that we had learned from the police, since we were well hidden almost under their feet.   “They have sent to Salem^[4] for tear gas we whispered back to him”.   On we waited, we were hungry, but we wouldn’t leave now for the best meal in town.

 

When the darkness increased the State Police set up flood lights and trained them on the chicken house, it was fully illuminated now, as bright as day.   We had never seen such lights as these or the illumination they projected.   “You can see a bug on the building”, one boy said and that was certainly true.   Finally from the distance I heard a faint wail of a siren, “listen guys,” I whispered, and every one held their breath, straining to hear what I was referring to, “the tear gas”, I said, then they heard it too. The sound rose and fell in intensity as the cruiser came toward us through canyons and over hills, until finally everyone was looking expectantly down the Wendling road toward the sound.   Crissy must have heard it too and I’m sure he shuddered and knew instinctively that a new phase in this drama was about to begin.   Now the cruiser glided in among us, its red lights flashing ominously and the siren fading out to a growl.

 

The two patrolmen from Salem stepped out with a suitcase-like box, which they laid carefully on the ground ( by now we boys were half crouching, peering around the tree so as not to miss a thing) from the box they pulled out two pieces of a gun, fitted them together and placed the canister into it.   The bull horn was activated and once again a State Policeman demanded that Crespo come out.   When there was no response, the canister was fired through the upper window with the dirty white curtain over it, the canister made a popping sound and a white cloud of gas could be seen filling the room and seeping out the window.   From inside the building a muffled shot froze me in my position, I could scarcely breath, then the police moved in.   Dominicio Crespo was dead by his own hand, as dead as the deputy he killed about 6 hours earlier.

 

It was now time for us to leave, so in the darkness we stumbled off toward home chilled and hungry, but also totally unsettled over this strange turn of events. As the excitement began to wear off and the realization of what happened set in, we felt that we must talk to mother about death, in this case violent death. Mother prayed with us, counseled us, then reminded us that Prayer Meeting was tomorrow evening (Tuesday) and we would all be helped as we prayed together.   As we entered, the service was just beginning with the congregation singing, “This World Is Not My Home…”

“I’ve left the way of death and sin,

The road that many travel in,

And if you ask the reason why,

I seek a glorious home on high.

This world, this world is not my home…

 

To this day when I hear that song, I am transported back to Wendling, to a grove of fir trees and a large two story chicken house.   I think of Deputy Wicks and of Crissy, I also muse to myself, “Is Darrell (the third man of this tragedy) still living today, if so, he would be quite an old man.”

 

No psychiatrists were called in for the children as is done today, we just coped the best we knew how with our parents assisting us, incidentally we managed fine, however these events made a lasting impression on all of us.   We had a simple life in the rural countryside, a wonderful life, but it was a life in an imperfect society.

• ^[1]Some of the boys from the church.
• ^[2] Roland (Rollo) Wicks.
• ^[3]We were later to learn that this charge was hand loaded with small steel ball bearings rather than lead pellets, very deadly.
• ^[4]Salem was the capital of the State of Oregon and 72 miles from Eugene, 94 miles from Wendling.

 

CHAPTER   7

 

WENDLING, OREGON

The town of Wendling along with its logging camps was a real timber center in one of the best stands of old growth Douglas fir in the state.   The Booth-Kelley Lumber Co. began their logging operations here at the turn of the century and continued until 1945, with their total timber holdings in the state near 150,000 acres.     From this corner of Oregon, B.K. logged an estimated 2 billion board feet of timber with Faye Abrams^[1] in charge of the Wendling logging operations.   Wendling was located about 22 miles north east of Eugene in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains and could be reached by rail or by a County road, which was crooked and narrow with a graveled surface.   This road^[2] began in Springfield and snaked its way through the lovely pastoral setting of the Mohawk Valley until it finally terminated in Wendling after passing through the towns of Yarnell, Mohawk and Marcola.

 

The Cascade Range runs north and south through Washington and Oregon, beginning at the Canadian border and ending where it joins the Sierra Nevada range at the California border.

The Cascade Range is steep and rugged, it is covered with thick brush and timber, with many creeks and rivers flowing from it into the Pacific Ocean.   Some of the prominent mountains in this range are Mt. Baker, Mt. Rainier, Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Washington, The Three Sisters, Diamond Peak, Mt. Thielson and Mt. Mazama^[3].

 

Wendling proper lies in the Mill Creek valley which is quite flat and about one mile wide.   The hills rise steeply from the edge of the valley on the north and south sides with the main Cascade range forming a mountainous wall to the east. Therefore any direction a person looked, he or she saw hills and trees.   These hills were filled with wild game which provided a steady source of meat for the townspeople^[4].   There were also bobcat (wildcat), bear, cougar, fox, wolves, coyotes, porcupines, rabbits, skunks, beaver and a multitude of small varmints such as ground squirrels (gray diggers), pine squirrels, gray squirrels, red squirrels, chipmunks, muskrats, etc.

 

We boys were hiking and hunting all the time, when Lawrence and I were young we pooled our meager earnings and bought a single shot .22 for $2.50, with this trusty rifle we would take turns shooting until we exhausted our ammo.   Once when we were hiking through the Government forest we spotted something black moving on the trail ahead of us.   We closed in on it, to discover that it was not only black, but also white, we had caught up with a large skunk.   Lawrence was carrying the rifle since it was his turn to shoot, so he quickly aimed and fired, hitting the skunk but not killing it.   That produced a flurry of activity from the skunk and he did what he was famous for, filled the air with a cloud of stifling, unbreathable scent.   Lawrence handed the gun to me, saying, “your turn” and ran back down the trail.   I quickly ejected the shell out of the chamber, fished another long rifle bullet from my pocket (while holding my breath as best I could) and fired point blank as the skunk was quite close now.   As soon as I fired, back down the trail I ran, as fast as my legs could move.   The scent from this skunk carried throughout the countryside and when we reached home, mother said, “you boys ought to check beneath the house to see if there is a skunk under there, I can smell one”.   Our confrontation with the skunk was at least a mile and a half away.   Incidentally, we detoured around skunks after that experience.   We did redeem ourselves by bringing home a cottontail now and then, they were good eating.

 

As we grew older we hunted deer along with the rest of the men in town.   Dad had a .25/35 lever action rifle and with it he seldom missed.   Lawrence had a .30 Rem. semiautomatic, I eventually bought a .30/30 Marlin lever action.   There was also a shotgun and at least two or three .22 rifles about.   We never kept a loaded gun in the house and we never had a accident, nor did anyone else in town that I ever heard about.   During deer season, we always had venison to eat, since the deer were plentiful and we were good shots.   We ate some of the venison immediately, but most of it mother canned for the winter.   It was from this venison that she made such delicious mince meat for pies.   I could tell a hundred hunting tales, but I must move on.

 

Wendling was not just a physical place on the map, it was people, wonderful friends and neighbors, people who assisted and helped one another when help was needed.   Since the Booth-Kelley Co. owned the town they build a large hall-gymnasium for their people to use.   There was a basketball court complete with showers, there was also a soda fountain in the Hall, a bowling alley (3 lanes) pool and billiard tables and a card room.   In the gym there was a projection room and movies were shown weekly, also dances were held here as well as school events, Christmas Programs and many other community affairs.   Booth-Kelley

also had a general grocery store here, a bakery shop, butcher shop, a cookhouse for the men who worked in the mill, a bunkhouse, a barber shop and a Post Office. We had a resident doctor on hand at all times, and most of us had an opportunity to see him on more than one occasion.

 

The national makeup of Wendling was of European extraction, but even with all our different ethnic cultures we integrated together wonderfully well. To the west of town there was a small German settlement where the older folks still spoke in their native tongue, but even with that we had no problems, we attended church together, we were on the job together and we helped one another, visited one another, socialized together and intermarried.

 

Wendling was a town of about 800 people with another 200 or so living in the logging camps in the mountains east of the town.   These people traveled back and forth on the “speeder” a rather large vehicle that traveled on the railroad tracks powered by a gasoline engine. The “speeder” carried supplies, food and machinery to the camps as well, and it was so efficient that we ended up with four of them. Many of the people in the camps had automobiles which they garaged in the town of Wendling.   They would catch the “speeder” to Wendling, then motor off to Eugene or some other distant city.   It was all very convenient.   The houses and buildings in the camps were built on flatcars or constructed so that they could be placed on flatcars for moving.   During their logging operations, Booth-Kelley had 46 different locations for camps and about 100 miles of railroad track.   Much of the railroad grade was later made into roads for trucks and cars.

 

In 1924 the population of Wendling (with the camps) is listed at 1500.   Wendling had its own professional baseball diamond with bleachers that seated 200 fans, a swimming hole with diving boards (3 ft. and 10 ft) and a diving tower.   We had tennis courts, ping pong tables and other forms of recreation.   All in all even though we were at the end of the county road and isolated from city life, we were self contained.

 

The Booth-Kelley mill and planer straddled Mill Creek in the center of the valley, consequently the town of Wendling was built around it.   When we crossed from one side of town to the other we had the choice of walking around the mill (a long walk), crossing the mill pond, or walking through the mill itself (this was mildly frowned upon).   Most of the time we crossed the mill pond on logs chained together with planks on top to make for better walking.   This pathway floated up

 

and down a little and as there was no guard rail, one didn’t want to get distracted or that person would end up swimming in the pond.^[5]     However we boys in town didn’t go for the sissy walk, most of the time we hopped from log to log in crossing the pond, many times ending up soaking wet. Once, while delivering papers, I took a shortcut across the logs and made the mistake of hopping onto a rather large cedar log, short in length and bone dry.   It bobbed like a cork and since my paper bag had me somewhat unbalanced the splash was inevitable.   I soon climbed out onto another more stable log, but the papers and I were absolutely soaked.   My brothers who were with me must have gotten a good laugh at that and they quizzed me as to what I would do now, well there was only one thing to do, deliver the papers.   That’s why the people living on Oklahoma Heights received wet papers that evening when it wasn’t even raining.

 

The Christmas program was held in the 4L Hall^[6] and that’s where we were first introduced to the performing arts as we reenacted the original Christmas story.   Some of us were shepherds, some wise men and some angels.   Of course there was the wicked Herod, the greedy innkeeper, and the principal characters, Mary, Joseph and the little Christ-Child.   At the conclusion of the songs, recitation and pageant, one of the men dressed as Santa Claus passed out bags of candy and nuts to all the children.   This was a real treat, since there was very little money for such luxuries in those days.   Then we went to the Methodist Church for their Christmas presentation and more Candy, then to the Open Bible Church for their presentation and MORE candy, by now each child was a walking candy counter.   This old fashioned candy assortment was made up of hard candy (square, round, oval and oblong) ribbon candy, peppermint sticks, chocolate drops with different flavors in the center, gumdrops and cuts from a round (about 1 inch dia….) piece of hard candy with the form of a flower or colorful design in the center of it.   I suppose this was the biggest event and the most exciting time of year for us “Depression Kids” in the 30’s.

 

I can’t leave this historical view of Wendling without mentioning the streets, sidewalks and bridges, they were all made of wood!   Since lumber was the most plentiful raw material about, it was only natural to build a finished road with it.   The roads were made from planks 4 inches thick and 12 inches wide (4 by 12’s) in assorted lengths.   When an auto approached, we could hear the popping and slapping of the planks before we even heard the sound of the motor.   The mill had a carpenter crew and one of their jobs was to keep the roads in good repair,
which they did.   One time I asked a friend of mine, Dwane Woods, who moved to Wendling from California what part of Wendling was the most different from California, his immediate reply was, “wooden roads”^[7].   Now that I live in California, I see his point, Plank Roads in L.A.?   I don’t think so.

 

The Southern Pacific Railroad Co. had a line to Wendling in order to bring in assorted machinery and carry out lumber.   This train, pulled by a steam engine, usually came into town once a day and since there was considerable switching to be done, there were always boxcars on the siding across the road from our house.   These cars certainly added to our exercise routine since we would climb to the top then walk, or run the length, jumping the gaps between the boxcars, sometimes we came to a gravel car so we would have to climb down the ladder of the boxcar, step across the connection to the gravel car, climb up the short ladder of this car, down inside, then walk the length inside the gravel car, up the ladder and down again, step across the coupling and then climb back on top of the box cars then away we went, free spirits with the wind in our faces.

As we hiked through the hills around Wendling, occasionally we came across a deserted cabin or the ruins of one in the thick brush and timber.   These were dark, silent and mysterious, but we explored each one, diligently looking for treasure or some evidence of a former tenant.   We soon knew where each was located, and as they all had apple trees planted nearby, we had a good snack in the summer and fall months.   When the apples were ripe, we always startled a deer or two in these orchards and as we looked around we saw bear sign, but we never met one in the orchards. At times, it seemed that we just lived for hiking in the woods and exploring, we knew every trail, every ridge and every glen where lovely rare plants^[8] and flowers grew.

 

I can vividly remember the wild flowers in the countryside around Wendling.   In the Spring, we sallied forth looking for Easter lilies (Trilliums), wild orchids (lady slippers), bleeding hearts, wild violets, etc. These we brought triumphantly home to mother, who would drop everything and arrange them an old antique vase and put them in a place of prominence.   How they brightened up our home.   Then in the summer it was bachelor buttons (so many different colors), wild roses, daisies, shooting stars, Johnny-jump-ups, wild currents and up in the hills there were red-hot-pokers, fireweed and thousands of bright, little blossoms covering the ground. Father and mother taught us the name of each flower and how to care for them because they were our little friends^[9]. Sometimes it’s the simple things that give us the greatest pleasure.   During the Fall we had the brightest time of the year, for the countryside was covered with a blaze of glory   While not flowers, the effect of these leaves upon us was like looking out over a gigantic floral garden. As far as the eye could see every tree was adding its own particular brilliant hue to the scene, the vine maples were the most striking with their bright reds and oranges, the large maples had more muted tones, the Tamarack (larch)^[10] was a brilliant flame of color among the other dark green, somber firs and others of red and gold that I have since forgotten their names.                                                                                Come little leaves said the wind one day,

Come over in the meadow with me to play;

Put on your dresses of red and gold,

Summer is gone and the days grow cold.

As soon as the leaves heard the wind’s loud call,

Down they came fluttering, one and all;

Over the brown fields they danced and flew,

Singing the soft little songs they knew.^[11]

Author unknown

 

As soon as winter arrived, all was dark and somber in the hills, no leaves left on the trees, no flowers or color that I can remember, except on the way to school we passed by Mrs. LaJoi’s Place^[12], in the front yard were two enormous Holly Trees, they must have been 15 feet tall and covered with the darkest green shiny leaves and peppered with bright red berries shaped like a perfect Christmas tree.   These trees were a real traffic stopper when a fresh snowfall came along and we could see those dark green leaves with the bright red berries peeping out from under it.

 

This chapter has recorded some of the people and events of my grade school years.   The chapter began in winter progressed through spring, summer and fall and now is concluding with the late fall and winter holidays.

 

Thanksgiving was the family social time of the year.   Relatives gathered together, renewed their tribal ties, met new in-laws, made over new babies and were brought up to date on all the family news of the year in a festive setting.   For me it was traveling with my family to Grandfather Warner’s house in Fall

Creek.   Since we didn’t have a car (nor did dad drive) some other relative would pick us up along with all the food that mother had prepared for this occasion.   Fall Creek was only about 40 miles away, but it seemed such a long ride with a car full of fidgety, excited siblings all babbling at the same time and each one wanting to sit by the window.   There was one game we never tired of that whiled away the time and kept us interested in the outside world, that game was “Sheep”. The object was to count the sheep on your side of the car and the one with the most sheep when we got to our destination won!   There was one catch, when we passed a cemetery, all the sheep on the graveyard side of the car were lost and that child had to start over.   Since there were a lot of sheep along the Oregon countryside, (and graveyards) the outcome was always in doubt until the last mile. The roads in those days were graveled or graveled and oiled or in places covered with a layer of asphalt, however they all had one thing in common, chuck-holes.   These chuck-holes came in three sizes, they were large, larger, or largest and they appeared alone, in pairs, in series, or they just simply covered the road and since we lived in Oregon, they were always filled with muddy water and were called, “mud puddles”^[13].   There were a few slowdowns as we bumped merrily along our way, but we soon arrived at our destination, grandfather and grandmother’s house.

 

We spilled out of the car like water being poured out of a boot and raced to the house to be greeted by grandfather, then into the house to receive a big hug from grandmother who smelled like pumpkin pie and spices.   Aunts and uncles were there, cousins also whom we hadn’t seen for a year, talk about excitement, we had a house full of it.

 

The men allowed the women to take over the house and they left for the yard or barn area.   They talked about crops, livestock (and prices), automobiles, the state of the Union, world affairs and local politics. They spoke of their jobs and of their wages, their hopes and plans, they boasted of new rooms being added to their houses or new houses being built.   It seemed to be a time of tying up all the loose ends of the clan and giving assistance and help to one another, the advice was free.   We boys explored through the big two story barn, climbing around on the big steam threshing machine and relating events of the past year to one another, no doubt exaggerating most of the time.   The girls remained in the house where they would be pressed into service by the older women.    There were tablecloths to be put on tables, and tables to set, but also a great time to play, talk over grades, boyfriends and activities.   The ladies, bless them, could move about with great agility and speed in food preparation and also keep a steady stream of conversation flowing.   They talked about relatives not present, sicknesses that
they had the past year, marriages and babies (especially the amount of time elapsing between the former and the latter).     The sad news of death and disease in the family was covered by both men and women in hushed tones.   Finally we boys would be allowed to ring the large bell (schoolhouse type) that was located on top of the adjoining woodshed-utility building.   This bell was to be rung for emergencies, dinner time, etc. when the men were out in the field, but now we boys pulled on the bell rope with great gusto for it was time for the Thanksgiving Dinner.   The dinner now put together was from the best recipe of each woman in attendance.   We feasted on roast beef, ham, chicken (sometimes turkey) and venison in the main course along with mashed potatoes and gravy, candied yams, beans (green, baked and lima), cooked carrots, parsnips, fresh cole slaw, several kinds of bread and rolls, etc.   Then came desert and this is where the ladies really pulled out all the stops, there was pumpkin pie, mincemeat, apple, berry, rhubarb, gooseberry, squash, and others I can’t recall. As for cake, there were variations of chocolate, white, angel food, devils food and coconut, all with frostings or glazes that melted in your mouth.     What a wonderful time together, what a wonderful dinner, what a wonderful day, we had so much to be thankful for, our family was so close and loving.

 

Christmas was the next winter holiday and by far the most exciting day of the year.   Christmas was not just a holiday, it was a season, a special event that lifted us out of the state of poverty into the realm of possibility.   Years before I had given up my belief in a physical Santa Claus, but the mental image remained for some time, it was just too good of an idea to throw away.   Imagine!   Someone with the means to do so, coming to your house at night while you slept, leaving gifts and toys for you that your parents could never afford to give you.   I digress; So back to that terrible morning when my dreams were shattered and lay scattered in the snow around my feet.   It was a cold Christmas morning, snow was on the ground, but inside it was cheery and bright.   The Christmas tree sparkled with foil and several gifts were placed under the tree awaiting our entrance.   There was a little red coaster wagon, rubber boots for the cold snow or the wet, muddy ground, and other gifts that my poor head can’t remember now.   After a time of playing with presents, Lawrence went out into the snow with his new boots and after a short time returned, pulled me off to a corner of the room and whispered in my ear, “There isn’t any real Santa Claus”.   As a naive three year old, I was thunderstruck, why this was heresy, “what are you saying” I returned in a whisper, “look at all these presents”.   Lawrence carefully glanced toward mother and father and whispered again, “come outside with me”.   So I bundled up with my new boots on and followed my older brother out into the real world.   Lawrence led me around to the front of the house, saying “see those tracks there”, carefully pointing out to me a set of tracks just the size that a little coaster wagon would make.   “The wagon”, he said, “and look here”, he was now pointing to a rather large boot print, “come on, let’s find out where they go.”   So in the new fallen snow we backtracked the would be Santa Claus, out the driveway to the county road, then to the right and up the road.   The tracks were easy to spot in the snow, so on we followed until they turned into the yard of a house about a block away, the home of Uncle Roy and Aunt Alvira Davis. I then followed Lawrence up to the side door and there we found the boots with the diamond shaped tread sitting beside the door.   We had the evidence before us, we had caught the culprit cold (it was cold, remember), so we returned to our place before we were missed.^[14]   I know we felt smug with our new discovered knowledge, but I also felt saddened by this clever detective work.

 

In retrospect, Christmas did mean a lot to me and still does.   Mother would read the Christmas Story from the Bible, explaining in detail, not only the birth of the Christ Child, but also the why of His coming.   Then she would encourage each of us to pray and thank GOD for His Son, who came to die for us.   GOD gave the best gift of all, His Son and from this gift came forgiveness for our sins and eternal life for all who would accept Him.   Each year the emphasis in our home was on the incarnation and the love of GOD, Santa Claus paled in comparison.

 

New Year’s Day was the final holiday at this time and as I grew older it began to mean more and more to me.   The first time in my life that I was able to stay up to midnight, was New Years Eve at the little Open Bible Standard Church, (the Corner Church).   I must have been around eleven years old and as the Church was having a “Watch Night Service” I was allowed to go.   The service began at 7:30 P.M. and continued until midnight.   There was singing, Bible reading, prayer, a time of testimonies^[15], preaching, more singing interspersed with many specials.^[16] Special musical numbers were offered by the elderly Blums singing in German and as they did so, they invariably broke down and wept, as did we, Darwin Goodman would play a hymn on his violin, the Dorseys would sing, accompanying themselves with a guitar, girls would sing, men would sing or play, and it was a real treat when a quartet of young men from the CCC Camp (Camp Wendling) sang several songs.   That was the first time I heard a Southern quartet. They sang such songs as, “The Jericho Road,” “I Won’t Have To Cross Jordon Alone” and many others that we thoroughly enjoyed.   Before we realized it, the sound of car horns, gunshots and all sorts of noisemakers erupted from the community… Midnight… now a brand new year was born, a new calendar was hung on the wall and new resolutions were made for the coming year.   Down through the years^[17] I have come to realize that the best New Years Eve gatherings were the ones in church with a group of friends worshipping the Lord.

 

New Year’s Day was a special day for us boys.   We cousins had made a pact among ourselves^[18] to go on a hike every New Years day.   This hike was to be a real hike, not just a walk through the pasture.   So from that pact we carefully planned this annual trek.   This year it was to be to Mt. Nebo, the highest mountain in the area, a mountain with a fire lookout tower on top.   Mt. Nebo was between 8 and 9 miles away, the winter days were short, so we would have to plan carefully. We would leave at 7:00 A.M. (before sunrise), take plenty of food, matches, our knives, string, etc.   We would not need to take water, since there were several creeks and springs along the way^[19], we would take shortcuts whenever we could to conserve time, O yes, we would take a catalogue with us to make paper airplanes to sail off the lookout tower.

New Years Day arrived clear, cold and frosty and we were ready to go.   It was still dark when we left the house and started east on the county road, got on the rail road track at the Corner Church, went alongside the drying yard of the mill and came out at the power house.   Then, at the store, we connected with the company road that traveled into the hills, this road and all roads from this point on would be gravel roads.   We then hiked at a good pace along the banks of Mill Creek, we passed the swimming hole, went by the town dump and finally arrived at the junction of the Nebo Road at the CCC Camp.   At that junction we crossed Mill Creek heading south on the road to Mt. Nebo, still climbing^[20].   The hike was now up the Nebo road, taking shortcuts whenever we saw an advantage, stopping only to drink from a stream or take a quick bite of food.   We did stop at the old locomotive^[21] lying among the stumps and brush down the hill from the road (as we always did).   On a trip into the mountains for logs, the locomotive boiler had exploded and the engine destroyed.   I believe that 3 men were killed in the explosion.   These remains were carefully gone over by us and inspected thoroughly, then back up the hill to the road and on our way.   The day was superb, the sky was clear, the sun warm, we even shed some of warm clothing, carefully placing these items where they would be found on the return.

 

Soon Mt. Nebo loomed before us, forcing us to make a choice, should we continue on the road (easy walking, but a longer trek since it went around to the south side before starting up), or climb straight up the north side (hard climbing over large rocks and boulders, but much shorter)?   We chose to go up the north side through the boulders and volcanic debris.   It wasn’t long until the summit was reached, and what a summit it was, only a few yard wide where one could stand and look north or south from the same spot.   Now our little band quickly moved toward the lookout tower with plenty of energy to spare.   We had hiked up here several times before in the summer months and knew that there was a trap door to enter through the floor of the building at the top of the tower.   The tower was about 100 feet tall, with guy cables anchoring it to the rocky ground below, the stairs zigzagged up this tower making it quite easy to ascend.   Up to this point everything went according to plan, but now we faced our first setback, the trapdoor was padlocked shut, what a dilemma.   After a quick conference, we decided that there was only one thing to do, climb out to the edge, grab hold of the catwalk that circled the lookout room and swing out over thin air, 100 feet above the rocky mountain below us and climb onto the catwalk. A little scary, but we were soon sitting on the catwalk, our feet dangling over the edge, eating our lunch.   At first it was just a time to rest and look out over the country side in all directions, what a view, what a day, not a cloud in the sky, only a good stiff breeze from the north with a sharp gust now and then that made the rigging sing.   This would be perfect for our paper airplanes.   First the catalogue was produced, the pages were cut out with a sharp knife and distributed among us, now the fun time began as we laughed and chatted on top of the Mt. Nebo Lookout Tower.   The paper planes went for miles, we tried many different designs that we knew of and invented many more that no one ever heard of, and never will.   Of course we had a contest to see which plane would go the farthest and as I remember it I won!

 

Soon it was time to return and now we faced our first hurdle, getting off the catwalk onto the framework of the tower beneath us.   Since we were on an overhang and had to hang out over thin air, swing our legs in about three or four feet to the tower framework in order to climb through it onto the steps, this feat would require a great amount of courage and agility.   I don’t remember who did it first, but it was a lot more frightening not knowing exactly where to plant your feet on something solid, but soon we were all safe on the landing.   I wonder if anyone else has ever done such a foolhardy stunt on this tower?   The rest of the trip home was uneventful, we retrieved our coats beside the road and arrived home after dark. Oh! Did I mention that Uncle Mark and others were driving the country roads looking for us in the dark, but never met us because we were walking down the railroad tracks? They eventually found us and scolded us for coming back so late. Every new year ought to begin with a challenge such as this.

 

About four years earlier another group of boys had quite a different experience on the mountain.

It was early January in 1933, that one of our townsmen, Art Rogers led a group of Sunday School boys on a similar hike to Mt. Nebo, but while there the infamous Oregon fog rolled in and they were hopelessly lost on the mountain.   When darkness arrived and the boys didn’t, alarmed parents put together a search and rescue team that quickly set out for the mountain.   Some of the rescuers searched the mountain roads, while others hiked through wet brush in the dense fog and darkness. Some time around midnight Art and the boys were found by these men They were led from the mountain to waiting cars and brought back to town, that fact was announced by a loud blast of the mill whistle.^[22]

 

Another event that energized all of the kids in town at this time of year was the first big snowfall and the freezing weather that followed.   We all had sleds and with these we headed for the nearest large hill to try them out.   Some were homemade, others were store bought racers with thin metal runners that brought tears to your eyes as they sped down the steep slopes, there were also bobsleds, toboggans, homemade skis, etc.   Some of the men appeared with horse drawn sleighs inviting all to join them in a nearly silent ride.^[23] There were the usual collisions and upsets, but it was grand!   Then as the millpond was frozen over, nearly the entire town appeared at the east end with ice skates to have the grandest time of all.   Fires were lighted along the bank, and as hot coffee, hot chocolate and hot cider was passed around we found a new excitement in this impromptu community social event and we were completely captivated by that magic moment.   In our family there were no ice skates, but we slid around on the ice like everyone else and had a super, super exciting time.   Hooray for the snow and ice.

 

• ^[1]Our cousin by marriage, having married Isobel Warner.
• ^[2]This road soon became a smooth, crowned, asphalt surfaced corridor, but one that was promptly filled with chuck holes.   It was a never ending battle to patch and repair this 22 mile link to the city.
• ^[3] Mazama is the mountain with Crater lake lying in the caldron formed from volcanic eruptions.
• ^[4]When I was young and hunting there, the season for deer was one month long (October) and we were allowed 2 bucks with forked horns or more. There was no season on bear, bobcat, cougar, etc. they could be hunted any time. Many residents hunted out of season (poaching) so a lot of deer and grouse provided food for hungry families.   Of course there were game wardens to enforce the laws, so it became a battle of wits to see who ended up with the venison.
• ^[5]It happened a lot, since the walkway was only about 24 inches wide. There was a bridge made for logs to pass under as they were pushed into the mill, so we also had to climb up steps and cross over it as we crossed the pond.
• ^[6]The 4 L’s stood for, “Loyal Legion of Loggers and Lumbermen.   I believe that they formed during W.W.I as a patriotic group that swore allegiance to the U.S.A.   They were assisted by a young Army officer, “Hap Arnold” who later became General Arnold.
• ^[7]We always referred to them as “plank roads”.
• ^[8]One such plant, “Indian Pipes” was stark white with small black markings on the stem,( no leaves) and had a bell shaped head that curved downward.   The plant then resembled its name,” Indian Pipe”   These only grew in the darkest forest from the moss covered soil.
• ^[9]When I found the first Trillium in the Spring, it was just like finding an old friend.
• ^[10]The Tamarack grew at higher elevations, but we came across them frequently.   They were a conifer, and the only one I know of that shed its colorful needles each Fall.   In the winter it appeared as a dead fir tree, but one with new green needles each spring.
• ^[11]I learned this poem before I started the first grade 4 or 5 years. old.   But I can’t remember all of the last stanza… “put them to bed, and the snow laid a coverlet over their head” was the last line.
• ^[12] LaJoi was a widow at this time and her son Ed lived with her, caring for her.
• ^[13]The great big holes were called “mud holes”.   A car could get stuck in a mud hole, even in the middle of the road!
• ^[14]Of course our parents had gotten gifts for us and had them hidden at Uncle Roy’s place until early Christmas morning.   A good idea since we certainly would have discovered them before Christmas.
• ^[15]Different people standing and telling what GOD had done for them, how he had helped them, or met their needs.
• ^[16]A special was a vocal solo, a duet or quartet by different persons.   It could also be an instrumental number.
• ^[17]Nearly 70 at the writing of this book.
• ^[18]The Bailey brothers (Oliver and Martin), the Warner brothers (Lawrence, Leonard and myself.)
• ^[19]Whenever we hiked through the woods and came to clear water, we just flopped down on the ground and drank it.   No sampling or testing.   We had a theory that the water would purify itself by traveling 100 feet from any impurity.   However if there was a dead sheep or some other animal lying in the creek we would drink upstream of it   Since we survived, mountain water must be good to drink.
• ^[20]On this 8 mile hike we would climb about 2500 feet in elevation from Wendling to the top of Nebo.
• ^[21]This locomotive was designated “Booth-Kelley 8 Spot”
• ^[22]The mill whistle (which could be heard about 4 miles) was an important part of town life.   It first blew at 6:00 A.M. to signal the beginning of a new day (alarm clock), it blew again a few minutes before work began and then as work commenced.   It also blew at lunch time, at closing time or at any emergency.   A fire in town produced several sharp blasts followed by several long ones which indicated the direction of the fire, this brought all the men on the run to assist in fighting the fire.
• ^[23]The only sound was the soft clop of the horses feet and the slushing sound of the runners moving through the snow.

 

CHAPTER   8

 

 

GOOD-BY TO BIB OVERALLS

September 1940

As strange as may seem now, we boys always wore bib overalls during our grade school years.   One of my worries when facing high school with belts and trousers was, “would they stay up without suspenders?”   O, that we had worries no greater than this nowadays.   It finally came time to enroll and it was almost like joining the service since we knew so little about this step.   The high school^[1] was located in the town of Marcola four miles away, so we were introduced to the big yellow school bus, which was to be my link to higher education for the next four years.

 

I was now 14 years of age and as I rode the yellow bus to Mohawk High, the rider of the red horse of war was riding across Europe.   The daily reports were ominous, in fact these reports overshadowed every conversation and even reached into the classroom, consequently my high school years differed in many respects from those of the older generations.   I can remember listening to our radio and hearing Adolph Hitler speak to the German people in the late thirties,   and since I didn’t understand the language, this rapid fire, emotional outburst punctuated with thunderous responses of “seig heil, seig heil” from the people caused me to feel (and still recall) the tremendous excitement of that moment in history, but I must confess that I also felt a fear and dread clutching at my heart.

 

I began the school year with the regular freshman classes of math, English, history, etc. and I soon adjusted to my new academic life.   I still had the same chores to do at home since wood and water still had to be carried in (no indoor plumbing, no piped in gas for heating) and the same animals had to be cared for, but now I had homework to do also.   Life began to be more complex, but it was also more exciting since I was introduced to new friends, new concepts and new challenges daily.     During this time I made the transition from “me” and “my” to “our”.   It now was our school, our class, our football team, our basketball team, etc. I discovered a new fierce loyalty that was to influence my life from that point unto the present day. I attended most games and school events, even if it meant walking home afterwards because the bus wasn’t running, (not too often).   However, I did learn how far four country miles were when one didn’t own a car.^[2]

 

My freshman year was rather uneventful and I did quite well in my subjects (I did especially well in math).   All in all, it was a good beginning for a new endeavor.   Then with school winding down for summer vacation, I began looking for a job^[3].   I had earned money prior to this time in a variety of ways, viz., running a paper route, selling Cloverine Salve door to door, handing out advertising flyers, selling magazines (Colliers) and peeling, drying and bagging “chittum” bark^[4]. Also, I along with my brothers and sisters dug and sacked yams for Ed LaJoi, and were paid by the pound.   This money soon added up for clothes and school supplies.   But now it was time to find a “real” job, and as I checked around for this “real” job, I soon found it as a hired hand for John Downing^[5].   I was to work from about 7:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. and receive $1.50 per day, also I was to have my dinner (noon meal) with the Downings along with the hired man, Les Griffin.   I was delighted, I now had a grown-up job for the first time.

 

On my first day I reported to the slaughter house as we were to butcher a steer^[6] for the Wendling grocery store^[7], Clarence Alford (John’s brother-in-law) was also there to assist.   I ran a large reddish brown steer into the slaughter house from the holding pen, then walked around into the building from the front door.   John took an old .22 rifle from its position in the corner and shot the steer in the forehead, killing it instantly.   First it was bled, then gutted and skinned.   I was now in a man’s world, so I had to learn to use a skinning knife without cutting holes in the hide, since it was to be taken over to the hide room, salted and placed on the stack of hides to be used for shoes, and various leather goods.   You wouldn’t want a knife cut in your leather jacket would you?   Next I had to drag the intestines (guts) over to the hog pen^[8] across the way.   I didn’t mind the skinning and butchering, but this was definitely not my cup of tea, I hated to grab hold of those slippery intestines and pull them away.   They were heavy, about 100 pounds or more and I didn’t like the smell.   My first attempt moved them no more than five feet, so I walked back into the slaughter house where John and Clarence were cleaning and cutting the beef in half for transport and told John that the guts were too slippery and I couldn’t get a good hold on them.   “No problem”, he said, “I’ll make a couple of handles for you”.   At this he took his knife and quickly made a couple of parallel slits in one of the large intestines, lifting the center section up toward me, “there you go, get a hold of that”, he said and went back to his work.   Well the handle really worked, but the odor was about 20 times worse since I had my hands in manure now!   After that experience, I was able to do anything on the ranch.^[9]   My first job of the morning from that day forward was to report to the slaughter house and go from there. There were so many things to do on a ranch such as this, that I never lacked for something to do.

 

“Patience, patience is all it takes”, it was Les Griffin answering my lament after looking into the harness shop.   I was to help Les clean up this large room and put it back in shape today since it was raining and this would be a good inside job.   It wasn’t that it didn’t need it, it did, but I was overwhelmed with such an impossible appearing task.   First the picture, the harness shop was full of different types of harness for the horses, this leather harness was to hang from wooden pegs around the room, but most of it was tangled on the floor.   The room had also been stacked with sacks^[10] of grain.   The ground squirrels had gotten in and along with rats chewed through the bags allowing the grain to flow into the room.   The grain (wheat, oats, corn) was about knee deep enter twined with all kinds of harness, singletrees, doubletrees, hay hooks, horse collars, tugs, chain, rope, bridles, blinders, horse blankets, saddles, rubber boots, leather boots, coats and anything else that was thrown in to keep safe and dry.   “We’ll never be able to clean this up”, I sighed, “never!”   But Les taught me patience that week, for that is how long it took, seven days at eight or nine hours per day.   First we started re-sacking grain in gunny sacks, twisting the corners and sewing the top shut.   Then we pulled leather lines from the grain, straightened the kinks out and coiled them up.   More grain sacked, more lines pulled, hay hooks hung back on the wall, more grain sacked, more harness pulled out, on and on it went until we had accomplished the impossible, the floor was as clean as a table, the grain re-stacked around the room, saddles re-hung, etc.   Then we took pieces of tin and nailed them over every rat hole, placed poisoned grain around the exterior of the building, and reported the job completed.   John came to look and said, “you fellows did a great job, now let’s keep it this way.” We said “amen” to that.   I still hate rats and ground squirrels to this day, but I did learn patience!

 

Now it was time to cut and rake the hay, followed by shocking it to dry^[11].   This was hot work and I learned to appreciate the satisfaction of a nice cool drink of water.   My favorite song at that time was “Cool Water”, by The Son’s of The Pioneers.   After the hay was dry, around the fourth of July, we harnessed a team to the wagon fitted with a hay rack and brought it to the barn.   Here it was lifted by a huge fork, pulled with a rope by a horse on the other side of the barn.   This rope went up, over a pulley attached to a carriage which moved along a track depositing the load at various places in the loft.   Two of us would have to be in the loft “mowing” it back into the corners.   That was one hot, sweaty, sticky job.   Then back to the field for more hay, the cycle repeating until all the hay was in.   Two reasons for the hay being stored in the loft, was (1) at feeding time we had but to pitch it onto a slide and down it went to the horses and cattle, (2) it was out of the way of regular activities in the barn, keeping it clean and dry.

 

The Downings were also in the turkey business and the upper flat was turned over to that enterprise.   At this time there were around 8,000 to care for and now as they were growing larger (and eating more) it became my job to see that they were fed every morning and evening. For this chore I had an old tractor to use and with it I pulled a rather large flat-bed trailer.   I would hitch up the trailer, drive around where the feed was stored in 100 pound sacks and load up.   I picked up 40 sacks in the morning and 40 sacks in the evening and drove up to the turkey lot.   This large area was fenced in and rows of hoppers^[12] extended across the field.   I drove the tractor into this mass of black and red, gobbling, chirping turkeys and pulled up parallel to the first hopper.   The din was terrific, they were all over the hoppers, perched on the trailer and flapping around me.   I would then jerk on the lid scattering those on top and begin my work.   The top of the grain sack was placed over the edge of the hopper, the string cut and as the grain flowed into the hopper, I moved it along until emptied.   The procedure was reenacted until the forty, 100 pound bags of grain ( 2 tons) were in the hoppers.   This was repeated in the evening.   I did learn to quiet the din of these birds by throwing a stick into the air, as it turned over and over, not a peep from them, you could hear a pin drop.   They appeared frozen in place with their necks stretched upward, that is, until the stick hit the ground, then it was bedlam, even worse that before.   They probably thought the stick was a hawk or an owl.

 

Johnny Downing was a couple of years younger than I, but he worked with us on his fathers ranch.   One day he went to the hired-man’s house to get something we needed, and came back with a big “George Washington” cigar.   Well, that would certainly be a diversion for us.   After slipping around the barn, we sat on the grass, leaning back against the warm boards and lit up.   When the hired man smoked a cigar he looked so contented and relaxed, that we were certain of achieving the same euphoria.   It was great for a while, we coughed and sputtered (we didn’t know one was not to inhale the smoke), but laughed at getting away with a No, No.   It wasn’t long, however, until we began to feel lightheaded, then dizzy and finally sick, I mean SICK, I thought I was going to die. I know that you have already guessed the next phase, vomiting!   We threw-up until we were so weak we just lay on the grass inert.   Eventually we collected our strength (and wits) and got to our feet.   That’s when Johnny said, “when we go to the house mom will smell it on our breath”.   “What will we do”, I said, “do you have any gum?”   He didn’t, neither did I, but Johnny was wildly looking about for something to chew on and spotted a certain weed growing near the barn, ” this will do it, I’ve tasted this before and it is strong”, exclaimed Johnny as he pulled up a large plant.   Well we chewed on those leave until our mouths were inflamed and our tongues on fire (worse than jalapino peppers).   We ran for the water hose and for the next half hour rinsed our mouths, drank cold water, vomited, rinsed, etc. That was two cigars for me that day, my first and my last!

 

Autumn was fast approaching now and along with it, school.   I had made about $90.00 and was rich.   I gave some to mother, put $9.00 in the collection plate at the church, bought new clothes, some ammunition for hunting, saved some for books, and the rest was put away for an emergency.   I ought to mention some economic values of that time:

 

Large loaf of bread…………………………..$0.15

Small loaf of bread…………………………..$0.10

Shoes…………………………….about……….$3.50

Trousers…………………………about……….$2.00 to $4.00

Soda Pop^[13]………………………………………$0.05

Most items have increased by a factor of “10” today, 1990’s

 

 

 

 

 

• ^[1]Mohawk Union High School.
• ^[2]No city busses, streetcars or taxi’s either.
• ^[3]The “work ethic” was very strong in the country and the prevailing thought of my mind was, “where will I work this summer?”
• ^[4]We would go into the woods in the spring, find the chittum trees, cut them down and peel the bark from them by cutting a ring around the trunk or limb in two places about 12 to 24 inches apart, then make a cut between the two rings.   This would enable us to slip our knife or fingers in under the bark and pry it from the tree.   This was repeated until all of the bark was removed from the tree.   The product from this bark was, “cascara”, a laxative ingredient.
• ^[5]John Downing was a successful rancher with a large ranch just west of the town of Wendling.   He and his wife Anne worked hard to maintain this many faceted enterprise.   John’s parents were still living in their large home on the western edge of the ranch at this time.
• ^[6] Downing provided the meat for the butcher stores in Wendling and Marcola.   This meant slaughtering a beef or hog every other day.
• ^[7]The store in Wendling also sold clothing, cloth, shoes, hardware, guns, blocks of ice, etc. besides groceries.
• ^[8]The hog pen was about two acres in size and the pigs roamed freely through this area covered with brush and grass with an orchard on one end.
• ^[9]Nowadays Hogs cannot be fed on a diet such as this and be used for human consumption, they must be grain fed.
• ^[10]Each burlap bag contained 100 pounds of grain.
• ^[11]When hay was put away in the barn, it had to be dry, or nearly so, since green hay generated heat when it was piled up and could burn the barn down.
• ^[12]These hoppers were constructed of wood and each was about 16 feet long.   They were about 30 inches high and had a hinged lid on top.   They were “V” shaped with a flat eating tray at the bottom of the “V”, this enabled the grain to slowly flow to the feeding tray; as the grain was eaten, more grain would move down until all was consumed.
• ^[13]Coca Cola, Pepsi Cola, Chief (many flavors), Virginia Dare, NeHi, etc.

 

CHAPTER   9

 

 

UNDER THE SHADOW OF PEARL HARBOR

September 1941

As I entered my sophomore year of high school at Mohawk, the war activity in Europe and in Asia had increased with the Nazis and Japs marching through country after country with impunity.   Things looked especially bad for England at this time and it didn’t appear as if the US. would intervene, so the question remained, ‘If all of Europe fell to Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini, would we be able to stand against that united Fascist/Communist State in the future?’ The answer appeared to be “NO”, at least to our leaders, but still nothing was done, no move was made by the United States at this time.

 

DEER HUNTING

Time for deer hunting had arrived, so armed with dad’s .25/.35 and Lawrence with his .30 auto., we left class work behind and headed into the woods. After leaving the house, We would be in hunting territory after hiking no more than a mile or so.   Of course an excuse would have to be written for an absence such as this, so mother would write something to this effect, “Please excuse the absence of Lawrence and Ellis from classes this past week as they were hunting.   Sincerely, Mrs. Harry Warner.”   At that time and in that area this was all that was required, and we would be excused!   Would that work today?

 

The hike into the woods was exhilarating, as the dark velvet sky began to pale and the stars faded away, the sunrise began painting Mt. Oshkosh a delicate lavendar-pink, then as the sun finally peeped over the eastern horizon into the deep cobalt sky there wasn’t a cloud to be seen.   The dark somber firs even brightened up on a day such as this, but it was the autumn colors that really highlighted the countryside with color.   Every shade from brilliant yellow to the deep crimsons shouted for our attention, and got it.   The air was crisp and cool at first since there had been a light frost during the night, but that soon changed to warm and then to very warm, how wonderful to be a living, sentient being on a planet such as this; in other words, it was great to be alive!^[1]

 

While I was in high school, our hunting group consisted of members of the family, with dad teaching us the proper procedures of stalking, hunting into the wind, taking advantage of natural cover, moving slowly and quietly without breaking twigs, etc.   He taught us to aim a little high when shooting uphill and low when shooting downhill and how to slightly lead a buck bounding across the brushy hillside, he also taught us to blacken the rear sight with the soot from a burning match and many other practical things that a hunter must know.   We already knew how to clean the deer after shooting it and of course I certainly knew how to properly skin it, and cut it up.   After bringing the buck home it was up to mother to prepare one of her delicious meals with all this meat.   So with the help of the girls,^[2] mother prepared supper which went something like this: Venison steak along with liver and onions, mashed potatoes and gravy, canned green beans, hot biscuits with butter and wild blackberry jam, fresh plums^[3], rhubarb pie^[4], chocolate cake, milk and scalding hot coffee.   Simple, but oh so grand.

 

Later on during my Junior and Senior years, I went hunting a lot with the pastor of the Open Bible Church, Rev. Howard Gear.   Basically he loved to hike in the mountains and he was happy just driving around in the Oregon hills^[5], hunting appeared to be an afterthought to him.   The two of us always managed to fill our tags at some point during the season.   On the days that we went out and never even got a shot off, we would return with the rear seat area of his car filled with brilliant Autumn leaves, we never came home empty-handed.   Rev. and Mrs. Gear did not have any children, consequently the young people of the church became their family.   Their selfless love and concern, I’m certain, saved us from many of the pitfalls in the life ahead.   They were just two people ministering to a small congregation at the end of the county road in the mountains of Oregon, but they were solid gold!

 

CHAMPIONS

School continued with new classes and tougher studies, more homework in the evenings yet there was still time for football games with our neighboring schools. One year we were the State champions in “B” League^[6].   Our championship game was played at Eugene in December during a period of “Oregon storms” and much of the countryside was flooded.   When we left Eugene that night, after the game, the rain had increased to such a downpour, that we knew returning home would be difficult.   Our bus driver Henry Schwind, took every detour around low lying flooded areas that he could find, drove slowly on other roads covered with river
water when there was no detour, and every so often he stopped the bus, stepped out into the driving rain with flashlight in hand to survey the situation, the road had disappeared, water was everywhere.   When he had a good mental picture of where the road was, he would proceed ( the bus was high, so we could go through pretty deep water), but at other times he would have to back out because the road was partially washed away, then turn around to try another road. (Can you imagine turning a large school bus around on a narrow country road in pitch darkness and in a driving rain?)   But eventually he transported his precious cargo intact to the High School.   From this point he still had the regular route to run in order to get us home.   The normal 25 miles to Wending must have turned into 50 treacherous miles that night. I arrived home around 2:30 A.M., our driver, Mr. Schwind, probably never got to put the bus in the garage until four or five A.M.

 

A DAY OF INFAMY

Sunday, December 7, 1941.

Up early to a good hot breakfast, we always got up early in the country, that is except my brother Wayne, he hated to get up early, so mother would have us, “wake Wayne up”, that was a difficult thing to do. Next phase was, “get Wayne up”, so we went back into the bedroom, shook the bed, yelled and pulled on the covers, but Wayne would be holding to those covers for dear life.   At least we would have him awake by then.   I don’t know how many times that he would be running for the bus, tucking in his shirt and putting on his coat with mother running behind with his lunch or books. But back to December 7.

 

We arrived at The Corner Church for Sunday School at 9:45 A.M. this was followed by the morning worship service at eleven, then back home for dinner (noon meal), this was just another normal Sunday thus far.   In the afternoon we boys went to the field by the apple orchard to play football, we were crazy about football and played exactly by the rules ( we always played tackle football, but had no padding or helmets ), consequently mother spent a lot of her time mending torn shirts and trousers.

THE NEWS

We were completely engrossed in our game when one of our school chums rode up on his bike   (I think it was Ron Byers ) and hollered something to us.   We stopped our game to hear what he was saying.   “What did you say”?, we shouted back, by now he was very close to us, but he still shouted, “THE JAPS ATTACKED PEARL HARBOR”!   “Where is Pearl Harbor?”, we asked in return.   “In the Hawaiian Islands.. they sank a lot of our ships too.. and killed a lot of people”. “When?”, we asked excitedly, for now this news began to sink in, “when?”   “This morning”, he replied, “it’s on the radio, on every station, this means war!”   After a spirited time of going over what we had just heard, Ernie picked up the football and we trooped into the house.   “Mom, Dad quick turn on the radio, the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor, we are going to war!”   It was true, every station had nothing but news of the attack, the casualties and the implications of this attack.   We didn’t leave our radio for the rest of the afternoon, soaking up the news of this dastardly attack.   President Roosevelt came on the air with his famous speech and the words, “This day shall live in infamy” rang in our ears for days to come.   In our excitement, we asked mom and dad what would happen next, since they had already lived through one world conflict (World War One)^[7] and had personal knowledge of the consequences of war.   Dad thought that it would be all over in a month, since Japan was a small country, “no bigger than the state of California,” he said, but he didn’t know how well their war machinery had been prepared for this event, and how inadequate ours was at that time.

THE RADIO

Our most important link to outside world events now became our radio ( we didn’t have a telephone).   This radio of ours was a “Majestic” and stood upright and proud in its own allotted space against the wall next to the living room window.^[8]   It had been given to us by an uncle and was in perfect condition, how we treasured that polished wood cabinet with it’s large 12 inch speaker.   The mysterious heart and soul of this machine consisted of strange looking glass tubes with letters and numbers printed on the tops and sides of them and dozens of small multicolored wires attached to resisters, condensers and tube sockets.   On the front there was a small trapezoidal shaped window ( with its own illumination ) to show one what station was selected and three knobs, one to tune, one for volume and one for pitch (base to treble).   Prior to the Pearl Harbor attack, this radio was primarily used for listening to “Gang Busters”, “Jack Armstrong”, “Orphan Annie”, “The Green Hornet”, “Dick Tracy”, “I Love A Mystery”, “Amos ‘n Andy”, “Jack Benny”, “Fibber McGee and Molly”, “The Shadow”, “Jungle Jim” and dozens of other entertaining programs.

WAR NEWS

The primary purpose of our “Majestic” now was to provide a new service, a service of daily communicating events of the war into our living room.   At 9:00 P.M. the control of the radio always went to dad and the living room would vibrate with the melancholy voice of Gabriel Heater, with his opening words, “Folks, there’s bad news tonight…”   There were other commentators, some reporting from London on static filled connections, others from France, the Pacific and many other parts of the world, but to dad it had to be Gabriel Heater! After Gabe signed off, it was lights out and into bed, no exceptions!

 

THE DRAFT

Now events began moving rapidly, young men must sign up for the “Draft” under the Selective Service Act, and were soon drafted into the Army, others not waiting for the draft to reach them enlisted in the Marine Corps, the Navy or the Coast Guard.   Training camps were opened and soon were filled to capacity with men on their way to the front lines.   At home, my elder brother, Lawrence, was called, and soon a letter arrived from Fort Ord from him, he was on his way.   Other young men were called from our community, school teachers and doctors along with some ministers also left.   Now we finally began to realize the seriousness of world conditions.   A rationing program was set up by the Government and soon ration stamps were issued to families in order for them to be able to buy meat, sugar, gasoline, tires, shoes, etc., since these were high priority items needed immediately by the military.   New laws were established with a speed limit set at 35 miles per hour, maximum. No new cars were manufactured, we would have to make the old ones last.   Headlights must be covered, leaving but a small slit for illumination and blackout curtains must be placed over every window of the house in order that no light escape and reveal the presence of cities and towns. An appointed “Blackout” warden would patrol the area making certain that these laws were being followed.   Finally observation posts were set up to monitor the speed and direction of every aircraft in the sky (more on this later).

 

When we returned to school, things were rapidly changing, our principal, Mr. Buchanan entered the service, soon our coach, Mr. Croston, was gone also, as well as many of the older boys in school.   Around the football field an obstacle course was set up, much like the ones in the military training camps.   So rain or shine we ran, crawled, climbed and scrambled through that maze until we were toughened up, ready for whatever lay ahead of us. Some classes, such as math and physics which had low priorities, now took on a new dimension as our curriculum changed and these became required subjects, much to the chagrin of many students.   This change was great for me though, as I just loved math and I even had one class of higher math in which I was the only pupil.   This prepared me for the testing done by the Army to secure candidates for officer’s school. This test I easily passed, but never entered, since I was not interested in the Army, I wanted to be a pilot in the Army Air Corps! I was soon accepted by them and left for Portland^[9] for my physical, only to find a typewritten notice on the door which stated, “We have reached our quota of candidates for the present and are temporarily closed.” What a disappointment to me as I now must retrace my steps to the train station and return home on the milk train^[10].

 

THE OBSERVATION POST

 

Since the Civil Defense in conjunction with the Military Defense needed constant information on the movement of every airplane in the sky, a series of observation posts was established along the coast.   Was the plane ours, or was it the enemy?   We were at war and the feeling was, the enemy could fly in at any time to strafe and bomb us, we must be alert and never allow what happened at Pearl Harbor to occur again. The phrase, “REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR” was not just a slogan, it became a way of life and the driving force behind every conscious thought of ours.   The first observation post in Wendling was near the center of town where we were instructed on how to correctly report a sighting.   As soon as we heard the drone of an aircraft, we stepped outside to locate and identify it^[11] then immediately phone this information in. We volunteered for a 4 hour watch with two persons per watch.   We could not bring phonographs or radios with us, for obvious reasons, but there were many magazines and books to pass the time.   For a period of time I observed with Dale Wiltse, a great friend during those years.   I also took my turn with my brothers, sisters and other school chums.   I remember two things about those observation post days, (1)I felt like I was contributing toward the defense of my country, and (2) it had a sobering effect upon me as I contemplated how the military DEPENDED UPON US.   It was their trust in us that caused me to see the seriousness of my responsibility and I remember making this determination, “no plane was going to get by me!”   I don’t believe that any slipped by.

 

There were other ways in which we could aid our country at this time.   One was collecting scarce metals needed in the manufacturing of War materials.   So we scoured the countryside. bringing in brass, tin ( used tooth paste tubes), lead, scrap iron, copper and aluminum.   We also brought in old rubber tires and inner tubes. We soon had a mountain of scrap to feed the factories and it certainly made a difference in the war.

 

 

BOOTH-KELLY LUMBER COMPANY

June 1, 1943: It was now summer vacation at the conclusion of my Junior year in High School (I had turned 17 in April) and since so many men had left the mill for the service, we were desperately needed there.   Harry Mix was the foreman of the carpenter crew and I was placed in his crew for the summer.   He was very knowledgeable in this heavy construction work and I learned a lot, I also made big money for the first time (men’s wages).   Since the fire danger around a sawmill was always high, our first job was to cut down all the tall grass growing around it. This was done with a full length scythe, which some of the young men found awkward to handle^[12] but since I had worked on a farm and around our place with one, it was quite natural to me.   My next job was building a fire wall under the mill, then re-roofing company buildings with tar paper and hot tar, repairing broken catwalks, replacing broken beams, etc.   I also worked on the plank roads around town, replacing worn 4×12 planks and spiking them down good. Along with the regular crew, I helped to build a bridge over Wolf Creek.   Another chore that befell us was the refurbishing of Company houses (rentals) for the next occupants.   This was fun work since we had a little more freedom and we could always send a little kid to the store for soda pop on warm days.   Once when things were dull and one of our co-workers had left the room in which we were working, an idea came to us, open the door a bit, place a bucket of water on top of it and wait for him to come back and step through.   As soon as the words left our mouth this practical joke was put in place.   It was not long after we went back to our work stripping wallpaper from the walls that we heard footsteps approaching, but to our horror, our co-worker did not step through the door, it was our foreman, Harry Mix.   Needless to say the bucket of water drenched him good. I don’t know why he didn’t fire us all at the moment, but he just stood there looking at us, as the water dripped to the floor, finally after several minutes, he turned and left.   Now we were really worried, would he return with our checks or would he fire us when we returned to the carpenter shop that evening?   To our great relief, he never mentioned it nor gave any indication that anything had happened, I guess he decided that, “boys will be boys”. That event ended our practical jokes and now we took our jobs a lot more serious.

 

Finally summer came to a close and it was time for school to begin, my senior year had arrived and I was ready for it.   I knew that I too would be in the service in just a few months, so I really crammed for upcoming math, science and physics exams by the military officers. This paid off and I easily passed every test that came my way.

Jo and Helen at the home place in Wendling during the war years. Two girls growing up with seven boys, what a great family we had.

Jo now lives in Eugene with her husband Bud, two sons, Mike and Doug, one daughter, Karen and several grandchildren. Helen lives in Montana with her husband Walt and daughter Jenni.

• ^[1]Late September and October provided us with many days such as this in Oregon.   It wasn’t always cloudy, didn’t always rain.
• ^[2]Josephine, two years younger than I and Helen six years younger.
• ^[3]Dad always had fruit with every meal.
• ^[4]We had several large rhubarb plants growing on the place, I doubt if they were classified as a fruit, but sweetened and stewed or baked in a pie, they provided a delicious desert at any time.
• ^[5]Pastor Gear had recently arrived from the Midwest, so hiking about in these mountains was an exciting experience for him.   Incidentally, he was an excellent Pastor, and Bible Teacher.
• ^[6]“B” League football was with 6 man teams.   One year as Oregon State champions we played the Washington State champions from Riderwood , I believe that they won.
• ^[7]Mother lost her brother David in WW I.
• ^[8]It had to be there in order for the “ground wire” to exit the house and be fastened to a pipe driven into the soil, also for the antenna to enter the house.   Lawrence had stretched the copper wire antenna from the large fir tree near the creek bank, to a 30 foot pole attached to the house.   This was adequate to pull in stations as far away as Portland in the daytime with California, Washington and Oregon stations at night.
• ^[9]This trip to Portland on the train was quite an adventure to me.   I had never been out of Lane County, (never been away from home overnight) and no more than 70 miles from home at any time.   I had been to Eugene many times (about 20,000 pop.), but the large bustling city of Portland with its electric busses, mighty skyscrapers and flashing neon signs filled me with awe.   As I had a little time on my hands, I walked down to the water front and out on the Broadway bridge, the view from there was mind boggling to me, I had never seen anything to compare to this.   There were huge ocean going ships being loaded below me, trains moving produce and machinery into this great international port and trucks moving in every direction.   I don’t remember ever seeing a taxi before, but this city was full of them. What an experience I had!
• ^[10]This was a passenger train, but it stopped in every city and town between Portland and Eugene to load new baggage (including milk) and passengers.   Needless to say, the journey home was quite slow.
• ^[11]We had at our disposal a series of photos and drawing of military aircraft, both Japanese and American. We constantly studied these and soon became adept in identifying what we saw.   It wasn’t long until we could identify most American aircraft by sound.
• ^[12]One young man cut his thumb severely while attempting to sharpen the blade and had to be taken to the hospital for stitches.

 

CHAPTER   10

THAT OLD TIME RELIGION

When I turned 12 years of age, our family began attending the Open Bible Standard Church located on a sharp turn of the county road as it approached the Wendling covered bridge.   For several years mother had desired something more than just an intellectual knowledge about God and what she desired, she was to find here.   Their statement of faith was quite simple: Salvation by faith through the grace of God; After conversion one was to live a righteous and sanctified life; After conversion one was to be baptized in water by immersion in the name of The Father, Son and Holy Spirit: After conversion one could and should be baptized in the Holy Spirit with the initial evidence of speaking in tongues;^[1]   That the gifts of the Holy Spirit given by Christ to the Early Church were to be in evidence in the Church today;   That there was a literal heaven to gain and a literal hell to avoid at all costs;   That prayer should be offered up for the sick and “the prayer of faith will save the sick”;   That the Church should be looking for that Blessed Hope and the soon return of Jesus Christ for His Church.    That just about covers their statement of faith, which they taught vigorously, and practiced to the best of their ability.   The services were heavy to Bible Study, and the people were quite emotional in their worship of God.

 

The song service was lively led by a piano and an orchestra consisting of accordions, guitars, violins, trumpets, woodwinds and whatever a believer could play for the glory of God.   The service was basically unstructured and they depended upon the leading of the Holy Spirit as they progressed in their worship.   Into this “Faith” we entered without reservation and now (about 60 years later) still embrace those Biblical beliefs.   When our family of 10 entered this little church with a congregation of 35, we increased the population by 1/3.   Soon many other townspeople became a part of this same congregation and the attendance was boosted to one hundred.^[2]

 

The first pastor that I remember was Rev. Clarence Anderson, followed by Rev. John Wright^[3], Rev. Werner Bock^[4], Rev. Howard Gear, Rev. Wright again and finally Darwin Goodman, a layman, who supplied as pastor until the mill shut down and the town dissipated.   Darwin Goodman, also taught the Bible Study courses and he was so knowledgeable about the Bible that I seldom missed one of those informative studies.

 

The church entered into fellowship meetings with other churches of “like faith” and once a month we were off to Oakridge, Lowell, Yarnell, or some other small town for a great meeting where we got to hear the testimonies and special music of other Christians.   Then on three special days each year we gathered in Eugene, Klamath Falls and Tacoma, Washington for a super meeting of many hundreds of people.   These special meetings were good for us as we sometimes had the feeling that we were all alone in the worship of God (remember Elijah at the Juniper tree).

When I turned thirteen, I made a decision to commit my life to God and to serve Him the rest of my years, ( this acceptance of Christ as my savior occurred during a New Year’s Eve watch night service.)   Now I wanted to do something for God, so when a Missionary from Africa itinerated through our area, I gave my greatest treasure to him to give as gifts to the natives when he returned to the field. (A cigar box full of my choicest marbles.)   That was all I had to give, but I was so happy to be able to give this gift, proving to me for the first time since I became a Christian, “It is more blessed to give than to receive…”

 

The missionaries were an inspiration to us when they came through every few months.^[5]   We learned of their triumphs and victories and also of their sicknesses and sorrows.   The basic purpose of these meetings was to give an account to the people of what was being accomplished with the missionary offerings.   Many people of different Faiths in town would also attend these meetings, in order to hear what God was doing in other lands.   The service usually began by singing an appropriate song about missions and commitment, followed by the missionaries greeting us in the native tongue of the people they served, then showing us clothing and costumes of these people, finally laying out preserved skins of strange animals and poisonous reptiles for us to wonder at and admire.   However, underneath these trappings we caught a glimpse of the motivation driving them on, it was their love for Christ that caused them to sacrifice everything in order to reach out to people in darkness and superstition with a message of hope and love. These contacts gave each of us one great desire… To also be a missionary someday!

 

Our next most favorite time was when the Evangelist came to the church for a series of meetings. These men and women showed up with no more programmed schedule than, “The Lord sent me here”.   This was schedule enough and the revival began.   It might last a week, maybe two or three, sometimes six, it would last “as long as the Lord moved”.   There were no distractions of TVs or computers, or any other modern invention of today that would hinder attendance, so we never missed a service.   How those Evangelists would preach, they thundered against sin and careless living, they soothed us with the love and kindness of a merciful Father, they alerted us to the soon coming of Christ, “..And if there is sin in your life, YOU will be left behind!”   These messages along with dozens of others kept us on our knees confessing every sin to God.   I do miss those soul-searching meetings of yesteryear.   As the revival progressed there were many “testimonies” of what God had done in the lives of the people.   Some were delivered from sins of the flesh (they stood up and said so), others from alcohol and tobacco, still others from cursing, fighting and stealing. These, one and all, gave God the glory for the transformation in their lives and I can’t help but add that these revivals brought a great and lasting change in all of our lives.

 

Every office in the church was voluntary and the only paid position was that of the Pastor (and the janitor).   The janitor was paid $2.50 per month^[6], and the Pastor received an offering each Sunday, however the congregation also provided a house for him and his family (usually furnished with cast-off furniture such as a blue couch, a bright green chair… you know the rest), brought in food and firewood and kept his car filled with gasoline.   None of our Pastors had to work on the side to make ends meet, but in many churches in small towns they had to.

 

All in all church life was good to me and good for me.   I learned responsibility and commitment, I learned to help those in need and to sympathize and pray for those whom I couldn’t help directly.   I wouldn’t choose any other way of life.

• ^[1]They were referred to as “Pentecostals” and this is the belief of Pentecostal (and Charismatics) to this day.
• ^[2]The record attendance was 124.
• ^[3] Wright had a limited secular education, but his fervor more than made up for lack of ‘proper English’. He preached from the platform , the altar or up and down the isles of the sanctuary. He was a most impressive dynamo of Biblical knowledge and this knowledge was shouted forth at a machine gun clip.
• ^[4]Reverend Bock was a strong , but gentle giant of a man. Once when our horse fell into a narrow, but deep irrigation ditch and could not get out, we boys decided that we would have to dig the horse out with shovels, but before we put that plan into action, Brother Bock came by to see what the problem was. He looked into the ditch and saw our horse at the bottom with his legs folded beneath him unable to move and said, “boys, I think that I can lift him out of there.   He straddled the ditch, grabbed the tail and with a mighty lurch pulled the rear of the horse to a standing position, then moving to the front, he lifted the front upright, grabbed the bridle, slapped the flanks and jerked him out!
• ^[5]The Missionaries went to an appointed field for a time of service usually four years or so, then they returned on furlough for a little rest and to give a report to the people of their progress.   Since there were many Missionaries from around the world with staggered furlough times, we had different Missionaries at the church throughout the year.   After a period of time at home (6 months to a year) they returned to the field.
• ^[6]I served in the capacity of janitor along with Lawrence, until he left for the army, then with Josephine.

 

CHAPTER   11

BOOT CAMP

I mentioned in chapter nine of my attempt to enlist in the Army Air Corps, and now as a Senior with only three months left in high school, I would soon be drafted into the regular Army unless I made some quick decisions.   I decided to enlist in the Navy Air Corps ( I still wanted to be a pilot) and was called to Eugene to take the written test.   It was quite tough, but I passed it easily and was soon called to Portland again to take a physical.   This time I was ushered in and I had no problem with the physical, as I was in excellent health, but it was a strange experience seeing a couple hundred naked men in a long line about the room being checked from head to toe by doctors and nurses.   The doctors never affected us, but we were bothered by the presence of the nurses in their white starched uniforms taking our temperature, blood pressure, etc.   We soon realized that they had their job to do, so we carried on the best we could under this military agenda.   This experience was quite a blow to our natural modesty though.

 

Well I passed the physical fine, but when I was being fingerprinted for my military records, the technician exclaimed, “where are your fingers?”^[1]   I explained the best I could how I had lost the first joint of two fingers, assuring him that missing the tips would be no problem, but he had called over a senior doctor with one word, “LOOK”.   The doctor was aghast, “How did you get through the physical”, he queried, not the least amused.   “I don’t know, I guess no one noticed, at least no one asked me if I had all of my fingers”, I replied.^[2] “Well we can’t allow you through, you will need all of your fingers to fly these modern planes.”   “It’s just the first joint of two fingers”, I replied. “Well I’m sorry, we can’t accept you, rules you know”, he said with finality.   So I was on my way home again riding the milk train from Portland to Eugene, “Missed it by that much”, I thought to myself, “I wonder if I will be kept out of the service because of these stupid fingers?”

 

After arriving home, I went to Eugene the following week and this time signed up with the US Navy (no flying of aircraft, but at least I wouldn’t be in the Army).   Now, I had learned my lesson, so when it came time for the physical, I was up front with my fingers, as I wasn’t going to stand around naked in a chilly room again for nothing.   The officer in charge assured me that having the tips of two fingers missing would not hinder me in the least, “your determination will more that make up for that”, he exclaimed.   Finally, I was in the Service, it was a circuitous route, but I was in!   I had joined at age 17, just prior to my 18th birthday^[3] so I was allowed to finish school then leave for boot camp the first week of June.

 

I graduated from high school one day and left for Farragut three days later. Mom and dad went to Eugene with me to see me off, then when the train was ready to leave, mom hugged me and gave me a kiss.^[4]   Dad simply shook hands with me and gave me $5.00, this I refused to take, since I knew that it was all the money he had,^[5] but he insisted, and as I saw that I was making him feel bad, I accepted the money, thanking him with tears in my eyes.   The conductor called, “ALL ABOARD”, so once again I mounted the steps into a coach for Portland (the fourth time) and with one last final wave to mom and dad rolled out of the station into a new life.   Three hours later our train pulled into Portland where we were put up in a hotel for the night. Tuesday morning we would catch a different train for Spokane. Imagine my surprise as I stepped from the lobby to walk to the depot; newsboys were everywhere hawking their papers with huge headlines, D-DAY , I quickly separated a nickel from the change in my pocket and bought a paper.   The headlines fairly leaped off the page, the news was electrifying and as soon as I found a place to sit down, I devoured every historic word.   It was the big news of the year, dateline June 6, 1944… The invasion of Europe by the Allies under the command of General Dwight D. Eisenhower had begun…

 

We pulled out of Portland and were soon rolling alongside the mighty Columbia River on our way to Spokane^[6]. When we arrived in Spokane, we changed trains again, now moving directly north to Farragut Naval Training Center on Lake Pend Oreille, near Sandpoint, Idaho.   We quickly arrived and since there were many inductees on this train, we fell into some semblance of a formation and were marched toward a large building in order to receive our Navy clothing.   Contrary to popular belief, the clothes fit quite well.   Then it was to a barber shop for the famous military crewcut.   The shop was much larger than the ones back home, in fact this shop must have had at least 30 chairs in it and the servicemen who were barbers didn’t waste any time with us.   In three minutes our lovely locks were lying on the floor along with hair from hundreds of recruits who preceded us through this ignoble building.   Under each dark head of hair was a pure white scalp for all to see.   One young man from San Jose, California had the most beautiful head of long, dark, wavy hair which he continually combed into shape, that is until he walked into that barber shop (run by barbarians), all of which started yelling, “I get that one”, “no I get that guy”… as the clamor continued unabated, young Mr. San Jose slipped back out the door and nervously paced about. Finally we were all finished so one of the petty officers went out and marched him in.   It was now much worse for him since all of the barbers gathered around and each one tried to get a swipe at those locks.   From all of the protests and howls coming from that boy, you would think that he was being scalped, as a matter of fact, he was.   I think he was the first skinhead.

 

We were then marched to a barracks building in Camp Waldron and assigned a bunk.   This new home was a two story, rectangular, frame building with one company of 120 men on each floor.

From now on every minute of the day was pre-planned for us: physical fitness exercises early in the morning, chow^[7], a class on the Navy’s way of doing things,^[8] then outside for marching and running obstacle courses, Chow, more classes, more marching, down to the lake for rowing classes, swimming classes, chow.   After supper we had some free time to do our laundry, shave, write letters, etc.   As the sun set, “Taps” was played over the loudspeakers and the flag was lowered.   While this was transpiring, everyone outside must face in the direction of the flag, stand at attention and salute, if you were in a vehicle, you must stop, step out, stand at attention and salute also.   Then it was lights out, and I mean lights out!   No sitting around reading or writing, no eating, just sleeping or standing guard duty.   As the days went by, I noticed that we had taken on a leaner, more muscular, trim look.   I was learning new things every day, from the first lesson on how to tie a square knot to the present time (about 4 weeks later) of knowing how to properly put on a life jacket and jump off a 22 foot tower into the pool and swim on my back for 50 yards (that is far enough to avoid the suction of a sinking ship).   One “boot”^[9] simply refused to jump, no amount of ordering, cajoling or reasoning had any effect on him.   The rest of us were now in the pool and being taught how to remain afloat without a life jacket by taking off our jeans under water, tying a knot in the end of each leg and whipping them over our heads to trap air while treading water.   This was much easier that it sounds and gives one a good flotation device (the jeans had to be wet periodically since the air escaped when the jeans dried out).   This lesson lasted an hour, but our buddy was still rooted to the top of the tower.   More lessons for us, viz. how to swim through burning oil (simulation), how to rescue a drowning person, how to properly jump (never dive, since striking one’s head on a piece of debris could cause death), and to always swim away from a sinking ship on our backs (the pressure from underwater explosions on the heart and lungs can cause death, when swimming on one’s back, the rib cage offers protection from this).   At that moment a mighty cheer went up as our buddy finally jumped with the instructor, now we could leave for chow, but no, the two of them climbed back up the tower, it seems that he must jump by his own decision (on a sinking ship there would be no instructor standing alongside to jump with him).   More lessons for us… more swimming… more life saving drills, but still he held out, so we were finally ordered out of the pool, to get dressed and to march off for late chow.   He still wouldn’t jump by himself (however he did jump with the instructor two more times), finally “taps” sounded and then it was lights out.   As “reveille” sounded and we tumbled out of our bunks the next morning, there was our buddy with a sheepish grin on his face, he had finally jumped, all by himself.

 

About this time a scarlet fever epidemic swept through the camp and I found myself in the infirmary^[10] with about 50 sick men, and there I remained for the next three weeks.   Since I appeared to recover quite rapidly, and since the men on night duty would rather play cards than serve dinner to the sick, I was asked if I would like to wheel the cart of food around and serve the patients.   At first I declined, but when told that I could eat anything I wanted, I was quick to say yes. So the next two weeks was like being in paradise to a hungry sailor, out went my special diet and in came the “good” food.   When I was finally discharged from sick bay, I found that this three week delay dropped me back into a different company, Company 666 under the command of Lt. Commander Dewey, since my original company was on a schedule that was three weeks ahead of me now.   This was no problem, I just picked up my gear, made new friends and moved on.

 

It was now late July and a large fire was burning out of control in a nearby forest, you guessed it, we became volunteers to fight that fire along with the Forest Service.   I didn’t think that it was too bad of a fire since the trees (pine) were a small variety, not over 30 or 40 feet tall, but I found out that fire is fire and small trees burn just as hot as the larger ones do.   We were issued shovels and gunny sacks (not much progress in the last 20 years) and driven to the fire line.   Fighting a fire is hot , hard work, but by sheer numbers we made good progress until the wind whipped the flames through the upper limbs and developed into a “crown fire”^[11], now we were in full retreat stumbling over rough terrain with tears streaming from blinded eyes because of the thick hot smoke and our lungs burned as we gasped for air in this superheated environment.   At last we reached a clearing and regrouped, but there was little that we could do until the wind died down.   A forestry truck finally materialized through the smoke and ground to a stop in our midst..   “We’ll be safe here for a while,” the driver said, ” help yourself to the water in the tank.”   There were two tanks in the truck, one for spraying on the fire, the other drinking water, we used both until we finally cooled down and could see again.   After a bit the wind began dying down and the fire returned to normal burning, which we were able to attack with the help of bulldozers now arriving on the fire line.   After a couple of days the fire was contained, and we returned to camp. For that heroic effort we received a day off to rest up, and then all was back to normal at the base.   I might mention at this point that the Farragut Naval Training Base was the largest “city” in the State of Idaho at this time, so it was only natural for them to look to us for help.

 

Finally the marching, drilling, rowing and all classes were over, we “boots” were transformed into sailors with two weeks leave awaiting us!   For some reason we weren’t paid as yet, so we left for home broke or nearly so.   We had purchased our tickets earlier with a pay voucher from the Navy (incidentally, tickets were cheaper to servicemen), so we caught the free military train from Farragut to Spokane and from there transferred to the S.P. and S.^[12]to Portland.   Had I chosen to do so, I could have started out walking, because when we were walking along the road, everyone wanted to give us a ride, in fact some of the men hitchhiked home and arrived ahead of us, at NO COST!.

 

I arrived in Eugene late at night and another buddy of mine got off as well. As it was too late for either of us to try to get home we decided to find a cheap hotel for the night.   I had $3.00, but he had nothing so when we walked into the first lobby confident that we could get a room for the night, we were disappointed to find that $3.00 was not enough.   The clerk pointed out a “cheap, cheap” hotel, and there we rented a room for three dollars.   The room was so filthy though we didn’t even turn the covers back, we just slept on top of the bed fully dressed, but we did take showers early in the morning, awaking several grumpy tenants who hollered at us through the thin walls, but we had no sympathy for these lazy city folk and told them so.   Since we didn’t have any money left for breakfast, we parted company, he went west, and I east on the final leg of the trip home.   I caught a ride immediately and after three or four vehicle changes was soon home. Everyone wanted to know about the war.   I was a celebrity and everywhere I went it was like being a magnet with me at the center.     We weren’t under strict censorship, but we had been commanded not to relate any specific information about troop size, troop deployment, weaponry or ship movement.   This was easy to do since there was so much else to talk about.   I met some of my classmates, hiked back into the tall timber country, went deer hunting and rode around with

some of the kids in their cars.   Of course I spent a lot of time with my family, explaining to my younger brothers what to expect if they too entered the service^[13], talked with mom and dad a lot about the war, about the training, about Lawrence who was in the jungles of New Guinea and talked to my sisters about the importance of writing to servicemen.   Well all good things must end and that’s what happened to my two week leave, I was now to report to O.G.U.^[14] at Farragut.

 

While back in Farragut and awaiting more orders, I discovered that the Elks Lodge had planned several field trips for us in northern and central Idaho.   On one memorable trip, we were bussed to the towns of Wallace and Kellog, which were in the center of mining and smeltering areas.   We were taken into the mines, had a great lunch, then bussed to the smelters. A super day, courtesy of the Best People On Earth!^[15]

 

 

 

I was stationed at Camp Waldron in Farragut for about 2 months, “Boot Camp.”

 

• ^[1]See chapter one for the report of the missing tips of two fingers.
• ^[2]But just in case they did have something against missing finger tips, I had kept my hands slightly curled up all morning.
• ^[3]April 18, 1944
• ^[4]We were very close in our family, but we didn’t hug and kiss often.
• ^[5]I had a couple of dollars and some change and I was sure I could make it on that.
• ^[6]Spokane, was a railroad hub in eastern Washington and the center for the wheat industry.
• ^[7]The mess hall was huge with one outstanding feature, the walls were covered with printed messages.   The type was large enough that these messages could be read from any place in this dining area, and they contained graphic accounts of Japanese and German atrocities, especially what they did to prisoners, our buddies.   Day after day of reading these inflammatory accounts gave us a determination TO KILL!
• ^[8]These classes included splicing lines (rope), and cable, knot tying, semaphore and Morse code, ship recognition, aircraft recognition, rules of the sea, rules of protocol, rules of behavior, the chain of command, how to correctly do laundry, etc. A million rules.
• ^[9]All recruits were called “boots” from the fact that we must wear canvas leggings that laced together extending from the ankle to just below the knee.
• ^[10]Each camp had an infirmary and there was one large hospital for the base.   The worse cases went to the hospital.
• ^[11]The flames from the crown fire will move at nearly the velocity of the gusting wind, 20,30, or 40 miles per hour.
• ^[12]Spokane, Portland and Seattle.
• ^[13]Later Leonard joined the Navy, serving on the East Coast, Cuba and the Mediterranean.   Ernie went into the army while we were engaged in the Korean conflict, he was a tank driver.   Wayne went into the army, serving stateside. Les became a soldier serving in the states and Alaska.   George (the youngest) went into the army serving in Germany during the cold-war days.   Lawrence the eldest, at the time of my leave, was with the army fighting in the jungles of New Guinea.   He was on the front lines from Australia through the Philippines and finally into Japan.   We passed each other while I was at Okinawa, but not close enough to meet.
• ^[14]Out Going Unit.   A unit comprised of sailors awaiting orders to ship out to a place of service.
• ^[15]The initials for the Elk’s Lodge, are B.P.O.E. (I don’t know what they really stands for) .

 

CHAPTER     12

 

 

SMALL CRAFT TRAINING SCHOOL

Just as I was getting accustomed to O.G.U., my orders of transfer came through^[1].   I was to report to Small Craft Training School on Terminal Island, between Long Beach and San Pedro.   I was soon on a troop train along with my gear and paperwork and I was on my way and I was as excited as a schoolboy on the first day of school.

 

Now a troop train is an interesting train to be on since every other train would give way to it, (unless it is a freight train loaded with high priority war materials). We clickety clicked along, ever southward, through my home town of Eugene, into the foothills of the Cascade Mountains (where many of my relatives lived) and up over the Willamette Pass^[2].   On we rolled through the night finally being lulled to sleep by the clicking of the wheels and the gentle swaying of the coach.   From time to time I could hear the mournful wail of the whistle as we approached crossings and went through small towns, finally at early morning twilight I saw the massive Mt. Shasta before me, I was now in California!   “What desolate country this is,” I thought as I was eating breakfast.   Nothing but sagebrush covered hills and rocky soil covered with scrub oak lay before me in all directions. Several large mule deer bounded off at our approach and I saw a couple of coyotes loping along, but that was about all the life to be seen this morning, in this area.

 

Now the whistle sounded more frequently as the train was dropping down into the upper Sacramento Valley with more roads and crossings appearing, more signs of civilization were about us now and we hung out the windows^[3] looking at every sight.   First, a creek, then a river, a few lonely houses, then a town, finally the city of Marysville brought the train to a short stop for the engine and crew.   During that brief stop the sailors whistled at ever girl who wandered by, this brought many demure glances and a few blown kisses back our way.   While on the train I could walk from car to car and chat with friends that I had made on the trip, then at chow time, I lined up at the dining car with the rest of my buddies and was soon sitting at a table eating while I watched the rest of the world go by.

 

It was around the first of November when our train pulled into the Navy Base on Terminal Island after a brief stop at Union Station in Los Angeles and since it was night when we arrived there was little to see because of the blackout regulations.   The weather was unbelievably warm to a four seasons person, such as myself (It was cold rain, frost and snow back home by now).   In this delightful weather, folks here were strolling on the beaches, eating picnic lunches or swimming in the ocean, unbelievable!   When I arrived at Terminal Island in 1944, there was an airstrip in the center, bounded by hangers and repair shops with the classrooms and barracks on the east side. In addition to the hangers there were several supply buildings, some gun emplacements and a naval prison.

 

As we rolled onto the base, we could see little, but could hear strange clanking sounds throughout the night, (oil drilling rigs and pumps lifting the crude from the ground) we could also smell a strange, unpleasant, unidentifiable odor hovering over the area like a thick fog.   I soon learned the cause of this malodorous atmosphere.   It was a combination of crude oil^[4] being pumped out of the ground all about us mingled with the smell of the pilchard factory in San Pedro. When the prevailing breeze wafted the smoke from the burning discards our way, it caused us all to swear off sardines for the rest of our lives.

 

Since I was always an early riser, I was up long before dawn to shower, shave and prepare for the day.   I still had time on my hands before chow, so I took a walk around the Island.   On the Long Beach side across the harbor there were many tall buildings, but the structure that caught my eye was the carnival-like amusement center, “The Pike”, with the tall roller coaster extending out over the ocean.   Then for a time I turned and gazed over the open sea toward the west, wandering what I would soon be facing over that horizon. I knew that there were naval battles and skirmishes being fought at this moment in that vast Pacific Theater, what would my lot be?   My reverie came to an abrupt end with the bugle shattering the stillness, calling the base to life for another day.   I quickly made my way back to the chow hall to take part in that often maligned meal, breakfast.   Today we had boiled navy beans^[5], a thin, hot sauce or gravy laced with chipped beef poured over toast (with an infamous name), some fruit and lots of scalding coffee.

 

Back at the barracks we were addressed by an officer describing our stay at this Small Craft Training Center.   Basically we would be trained as invasion teams, since the Pacific war for the navy was fighting large sea battles, shelling coastal cities and troop emplacements, moving supplies, protecting supply lines and landing our troops on the island stepping-stones.   These stepping-stones would bring us ever nearer to Japan and tighten the noose about it.   We were to be groomed specifically for the invasion of the Philippines, of Okinawa and the homeland of Japan. He posted a detailed schedule of our study classes, gunnery practice, fire fighting and survival techniques and then turned us over to a chief petty officer to mother us through.   This school was much different than boot camp, since it was real school with a real curriculum.   However, as before, every minute was accounted for in class time. We had to be able to recognize a plane as friend or foe instantly.   The instructor of that class began by flashing a photo of a plane on the screen for a period of time, explaining what it was, the things to look for, the sound it produces, etc.   After going through his aircraft library, he gave a test by flashing a plane on the screen for a couple of seconds, with us writing our decision on the test paper.   This continued until all aircraft had been viewed.   These were corrected, then again, and again, and again, we were constantly bombarded with recognition information.   Now it was faster, the plane was on the screen for one second, then one half second, then one tenth of a second and finally one, one hundredth of a second!   However, correctly identifying each slide at one tenth of a second was the desired goal and we found we could ( very important at Okinawa later.)

 

The same procedure was used for ship recognition with one exception, the darkness of the sky and sea was more important in the ability to recognize and identify than the speed of selection     ( darker was better).   Each class had its own importance, but all had one thing in common, drill and drill and drill, over and over until correct recognition became second nature.   Gunnery practice was new to me, so I was excited at the prospect of firing something larger that a rifle, after all I was now in the navy and those ships that we studied had large guns on them.   With dry runs and blanks I learned how to fire the 20^[6] millimeter, the 40 millimeter, and the five inch cannon, along with the .30^[7] and .50 caliber machine guns.   I was appointed a gunnery position as “Pointer” on the Quad 40 (A forty millimeter gun mount with four barrels).   Each barrel fired 160 rounds per minute, making the total firepower to be 640 rounds per minute, quite an awesome display of firepower in that day. The gun was specifically designed for use against aircraft.   The appointed position given me this day followed me throughout my navy career, wherever I went, I was a pointer on the quad 40!   The duty of the pointer was to elevate or depress the gun vertically, the trainer moved the gun about horizontally, each had a handwheel to do this.   Even though the gun had electric motors to move it through its paces, the gun could be aimed and controlled manually if power was out.   As the pointer I also had the ability to move the gun vertically AND horizontally with the joy stick and fire it by depressing a foot pedal.

 

While at Small Craft Training Center, we were allowed Liberty on the week-end if we chose to leave the base.   Several times I rode the red car to L.A. with other sailors, looked at the sights, had a good dinner, stayed overnight, attended church and returned to the base in one piece.   I say that, because some of the servicemen were attacked by gangs of “Zoot-suiters” originally they were from South America and were noted for their zany clothing.^[8]   On other occasions I attended “The Old Time Revival Hour ” at the Long Beach Auditorium, (I think that is the correct place) Pastored by Fuller.   I also went into the U.S.O on many occasions, they took good care of us, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

 

My most memorable Liberty was visiting Aunt Mary McDowell in Pomona.   I caught a bus to Pomona, went through acres and acres of orange groves on the way (where are they now?).   When I arrived at the Pomona bus depot, I asked directions to her address and since it wasn’t too far, I decided to walk.   I met many people along the way, who invariably stopped to chat with me, what a pleasant city Pomona turned out to be.   Soon I arrived at the address, and turned into a nice, two story home with acreage about it.^[9] I was warmly greeted by aunt Mary and two or three of her grand-daughters, who were there with her. This may have been the first time that we Oregon relatives had contacted our California cousins.   They were full of fun, with the usual California practical jokes at the expense of their northern relatives, “Do you like olives?” Was the first query.   “Of course I do,” I quickly replied.   “Well, we have olive trees here just loaded, help yourself” they chimed together.   Out I went, and sure enough the trees were loaded with big, black, plump olives. I easily reached up and gathered a handful and plopped them into my mouth, “what a treat”, I thought, but my good fortune turned to dismay at the first bite.   My mouth puckered up and out came the olives accompanied by the sound of two giggling girls.   “A California joke”, they said, “we pull that on everyone who comes to visit from out of state”.   Once inside I dined on a sumptuous dinner, with delicious CURED olives as part of the meal.   Aunt Mary prepared the upstairs guest room for me and for the first time in my life I slept on a feather bed.   It was so soft, I sank down a foot into those feathers.   What an experience, I had been sleeping on a barracks bunk of boards and a thin pad in the place of an innerspring mattress (I’m sure it was hard wood).   No change could more radical than this!   I wakened in the night with a feeling of being smothered, but I managed to pull myself up out of that declivity, got a few breaths of fresh air and sank back into that hibernation hollow, only to repeat this action several more times until finally it was morning. I made it through the night on the softest bed in California.   The next morning the girls took me on a tour of a Sunkist orange packing plant in Pomona.   I was amazed at the speed of those women who could grab an orange in one hand, an orange colored tissue with the other, bring them together with a twist, and drop it into a partitioned wooden crate at their feet in one motion.^[10] It was sheer magic, it was rhythm at the workplace.   Then when we were leaving, I was given a bag of oranges to take back to the base, a wonderful treat to me, but rather commonplace for them, I’m sure.   After this wonderful Liberty was finished, I returned to the base, and put my gear together for traveling.   New orders had come through for us and we were now assigned to a ship in Lake Washington Shipyards. It was a brand new ship nearly finished, just ready for us to move in, take charge and put to sea.     Just as we were assembling to leave, I heard a loud commotion coming from the shower building, then out dashed a screaming, shouting sailor dripping wet and completely nude, he was being chased by several sailors (dressed) onto the parade ground.   It wasn’t long until the Shore Patrol wheeled into action, scooped him up and threw him in the brig.   It seems that he was so excited about getting on a ship, that he began celebrating by drinking and it wasn’t long until he was dead drunk.   That’s when some of his buddies decided that they would have to sober him up, so off came his clothes and he was forced into a cold shower.   He fought like a wild man to escape that cold water, and escape he finally did, that’s when we saw him burst out onto the parade ground.     The train pulled out within the hour and he was left behind.   About a month later, he showed up at the ship and joined the crew just as we were leaving Seattle.

 

Back on the troop train, but this time it was a reverse journey, from the warm sunny weather in the south to the cold frozen north country. One sailor was from Seattle, and he told us not to worry, for it never snows in Seattle.   As soon as we arrived, Surprise! Surprise! Four inches of snow fell on us.

• ^[1]Each day I mingled with the other sailors around the large bulletin boards.   It was here that our names were posted along with our new assignments and transfers.
• ^[2]It was on these mountains just 91 years ago that my ancestors, Stewarts and Warners, were stranded in a wagon train that was crossing the continent to the Willamette Valley in the, “THE LOST WAGON TRAIN OF 1853” .   There was no road for them to follow, just steep mountains and an unending forest of enormous trees before them as they attempted to cross this same mountainous pass that we were now easily moving through pulled along by two massive “Malley” steam locomotives.
• ^[3]We could slide the windows down a notch or two, or up from the bottom the same.   There was no A/C, remember?
• ^[4]The people living here had adjusted to the odor of crude oil, but to outsiders, it had an unpleasant smell. But I am used to it now.
• ^[5]A custom since the Revolutionary days was boiled navy beans twice a week for breakfast, Wed. and Sat.
• ^[6]These numbers indicate the diameter of the projectile.
• ^[7]These numbers were increments of one tenth of an inch, i.e.. .30 cal. about one third inch in id. .50 cal. one half inch diameter.
• ^[8]Their pants came up high and were belted across their chest, the coat had long tails, nearly to their knees.   They wore a low crowned, wide brimmed hat and always had a long chain looping down in front of their waist.   I don’t know what started the animosity, but sailors and zoot-suiterts did not mix!   Finally Liberties were canceled until things cooled down.
• ^[9]Aunt Mary was a sister of my maternal grandmother, my mothers aunt and my great aunt.
• ^[10]How long has it been since you have seen oranges wrapped in tissue paper? What do people do for a night stand now, without those colorful, wooden, partitioned orange crates?

 

CHAPTER     13

 

 

U.S.S. DUXBURY BAY

The seaplane tender, U.S.S. Duxbury Bay was in the final stages of construction when we arrived at the Lake Washington shipyards.   We boarded her with all our personal gear as the civilian workers were all about us stringing wire, putting the final touches on the duct work, welding brackets, riveting plates together, etc.   I was thankful to find that the bunks were in place, at least we had a place to sleep, but the quality of sleep was not the best, since these civilians worked around the clock, the hammering and banging never stopped.   Since we did not have regular duties to do, we were given a lot of Liberties, (to get us out of the way) so most of us went into Seattle by crossing the floating bridge over Lake Washington.   The first stop for me was the U.S.O., where I could play ping pong, billiards, board games, or I could quietly read, or write letters. There was always hot coffee, cookies, punch or soft drinks awaiting us, so it’s no wonder that I found this relaxing place to be a real home away from home.   Soon one of the ladies would step forward with free tickets to a concert, or a play, or some other major event in the city at that time, with a cheery, “wouldn’t you boys like to go?”   I never ran out of good, clean places to go, or things to do and now since I’m thinking about it, I guess I miss that place (50 years later).

 

I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank these men and women who devoted their time and energy to the servicemen, how we needed them.   We were far from home, and we sure missed the folks, I guess we were perpetually homesick in some degree or another.   Some people have the idea that servicemen just lived in the bars and the brothels, but that was not the case.   The U.S.O. was more than just fun and games it was a made to order haven for the weary and an inspiration for the discouraged.   I don’t know how many servicemen were helped after learning that a loved-one had passed away back home, or mom was divorcing pop, or their fiancee was no longer interested in them, or sister was pregnant while the young man who, “loved her so much” had disappeared, etc.   The human side of life along with its pain and suffering was much more complex then the technical side, (which could be adjusted with a monkey wrench), would ever be.   God bless those ladies of the U.S.O.!

 

While eating in a Seattle restaurant^[1] one day, I caught a glimpse of the “future”,   it was a small wooden box about 12 inches square, mounted to the wall over the grill.   The box had a glass front, and on this glass, I saw people moving about and talking, it was not a movie re-run, but instant live action that was called, “Television”.   Yes, it was black and white, the movement of people was a little jerky and there were little white flecks drifting across the screen, but it was the wonder of the scientific age and it was even predicted that someday nearly every home would have one, Imagine that! Someday it might even be in color.

 

Meanwhile, back on the ship, the work was progressing so well, that we would soon be commissioned and on our way.   At last that day arrived with banners and speeches, dignitaries were everywhere and the pier was swarming with workers who were proud of what they had accomplished.   Now it was time to leave and we were soon underway with two tugboats assisting us, whistles were blowing and the people cheered so loud that we were also caught up in the spirit of the moment.

 

After our ship turned under her own power she entered the “Locks” and emerged in Puget Sound, our shakedown cruise was about to begin.   This shakedown cruise was to test whether everything worked correctly and how well she handled. A watch would be kept for water leaking into the ship, of oil or other fluids leaking from miles of pipes within the ship and to see if the evaporators worked, etc.   There was much to test over the next two weeks as we cruised back and forth in the Puget Sound.   Minor adjustments were made, the ship was degaussed^[2] and we were ready to load ammunition, bombs and torpedoes.   This was an all day, all night affair and after it was finished, I found it hard to open and close my hands, they had become stiff from 24 hours of carrying ammo containers.

 

With everything working in perfect sync, we left Puget Sound through the Straits of Juan de Fuca and onto the open sea.   Moving from the inland sea to the open sea was wonderful except for one thing, the ship now rolled and pitched in these swells and it wasn’t long until I was extremely discomforted, I was experiencing motion sickness, better known as seasickness.   Soon we were about twelve miles off shore and heading south since we must make a stop at San Francisco (Alameda Shipyards) and another in San Diego (more shakedown cruises).   I was slowly adjusting to the motion of the ship and after the second day it seemed normal for the “floor” to move up and down as the “walls” moved from side to side.   We cruised along the Washington coast that day and along the Oregon Coast the next day and a half, (during wartime we always sailed in a zig zag fashion so as not to allow the enemy to obtain a fix on our plotted course).

 

San Francisco was a magical place, one that I had heard about most of my life and now I am gliding under the great Golden Gate Bridge.   As I looked up it appeared that our mast would surely strike the bridge, but there was room to spare, and we easily went under.   I had found Portland to be a great energetic seaport city, but this place was enormous.   Portland straddled a river, but ‘Frisco was on a bay many miles across with Alcatraz and Treasure Island in the center.   Ships of every description were here, from sail boats to battleships, the bay was full of them.   What a place!   Our ship was quickly berthed at Alameda, and a few more repairs were effectively completed.   While in Frisco, I visited Golden Gate Park, the zoo, art galleries, a museum and the waterfront.   I also rode the famous trolleys up the steep hills, helped turn them around and rode to the bottom again, an experience not to be forgotten.   I was amazed at Market street a full 8 lanes wide!   I had never seen anything like this before, but one thing that amazed me even more than this, was the houses some of them not more than three feet apart and in some sections, not a tree to be seen.   I stopped at the U.S.O., wrote some letters and after returning to the ship I found out that we were shoving off in the morning, so I must get ready for my duties on deck as a member of First Division.

 

Under the Golden Gate for the second time in a thick Pacific fog, I could not see more than 20 feet in any direction.   The mournful foghorns were sounding on each side of us now, and as I stood lookout duty, I strained to see or hear anything that would be harmful to the ship.   The foghorns on the buoys guarding shoals and rocks made a different sound than those on a ship groping its way slowly through this thick soup into the harbor.   I carefully reported everything to the bridge, but standing watch on the bow is nerve-wracking until the foghorns are behind us and once again we are on the open sea.

 

As we moved ever southward along the California coast, I couldn’t help thinking of the size of California (nearly twice the length of Washington and Oregon together.   I had traversed the length twice by train and once by sea, quite a change from having never been out of Lane County, up to a year ago.   As we proceed south, the weather became noticeably warmer as did the ocean.   We steamed past Long Beach without stopping (we had left it only a little more than a month before) and were soon in sight of San Diego.   The ship came to a stop and we dropped the anchor (hook) in the bay.   If we were to leave the ship it would be by boat now.   The captain had his own personal boat called a gig^[3], there was another boat (26 foot long and similar to the captains) for the rest of the officers and an open forty foot motor launch for the crew.

 

San Diego was not to be just a Liberty port for us, it would be a real training port. First it was training in fire fighting again, similar to that in Boot Camp, but with more participation from all of us and better methods.   A large concrete structure was created on the base to be a mockup of the central part of a ship, inside there were steel catwalks and stairways (always called ladders in the navy). This mock-up was filled with crude oil about two feet deep and ignited.   Then when the structure was ablaze with thick black smoke and flames towering into the sky, we must go into that inferno and put out the fire.   Of course the instructor would lead the way as the number one man at the nozzle, with the number two man immediately behind him as his helper, the rest of the men were strung out along the hose.   All took their orders from him.   The fire could be put out with 1) a low velocity fog nozzle swinging back and forth as the team moved into the blaze, 2) a foam setup with a nozzle for laying a blanket of foam retardent over the burning oil, or by 3) securing all hatches and releasing steam into the area.   We participated in the first two methods.   No one was excused^[4], we must all take turns in different positions on the hose.   After a bit, the frightening aspect of that fire was nothing more than just tackling another job, but a careful demanding job.

 

Gunnery Practice for us was on the bluffs overlooking Mission Beach.   For this, we were transferred to the barracks there for the next two weeks.   We practiced loading with dummy loads, then with live loads, then shooting live loads at a sleeve (target) pulled by a small plane parallel to the beach (happily, we didn’t shoot down the little plane).   As I mentioned before, I was the pointer on the quad 40 and had the responsibility to help in the sighting and do the firing when on the target, or to do all the sighting by moving the gun mount with a “joy stick”^[5]and do the firing.   Day after day we went through these drills, slowly we began to show promise as a real gun crew, hitting the sleeve consistently.  At that stage we went on the range at night, firing at a lighted sleeve.   At first we were terrible, but soon we became proficient on the night range as well, actually night firing was easier since I sighted by the tracers and could tell exactly where the projectiles were going.   While I was firing from the quad 40 with the rest of our crew^[6], there were other crews firing the 5 inch cannons, 20 mm. guns, etc., so it was a real bedlam out along that beach. I wonder if people lived nearby?   Probably not.   The final chapter of gunnery practice at Mission Beach was with independently controlled drones.   These small planes had a wingspan of about 6, maybe 8 feet and could do everything a real plane could do. Now we had an illusive target weaving, diving, climbing and circling making for a difficult assignment.   When our shell-burst was close, the motor shut off and a small parachute opened, gently setting the drone on the ocean.   We were not allowed to shoot as it floated down, that wouldn’t be fair, and those drones cost $600.00 each.   Finally it was time to say good-by to the Mission Beach gun mounts and I must hasten to say, “I had a positively, wonderful time.”

 

The next day we weighed anchor (pulled it up) and made for the open sea to have gunnery practice with OUR guns, (it’s one thing to fire the guns from the solid ground on the base and quite another to fire from a rolling, pitching ship). Each day of that week was devoted to this purpose. We also had to test the operation of the guns, set the sights and check the machinery.   Finally it was time for night practice.   First a star shell^[7] was fired into the sky with the 5 inch cannon, then we began shooting at targets on the water some two to five miles distant.   That was a lot of fun, since the targets didn’t fire back.   All in all we gave a good account of ourselves under simulated battle conditions.

 

After this week of gunnery practice we re-entered San Diego harbor for the last time before going overseas and we were granted one final Liberty.   One thing that I decided to do was to eat a big restaurant dinner, since it looked like it was to be Navy chow from now on.   I might say one thing at this point, we weren’t told that we were going overseas, we just knew it from the scuttlebutt^[8] floating around the ship.   Every move of the ship was top secret, but after we were underway, the captain would come on the loudspeaker^[9], informing us of our next destination or our next immediate battle action, etc. However, while I was in the restaurant enjoying this feast with a buddy of mine, the waitress casually remarked, “I hear you fellows are pulling out tomorrow.”     “Where did you hear that,” I replied.   “Oh, it’s just floating around, you know,” she said. We were not to discuss ship movements with anyone, but I couldn’t resist one query,   ” Where are we going, if you know so much?”   “Oh everyone knows you’re going to Pearl Harbor,” she said as she set the peach melba before us.   When we finished our dinner, I arose from the table feeling like a stuffed pig, but I left a good tip, that kind of information is worth a tip!

• ^[1]December, 1944.
• ^[2]Heavy electrical wires were spirally wrapped around the ship from stem to stern to demagnetize her.   All of our clocks and watches were removed from the ship, so as not to be ruined.   This degaussing would aid us if we encountered magnetic mines.
• ^[3]This gig, was powered by a Chrysler Marine inboard engine and the Captain had it tuned up so as to be the fastest boat in the harbor. The cockpit in the bow contained the motor controls and a seat for the cox’n and bowhook.
• ^[4]Of course we had the proper protective clothing while in that inferno, a full face mask with oxygen container, heavy flame proof garments and rubber boots.   Another crew with a low velocity fog nozzle would be spraying the lead men, who were deep into the fire, with a steady water fog to keep them cool.
• ^[5]This stick was a control for motors that quickly turned the mount around and moved the guns up and down.
• ^[6]Twelve men in all.
• ^[7]A magnesium flare that slowly floated down by parachute. It lighted up the ocean like day.
• ^[8]A scuttlebutt was a drinking fountain and as men regularly met here, any known gossip was passed along at this point and since the scuttlebutt became the primary place to receive and disseminate gossip, it only follows that the name became synonymous with gossip.
• ^[9]Every message coming over the horn (loudspeaker) was accompanied by, 1) the boatswain’s whistle, then 2) the phrase “Now hear this, now hear this”, with the message immediately following.

 

CHAPTER 14

 

 

BATTLE ZONE WEST

The little waitress was absolutely correct, for the Captain^[1] just came on the loudspeaker with the news that we would be serving our country in the Pacific and our first stop would to be Pearl Harbor.   At last we were sailing into contested waters, with nothing in sight now, but hungry seagulls wheeling and diving about us, their sharp eyes continually searching for a scrap of food. These delightful little beggars would be our constant companions until we crossed their final point of return, (about 300 miles from shore) then with a toss of their head and a flick of their tail, they would wheel about and set their course unerringly for the distant shore.   I missed their soft cries, I even missed their loud raucous battles over scraps of food.   Now we were alone on the lonesome sea, nothing could be seen in any direction but water and tossing waves.

 

“Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.”^[2]

 

The eyes and ears of the ship^[3] were always alert for any enemy surreptitiously moving in on us.   Our radar could detect planes many miles away, but it was our sonar that was most valuable to us now, since there were many Jap subs along these shipping lanes and we were in their hunting grounds.   When we neared Pearl Harbor, our sonarman picked up two different subs with his equipment and we went to General Quarters^[4].   One sub was close, so we made a quick turn and laid out a pattern of depth charges as we passed over the place of last contact.   These charges looked similar to a 55 gallon drum and rested on an inclined track ready to roll, when given the signal, the man at this station pulled a pin allowing one charge to roll off the fantail^[5], then another, and another, each one spaced to make an even spread.   Then our ship made a tight turn back over the area and this was repeated.   We never received any indication that the sub moved after that, so we assumed that it had been disabled.   We lost the other sub, even though we zig zagged back and forth through the area many times.   General quarters was finally canceled and we all went back to our regular duties.

 

Another day passed and land was detected, it had been nearly two weeks since our feet had walked on solid ground, so we rushed to the rail to catch a glimpse of sand, soil, rocks and trees again, and there it was, a low smudge on the distant western horizon.   A spontaneous cheer went up from us at this wonderful sight and as we approached ever closer, we continued to find things to do near the railing for an even closer look.   Now a couple of ships could be seen, one entering ahead of us, the other leaving the harbor, moving toward us, it was a destroyer and as we met, the signalmen from each ship were busy sending and receiving messages by blinker.   These messages could not be intercepted by the enemy since they were not by radio, and the receiving party had to be on a direct line of sight.   We soon got used to these blinkers, because once we were in a busy harbor, they were the normal line of communication between ships.   I now caught my first view of lovely Diamond Head, a prominent mountain on the Island of Oahu at the entrance of Pearl Harbor, then once inside the harbor proper I was to view the tragic sight of sunken ships, their position only indicated by superstructure above the placid water.   Many sailors were entombed below with only a mast for a marker.  This tragic scene brought a renewed commitment from me, “I will remember Pearl Harbor, and never forget that dastardly attack on our people.”

 

Pearl, was a lovely place with warm sandy beaches and palm trees arching toward the deep blue sky with little grass-thatched huts along the beach nestled beneath a forest of graceful palms.   The month is February, and the days are warm with gentle breezes from the prevailing winds softly caressing us,   back home my sister Josephine is celebrating her seventeenth birthday, I hope she has a nice day, my brother Lawrence is still with the army in the jungles of New Guinea, and the rest of the kids are braving the cold rain and snow in the hills of Oregon.   But I must stop this reverie and return to the work at hand, here on the base the frenetic activity about me forces me to realize that there is still a war going on, modern cement buildings are popping up like mushrooms and supplies are filling them as soon as they are finished.   Even though we are tied up at the pier, we must still maintain readiness for battle, so I walked up to my gun mount and assisted the gunners mate, who was working on my gun.

 

As for liberty, part of the crew must always remain on the ship, the rest of the crew could go ashore, but only to designated places, so that if the need arose, they could be contacted immediately.   I walked over to the submarine base, went to the Dole Pineapple plant and drank pineapple juice and pineapple milkshakes, what a life!   I went into Honolulu a few times, but as with all good things, it was soon time to leave this wonderful place, (but we did enjoy two weeks of Paradise.)

 

We were preparing to cast off, when up the pier marched a small civilian brass band that stopped at the gangway of our ship and lined up in a ragged formation.   “Curious,” I thought, “what are they up to?”   It wasn’t long before I had my answer, they began playing the familiar, haunting melody, Aloha O^[6], it was their tribute to us and one that carried a subtle message with a prayer.   At the conclusion of their music, we all applauded and I remember thinking, “How nice of them.”   I remember that incident as if it were yesterday!^[7]

 

The ship is underway with way upon (Navy jargon for “we are moving out”) and as we approached Diamond Head, we hit some of the largest ground swells that I would ever encounter. The ship sank deep into the sea, then as it rose with a mighty twisting motion, my stomach did the same and I was seasick all over again; it would be at least a day before I would get my sea-legs back, but seasick or not, our regular duties must be performed, no laying around. The lines (large hawsers of Manila Hemp) that had tied the ship to the pier must be dried and stowed away in special lockers in the bow of the ship, more on these duties later.

We are now approaching the International Date Line,^[8] an imaginary line that would take a day away from us as we sailed west and give it back when we crossed it on the homeward journey.   As I remember, we were cheated since we lost Sunday (our day off), we just went from Saturday to Monday.   When we crossed the Date Line there was a ceremony onboard ship to mark the occasion, with each new initiate having to submit to a college-type hazing.   As I remember, it wasn’t much of a hazing, but a lot of fun. We were given a certificate telling the world that we were now seasoned sailors who had moved into the Asiatic Pacific area, (and hopefully back).

 

Day after day the sun rose behind us and set before us, I had no idea where we were going, but it was in the direction of the enemy.   We had regular duties to perform and these kept us busy.   As I mentioned before, I was in Division 1^[9] of the deck force that had the oversight of running the ship topside (the machinists’ and machinists’ mates had charge below deck).   We weighed anchor, cast on (and off) mooring lines stood lookout, scraped rust spots and painted these cleaned areas with zinc chromate (a special paint formulated for protecting steel from rust, bright orange in color), then swept and swabbed (mopped) the deck each day.   We also checked the supplies in the life rafts and lifeboats, then checked the davits (which lowered the lifeboat into the water) and policed our own living area, etc.   We did not wear white T-shirts or Whites while at sea during war time, sailors in white could easily catch the eye of a submarine captain, even though the ship was in camouflage. Our uniform of the day was blue jeans, blue shirt, blue T-shirt and blue cap. While on lookout (4 hour watch) we had 7×50 binoculars to assist us, along with polarizing sunglasses, which could be dialed to any degree of darkness, with these we could look right toward the sun and at the solar glare on the water during sunrise or sunset.^[10]   Before times of night watch while in a lighted area, we wore red goggles some 30 minutes before going on watch.   We did this so that our eyes would be dark-adapted the moment we stepped on deck.   We could not have the ship unprotected while our eyes were adjusting to the darkness, which took about 15 minutes.

 

The days are hot now and the nights warm, very warm, since we are only about 800 miles north of the equator. The ocean now has a different look, it contains minerals that make it florescent at night, that is when something moves through it.   The curl of the wave at the bow of our ship produces millions of sparkly points of light, the wake does the same.   The movement of a dolphin leaves a trail of sparkles behind it and it has the same appearance as torpedo just below the surface. To my chagrin, I reported, “torpedo on the starboard side,” one night when it was a dolphin playing with us.   The normal movement of a dolphin as it swam was like a sinusoidal curve, below the water, curving above the water, under the water, etc., but when they wanted to play, they swam like an arrow straight for the side of the ship, then under the ship, surfacing on the other side in their famous sinusoidal curve, I never grew tired of watching these graceful creatures.   One day while on watch, I was scanning the sky and sea for planes, ships and subs, but also keeping track of several schools of dolphins around the ship, when a voice right behind me spoke, “The farm was never like this, was it Warner,” turning around I saw our Captain, “no sir, nothing like this!” I replied.   Then as the dolphins were cavorting in the sea, keeping pace with us, as if to escort us on our journey, he said, “I never tire of watching them… you know,” he said as an afterthought, “if you’re in the water, a school of them will protect you from a shark.”   We chatted for a while discussing the sea, the Navy, a career, etc., until he was called away to the bridge.

 

There was another phenomenon in this warm Pacific water, Flying Fish.   They were rather small, about eight to twelve inches long with very large side fins and a tail that extended below their body.   They zipped along rising to the surface of the ocean, with that extended tail whipping the water giving them added speed as they spread their wing-like fins and they were airborne.   They didn’t fly like a birds, flapping their wings, they glided, but it was a long glide and high (they continually landed on the deck of our ship), I think the purpose of this behavior, was to escape their enemies, but it provided us hours of enjoyment. It brought to mind a bit of verse, “…on the road to Mandalay where the flying fishes play.^[11]..”   I was seeing new and exciting things daily now, things I had read about in books, but never thought that I would experience. I was keenly aware of the wonder of it all and I was determined not to miss a thing.

 

Two thousand more miles of sea water have passed through our churning screws (propellers) and we are now swinging into a small island by the name of Enewetok^[12] in the Marshall Islands.   I don’t believe that there was a tree left standing on this bleak sandbar, but broken and blasted remains of palms and other debris was everywhere.   The Seabees were here to clean this up and build an airstrip^[13], one Seabee told me that before the battle to gain control of Enewetok, things were much different,   the island was covered with graceful palms and beautiful shrubbery, how sad, but that is price of war.

 

As I remember, we remained at Enewetok about a week, while we were there, we established, with buoys, a place for the seaplanes to land and be serviced by us on their way to the battle zones in the far east.   I also remember the wonderful bird’s eye view I had of the island and this section of the Pacific, working from the top of the mast.   It was time for the deck force to clean the corrosion from the rigging^[14]and repaint or dope it with an anti-corrosive mixture (similar to tar).   It was my job to climb up the mast, fasten a block (pulley) near the top and thread it with a line (rope), one end was left on the deck and at the other end I fashioned a loop for a boatswains chair.   After the lower end of the line was secured (wrapped around a gun mount), I slipped into the chair and swung freely from the block.   Since the wire cables went from the mast to the deck on a slant, and a line with a weight on it tends to move vertically up and down, I had a hook which I attached to my chair and to the cable, now I could remain close to the rigging all the way down.   I used a wire brush to scrub the corrosion off, then daubed the rigging thoroughly as I descended.   No one else wanted this job, so I took advantage of my good fortune and I had a wonderful sight seeing tour of the island, I saw everything that moved in or out of the harbor, I also spent much of the time watching the Seabees with their bulldozers at work on the island.   Ah, this was life, even the big hulk who was tending the line for me was finally learning how to lower me a little at a time^[15] as I worked my way down the rigging.     Finally, I didn’t even have to shout, I was moving smoothly and slowly without a jerk, at just the speed of my work.   I glanced down to commend him, and got the shock of my life, there was no one there!   He had wrapped about 4 or 5 turns of the line around a steel bar of the gun mount and wandered off.   I continued to move downward, a little faster now as the line was slipping more because I was jerking around up there in the rigging.   “Help! help!” I shouted from the top of my lungs, “help! I’m slipping, help! The chief bos’n quickly appeared on the scene to see what the yelling was all about and he instantly recognized the danger, with one bound he grabbed the line and quickly lowered me to the deck. ‘Where is your line tender,’ he barked^[16].   ‘I don’t know,’ I shot back, ‘I just looked down and he was gone.’   With a softer growl he said, ‘go get a cup of coffee and I’ll find him, I’ll put him on the mast when we get out to sea.’^[17]

 

Steaming westward again, we are now adjusting to the heat and receiving a nice tan from the effects of the of the sun.   More dolphins, more flying fish, more florescent water, all is beautiful as we pull into a new harbor, at the Island of Guam.   Here we went ashore three or four times, talked with the people, walked about on solid soil and did a little sight seeing.   At that time, the people were building a large breakwater toward the open sea, the only obvious activity on the island.   We are moving out to sea again, but I noticed that we are moving southwest now leaving the Marianas behind, moving toward the Caroline Group and one large atoll, Ulithi, in particular.   An atoll is a series of coral reefs and small islands in a circle, the circle here is about thirteen miles across, with the water in the center protected from the open sea, much like a regular harbor.   The islands here are picture perfect, like the ones we saw in magazines depicting life in the South Pacific.

 

Mog Mog, was one of the larger islands in this atoll, and a lovelier place would be hard to find.   Since we would remain in the harbor for a while, we were granted liberty to go to the island.   Native huts were here, but no natives, the Navy had moved them to another place for their safety. When we went ashore we were served soft drinks (cokes), had the freedom to walk about, swim, or lie on the warm sand and relax, an idyllic situation.   I swam in the warm, clear water^[18]picking beautiful shells from the sandy bottom most of the time, I had several boxes of cat eyes and tiger eyes along with quite an assortment of shells, large and small.

 

Now, Mog Mog was not reserved for our ship alone, there were sailors from many ships^[19] here with nothing to do but relax.   As I was walking through the palms one day, I noticed several sailors trying to climb the trees, the sight was ludicrous, I wish I had a movie camera to capture it, “The three Stooges On Mog Mog”.   I finally realized why they were trying to climb these palms, they were coconut palms, with dozens of coconuts hidden among the fronds at the top.   I knew that I could easily shinny up one of these trees, why I had been climbing trees since I was three years old, so up the tree I went.   It was even easier than I thought, the coconut palm has ridges around it from top to bottom,^[20]making it as easy to climb as climbing a ladder.   In nothing flat I was at the top and into the fronds, I pulled on a coconut, but it would not budge, I jerked on it, still it would not come loose,^[21] “hmmm,” I thought, “maybe I had better bring my knife the next time.”   Then as I was twisting one it came free and fell to the sand with a thump, which startled a few sailors walking by.   I got another, then another until I had six or seven on the ground, “That’s enough,” I said and slid to the bottom.   To my surprise there were no coconuts here, it seems that as soon as I dropped one, a waiting sailor would snatch it up and take off.   What a dilemma, all that work for nothing.   At that moment I saw this large beefy sailor from our ship strolling by, quickly I called him over and explained my situation.   “Why should I help you,” he retorted, “because I will give you half,” I said.   That was music to his ears so he readily agreed.   Then with me at the top and Hunter at the bottom, we soon had a pile of coconuts on the ground and true to his word, no sailors made off with coconuts this time.   Now all we had to do was cut and pry the husk off in order to break the shell for that delicious meat and drink.   The next time ashore we did the same, he was better than a pit bull!

 

One time, just as I was nearing the top, about 30 feet above the ground, I heard a rustling sound in the fronds just above me, to my horror, there was a large lizard coming out of the fronds about 3 feet above my head.   This large^[22] monitor-like lizard stopped, and stared down the tree at me, rapidly running his long forked tongue in and out and from side to side.   We stared at one another for what seemed a long, long time and feeling quite helpless this high above ground, I just froze.   After a deep throaty hiss, he finally turned around and disappeared into the fronds and I slid down that palm in record time.   I suppose he was in the palm tree after bird eggs or birds, when I surprised him and he me.

 

Let the invasion begin, was the official message (not exactly in those words), so the large bombardment ships^[23] with their entourage began moving out.   These were followed by the invasion forces and supply ships, finally the specialty ships^[24] also bade farewell to Ulithi.   We were to accompany the hospital ship, Comfort^[25]to Okinawa.   Now, a hospital ship does not need an escort in the normal sense of the word, she is protected by International Treaty and is painted white with a large red cross on each side and on top, also at night she is lighted up like a small city, so that no mistake would ever be made (all other ships remained dark).   We hadn’t traveled far before sonar picked up a sub, which got our immediate attention.   According to wartime regulations, we were moving on a zig zag course, but now took off on a line to the last location of the sub, we didn’t locate it, so we continued on, then again it came on the sonar screen and we steamed in pursuit at flank speed,^[26] again we lost it and this game of cat and mouse went on for the next two hours.   We were still at general quarters and had been for the past six hours, with nothing visible on the deep, dark sea but the ‘Comfort’.   Shortly after midnight, we got their distress call, “We are hit,” so again at flank speed we wheeled to starboard and were racing to their aid, but because of our submarine activities we were at least an hour from their last position by now.   We looked for the lighted city, but it was gone, it simply disappeared, the sea was as black as a deep dark cave. Back and forth we cruised with all hands who were not stationed at a gun, lining the rails, looking and listening for survivors and alert for subs.   As morning dawned with an overcast sky, we were all at the rails looking for survivors as our ship slowly moved back and forth through the debris   The area was littered with mattresses, pillows and all manner of floatsum, but not one survivor was found, the Comfort was gone^[27].   Again we had witnessed the barbarism of the Japanese, International Law was only to be obeyed when it protected them!

• ^[1]Commander F. N. Howe.   The man in charge of the ship is The Captain, no matter what rank he holds.
• ^[2]Samuel Taylor Coleridge; The Rime of The Ancient Mariner.   We had one advantage, we could turn ocean water into drinking water with our evaporators. We also had a steel deck thatwould not shrink, but it got HOT!
• ^[3]Radar and sonar.
• ^[4]It was up to the crew to rush to their assigned battle station when General Quarters was sounded.   On our ship it was the sound of “bong, bong, bong, bong, bong,” then a voice, “general quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations..” This was repeated several times while we were scrambling through the ship to our station.
• ^[5]The back end of the ship.
• ^[6]We were to learn later that they played this melody to ships heading out into battle, the ships heading back to the States got to hear, “San Francisco, Here I Come”.   “Aloha O,”( Farewell to Thee), was their message to us.
• ^[7]51 years ago.
• ^[8]March 1945.
• ^[9]There was also a Division 2 deck force.
• ^[10]The Japs liked to attack at these times since they could fly low over the water in the glare, making their plane nearly invisible.
• ^[11]Rudyard Kipling.
• ^[12]Enewetak gained more fame after WW2 by having the first hydrogen bomb detonated here.
• ^[13]They had already erected several Quonset huts.
• ^[14]The cables from the top of the mast to the deck.
• ^[15]However I did have to continually shout to him, “down a little.”
• ^[16]The bos’n never talked, he barked, growled, or shouted.
• ^[17]That would be bad since the mast swung rapidly from side to side as the ship was underway at sea.
• ^[18]Water as warm as a shower or bath.
• ^[19]This great armada of ships was assembled for the invasion of Okinawa, which was about to begin.
• ^[20]However scrapes and scratches caused little festering sores.
• ^[21]It was hard to pull with just one hand, since I needed the other to hang on to the tree.
• ^[22]About 24 inches long.
• ^[23]Battleships, cruisers, flattops, and destroyers.
• ^[24]We were in that group, along with hospital ships, etc.
• ^[25]My memory is hazy here, I think it was the “Comfort”, perhaps the “Solace.” we traveled with several hospital ships in the Pacific.
• ^[26]Flank speed, as fast as the ship can move.   A ship can go no faster.
• ^[27]For the past 51 years I believed that the Comfort went down with all hands, but just one month ago I read in, ‘American Naval Fighting Ships; Navy Dept, Office of the chief of Naval Operation, Naval History Div.’ that the Comfort, though heavily damaged, did not sink.   She was hit by a Japanese suicide plane, 28 were killed (including six nurses) and 48 others were injured.   Evidently The Comfort was darkened so she would not be a target for other suicide planes as she made a ninety degree turn to starboard and limped to Guam for repair.   We saw the debris, but we saw no ship… We saw no survivors,   we were told that the Comfort had gone down.

 

CHAPTER 15

 

 

OKINAWA

Our primary mission at Okinawa was to establish a seaplane base; this consisted of marking the sea lanes with buoys and placing other anchor buoys near the ship to secure the planes while they were not in flight.   Our mission was also to service these huge flying boats^[1]and provide food and lodging for the crews. After one landed, we attached a line to it and slowly pulled it to the stern of the ship, while our personnel^[2] boat was keeping tension on the tail of the plane so that it would not hit the ship.   From this position it was fueled, re-armed with belts of machine gun bullets, aerial torpedoes, bombs, etc.   Then the crew was brought to our ship for chow.   We had a special section reserved for them with showers and bunks where they could relax until the next mission.

 

We established our first base in the small island group, Kerama Retto just south of Okinawa, and as we steamed into this area, all of the ships in the harbor were flying a green square flag from the signal bar on the mast.   I had previously learned the description of all signal flags, but this flag was new to me and as I was pondering the meaning of this, general quarters sounded^[3] on our ship, which was canceled after a short time with no action.   We then found a place in the anchorage, dropped anchor and settled down to the task at hand.   The Okinawan Campaign was to produce the most heavily contested fighting in the Pacific up to this time and this is where the Kamikaze or suicide planes^[4] did their greatest damage.   Sometime during every day and several times each night we were at general quarters, our battle stations.

 

The picket boats around the perimeter of the islands took the brunt of these attacks, these Destroyers and Destroyer Escorts were hit continuously while patrolling, (they also shot down many of these Kamikazes) until one area where the damaged ships were anchored, was referred to as Tin Can^[5]Alley.   By now large cement floating dry-docks were towed here and set up in Tin Can Alley, and it wasn’t long until damaged destroyers were repaired and fighting again.   One night several of these Kamikazes flew over the harbor with their running lights on, then they blinked them on and off, trying to draw our fire, evidently we were hard to see in the dark water with no moon. A ship in the anchorage about 60 yards from us took the bait and began firing, one plane just peeled off, barely missing our ship in a screaming dive and followed the tracers to that ship with a mighty explosion^[6].   The next day, orders were issued that we were not to fire at any plane during the night, because that would reveal our position, and since we were anchored, we could not maneuver, therefore we were to rely on a smoke screen from now on.     From this day until the War’s end we had small boats on the windward side of the anchorage producing volumes of smoke from smoke generators whenever enemy planes were picked up.   The area would be covered with the thickest blanket of smoke in a matter of minutes. We still went to ‘general quarters,’ but no shooting!   During the day time we put up a great concentration of fire at any plane with the audacity to fly within range.

 

One lovely Sunday morning just as we were getting into the motor launch to attend a church service^[7] on an adjoining ship… ‘general quarters’ sounded because several enemy planes had been picked up on radar and were coming in.   I was on my quad-40 in a flash, the loader had already pulled the canvas covers off the barrels and we were ready.   As soon as they were in range we began firing, the five inch cannon had already knocked one out of the sky, and we splashed another^[8].   By now the sky was black with shell bursts, the noise was deafening and several enemy planes were shot down, but one got through on a suicide attack and It struck the ship beside us^[9] (Our church-service ship) killing three men, and doing considerable damage.   The men killed were in a large compartment preparing for the Protestant Service, if we been there, we too would have died in that blast.   During the month of April and May, Kamikazes attacked us constantly, then in June these attacks began to taper off a little.

 

On another occasion 40 Kamikazes were inbound and we were at general quarters, when four United States Marine Corps F4U Corsairs moved out to intercept… Four against forty, but plane after plane spiraled down on fire or exploded in the bright blue sky. I believe only 3 or 4 got through which were quickly dispatched by our ships, but there was sadness on our ship, our Chief Quartermaster was hit and killed during the battle. This hit was the only one we received in all that fighting!   PS not one Corsair was lost!

 

One personal note; once when we were in a hot battle with shell fire all about us, I heard someone talking above the din of gun fire, glancing down I saw one of the petty officers kneeling on the deck beside my gun mount praying.   He prayed, “Lord if you get me out of this, I’ll go to church and serve you, I’ll be a Christian.” I turned my full attention back to the sky and continued firing until the battle was over and all the enemy planes were destroyed.   Afterwards, my friend didn’t seem to change much, and I thought it was just ‘fox hole religion’, but I was wrong, after we were out of the service, I received a wedding picture of him and his bride, he was now attending church, full time.

 

Prior to this time, I had to take my turn as mess cook, as did other sailors on the deck force, then when one of the cooks became very ill and was transported back to the States, I was asked if I would like to fill that position,

“You like the work, you do well at it and we can get along with you,” said the cook in charge.   “If you think that I can do it, I’ll sure try,” I said, “I really like cooking, but I have a lot to learn.” “Don’t worry, We’ll teach you,” he said, and that was it.

I was transferred to the cooking staff as a cook striker (apprentice).   For the duration of my time in the Navy, I had the best job of all.   I did learn a lot and soon became in charge of my shift.   The duty schedule was: twenty four hours on, then twenty four hours off, how is that for a schedule? I Worked only every other day!   I still had the same battle station, but did not stand any more deck watches, no more scraping and painting, and no more swabbing the deck, except I swabbed the deck in the galley^[10]

 

While at Kerama Retto, pockets of fierce fighting were still going on in the larger islands, but several islands were secured and one of these now served as a liberty island, (a place for the men to go ashore and relax). These islands were covered with a more temperate type of trees and thick brush so I became somewhat nostalgic.   As I looked over the high hills about me, each day I had a yearning to hike among those trees and thoroughly explore each island, eventually I did get to explore and hike around on one island only, ‘Liberty Island’.   That day finally arrived when my section was permitted to go ashore, as soon as our boat landed on the beach, we were all issued two cokes and five beers to relax with, since I didn’t drink (liquor), I was about to trade a beer for a coke, when one sailor quickly shouted that he would give me his two cokes for one beer.   That was a deal too good to pass up, so I immediately accepted, then another sailor made the same exchange and another, etc.   So I ended up with 12 cokes and the beauty of it was, I could carry the cokes that I didn’t drink back on board ship, which wasn’t the case with beer.   A few days later a boat load of sailors from one of the other ships in the anchorage landed on the wrong island and were attacked by Japanese soldiers; I believe that they were all killed.   Every ship in the vicinity of that Island began firing 20 and 40 millimeter canons into the thick brush and trees. The next day some marines moved in and secured the island by destroying or capturing all of the Jap soldiers.

 

Now it was time to pull the anchored buoys from the harbor because we were moving operations to Okinawa, a few miles to the north of our present position.   After our planes took off on patrol, the lane buoys were picked up and it wasn’t long until they were planted in our new harbor^[11]. The planes could land without markers, but the markers kept boats and ships out of those lanes.   We wouldn’t want cars and trucks driving back and forth across our modern airport runways, would we? No, we wouldn’t!

 

Now life settled down to a regular routine of work, general quarters, chow, mail call and lying on the upper deck reading books.   Every day the patrol boats came back from strafing and bombing enemy ships; we refueled and re-armed them, kept the crew overnight, then sent them on their way. My duty to the flight crew consisted of having a meal ready for them when they arrived,^[12]serving them breakfast and making lunches for them to take along on the flight the next day.

 

Fierce fighting was centered in the hills and caves on the southern tip of Okinawa now, but the rest of the island basically secured.   We were allowed to go ashore and stretch our legs, which I immediately did.   It was good to walk on solid ground again, sit on the grass and lean against a tree. While sitting on a hillside on day, a native Formosan farmer joined me and politely asked, ” How long you stay?”   “I don’t know,” I replied. “I guess we’ll be here until the Japs surrender.” He thought a while, then observed, “We work on farm, Japanese come, Boom! Boom! soldiers all go.”   “Now Amelican come, Boom! Boom! Japanese all go.” “Someday, Japanese come back, Boom! Boom! Amelican go.”   “No,” I replied, “American will not go until the Japanese surrender, and you are free.”   He thought on that for several minutes while stroking his thin, wispy, white beard, then abruptly changed the subject.   We talked for an hour or so on various subjects, actually he was well learned and he spoke with quite good English.   When it came time for me to go, he bowed politely, as did I, and I left by the way I came.   At the edge of the field I was joined by a buddy from the ship, who immediately reprimanded me for talking to one of, ‘these gooks’, “He might be a Jap and he could kill you,” he almost shouted.   “There is nothing to worry about,” I laughed, “Actually it wouldn’t hurt you to talk with some of these people, you might learn something.”     Thus it went as we strolled back to the landing, neither one of us willing to change our position on, ‘talking with strangers.’

 

We weighed anchor again and prepared to make a quick run down to Naha ^[13](the capital city of Okinawa) to pick up mail and supplies.   While we were there, we also picked up the mail for all the other ships in our anchorage.   This worked out well, so about once a week we made the trip, it was a good diversion for us.

 

One bit of information that I remember well about these waters was the appearance of … Well, permit me to go back to the China Sea and I will tell you about it … I was leaning on the rail gazing abstractly across the harbor toward the shore one day, when something in the water caught my eye.   When I directed my attention to it, I saw that it was slightly moving toward the surface. At first it was indistinct, yellowish in color and appeared to be a piece of cloth, but as it approached the surface I could see that it was moving in a slow undulating motion in a loose coil (rather than in an extended line).   When it broke the surface, I could see it in all its repulsiveness, it was about three or four feet long, yellowish in color with muted brown markings along its slightly lumpy body^[14].   The body of this reptile ended in a rounded slightly flattened tail.   I immediately called to some sailors down the deck, “Come here quick, if you want to see a real snake,” that brought a quick response , and now there were a dozen sailors at the rail gazing at this repulsive creature on the surface of the sea.   Several comments were made at the time, but none of them complimentary.   One of the sailors ran immediately to the fantail to alert the men who were swimming.   There was always someone on lookout when men were swimming, because of sharks and sea snakes^[15], but this was the first snake observed by any of us, (but not the last).   That ended the swimming excursion for the day!   After lying on the surface for a couple of minutes, this snake began its undulating motion again and slowly disappeared into the depths of the sea.   Actually these serpents were quite prevalent in these waters, their range extending all the way to Australia.

• ^[1]Our squadron consisted of PBM Mariners.   We also fueled up any stray seaplane needing fuel, PBYs or PB4Y2s.
• ^[2]There were two personnel boats on our ship, I was bow hook on one of them.   The duties of the cox’n was to pilot the craft, I assisted the captain and guests when they were entering or leaving the boat.   This was necessary, because the boat moved up and down and in and out from the side of the ship by the waves. First I secured the boat with a line from the ship, then kept the boat snug against the landing platform.
• ^[3]We were entering this anchorage in the center of the islands during an air raid, the green flag signified this.
• ^[4]There were also suicide boats, a small boat with a torpedo inside that was designed to be crashed into a ship, they were not very successful.
• ^[5]A destroyer was affectionately referred to as a, “Tin Can.”
• ^[6]Forty two men were killed in the blast.
• ^[7]Our ship was too small to have a Chaplain, so we always attended services on a nearby larger ship.
• ^[8]Disabled its controls so that it could not aim at a ship, it exploded in the water.
• ^[9]This is the second time that the ship next to us was hit by a suicide plane.
• ^[10]The kitchen, where all the food was prepared.
• ^[11]I don’t remember the name of this large harbor near the center of the island on the east side.
• ^[12]They came in at all hours, up to 8:00 or 9:00 at night.
• ^[13]A large number of ships from the fleet were anchored here.
• ^[14]This reptile wasn’t smooth like a garter snake.
• ^[15]All sea snakes are very poisonous.

 

CHAPTER 16

 

 

TYPHOON

0800 hours:      Our day began normal enough, rather hot and humid, but that’s how it is here in the China Sea during May and throughout the summer months. Then around 0900 hours an announcement came over the speaker system, that the typhoon^[1] south of us was now moving directly toward our location, so we must begin immediate preparations for this expected storm.   A short time later the next announcement made it clear that we would be weighing anchor and moving out to sea^[2]at 1430 hours (2:30 P.M.)   Now everything topside was lashed down, hatches were closed, all boats on the boat deck checked and secured, etc. and as for the cooks, it was our job to prepare as much food ahead as possible.                 1230 hours:     After the rush of the noon meal, I stepped out of the galley for a moment to look around, it was still a nice balmy day with a few fluffy clouds on the southern horizon, but nothing to suggest that a vicious killer storm was on the way.

1430 hours:     About the time that we were scheduled to leave, I noticed that the wind had picked up, it was a warm wind, very warm with gusts buffeting us from the southeast, I thought, “How could a typhoon develop from this?”   Now it was time to leave and as we were raising the gangway^[3] the mail boat came alongside with several bags of back mail^[4], one officer tried to wave them off, but it was too late, the deck force was already lowering the gangway and they secured themselves to it and within a few minutes tossed our mail on the landing, cast off and turned into the heavy seas about us now.   This mail boat had an obligation to deliver the mail, but they also had another obligation to keep, get back to the mother ship before it left the harbor for the open sea and this they were determined to do. This delay annoyed the officers, because we were to rendezvous with other ships in a battle formation while at sea during the typhoon.   As soon as the gangway came up, so did the anchor and we were underway.

1530 hours:    We hadn’t cleared the harbor entrance before the wind began hitting us with more punch, and between each line of waves was a trough for the ship to wallow in.   The sky was overcast now, but sunlight still came through and bathed us in a yellowish light, indeed we had the appearance of Orientals.   We finally cleared the harbor and now our ship could be turned into^[5] the waves with an eye to riding out the storm.

1900 hours:     By evening the sky was dark with ragged clouds and the rain began to fall, the waves were much larger now and the wind whistled through the rigging, but we were shipshape and secure.   I sent the last batch of food down the dumbwaiter to the mess hall and began cleaning up (Normally I would be off duty now, but I was helping the next shift, since we had extra work to do).

2100 hours:     I carefully headed for my bunk since the ship was pitching and rolling hard now and I made it, except I was slammed hard against the bulkhead three or four times. “It will take me a couple of days to get my sea legs back^[6], if I don’t get killed first,” I muttered.   Once in bed, it is better to sleep on your back^[7] in a storm, in that position, you can stick like a leach to the bed, but if you sleep on your side you’ll be rolled out onto the steel deck, not so good.   All night I could hear objects rolling and sliding around on the ship, this made quite a bit of clatter on the steel decks and very little sleep in the bunk.

0800 hours, day 2:   By morning the ship was rolling terribly and the screw (propeller) vibrating through the entire ship.   Let me explain; In heavy seas, the bow of the ship rises high on the crest of a huge wave while the fantail is deep in the seas behind us (facing forward, the ship is at a steep upward slope), next the bow drops like a rock and is completely buried under tons of water, so that there is only ocean where the bow was! Then the preceding situation is reversed and the stern of the ship is high above the turbulent sea, so high that the propeller is out of the water and it races madly in thin air.   That is when the propeller and shaft vibrate so wildly and the slope of the ship is reversed until you wonder, ‘Will the bow ever come back out of the sea’? Just one more note in passing; as the ship rises, it is also twisting and rolling; as it falls it is still on a roll, if fact there are so many different motions at the same time, it is impossible for our computer (brain) to keep up, so it goes on ‘overload’ and we go directly to ‘seasick’.   This is my day off and I am not hungry, in fact I am sick, so sick that I am vomiting incessantly^[8] as is about 99 % of the crew. I decide not to go to the galley^[9], however I am determined to see what the typhoon is like, sick or not.

0900 hours, day 2:   I went up the ladder to the deck, but I did not open the water-tight hatch and exit there since tons of water would be rushing down the passageway, a consequence of the bow being submerged and then rising steeply.   I caught the next ladder (flight of stairs) and went up to the next level, then went up a third flight to a round hatch in the overhead that opened directly onto the top deck.   I opened the water-tight hatch and staggered onto the deck, what a fearsome sight met my gaze as I clutched a handhold.   Torrents of rain were pouring from the sky, driven horizontally^[10]by this howling wind.   The rain was mixed with gobs of foam and sea spray whipped from the waves, and the fast moving stygian clouds allowed very little light to illumine the sea; it was twilight in a maelstrom with huge waves double the level of my sight^[11] (and higher) on all sides!   As I looked forward, the bow had disappeared, only the five inch gun mount stood above the raging sea, which was laced with patches of foam.     The ship’s stern was now high above the waves causing the screw and shaft to again vibrate throughout the ship, but our ship struggled upward with tons of sea water pouring off each side of the bow and rushing down the passageways.   When the ship arose it also rolled to the side so far, my immediate concern was, ‘will we straighten up again?’^[12]But straighten up we did, or I would not be writing this account now.   Each ship has a clinometer which measures the degrees of slope or tilt the ship makes when rolling to either side, on that clinometer is an engraved line, if the ship rolls beyond that point, it is unlikely she will right herself.   Several times in typhoons we came within a degree or two of that point and it was only through the combined skills of the helmsman and the Captain that the line was not crossed.

 

I remained topside about 15 minutes, then returned below, soaking wet and still sick as a dog.   I might mention seasickness at this point; there are degrees of seasickness from mild to severe and in a storm such as this, it invariably is severe. You stagger about the ship hanging on to whatever is handy, vomiting occasionally, with no relief until your brain sorts out what is happening and compensates for it; many times it doesn’t matter to you if you live or die, but after a couple of days one begins to move in synch with the rolling, plunging ship and the sickness is gone. Seasick or not, you still must function as a disciplined member of the crew, each of us had our duties to perform and we did just that.   There was one point of relief, for me at least, and that relief came by lying flat on my back, in that position I felt normal, with no bad symptoms what so ever.

1200 hours, day 2:   It is noon, but I am not hungry, the mere thought of food makes me ill.   No one else is hungry either, but some do grab a sandwich along with a cup of coffee and hope for the best. During violent conditions such as this, we didn’t cook regular meals, we made soups, sandwiches (toasted cheese was a favorite), offered dry cereal and milk, etc., we could catch up on regular chow later.

1600 hours, day 2:   It is time for me to relieve the cook on duty and begin my day.   There is not too much to do, but continue to make sandwiches, the men must have nourishment.   The situation is precarious at times, so I find myself hanging on to some part of the ship continuously and doing much of my work one handed.   But all goes well and we clean up and secure for the night.   I might mention that the steel deck in the galley usually gets quite slippery with grease, etc. during cooking, so there are little steel nubs molded to these plates, which give us better traction, but we continually swab the deck here to keep it as clean and dry as possible.   It would be disastrous to slip with a large container of hot soup, or slip and fall onto a hot grill, because of a combination of a pitching, rolling ship and a greasy deck.

2000 hours, day 2:   It has been a little over twenty four hours since we entered this typhoon and now it is as quiet as a Sunday morning church service, we are in the eye; there is no wind screaming through the rigging now, no rain deluging us, it is deathly quiet and I see stars overhead.   The sea is still heaving about us, the ship is still rolling and pitching, though not as violently, what an incredible experience!

2100 hours, day 2:     Sound asleep, but I sense the fury of the storm has returned, and it has with a vengeance, a repeat of yesterday, maybe stronger.

0400 hours, day 3:     Time to rise and head for the galley, my day has begun.   The storm conditions are horrible, but the typhoon is playing the music, we are merely dancing to it, I find myself wishing for a slower tune.   An abbreviated breakfast is prepared for the crew, who are now finding it easier to eat and retain Navy chow and even though things are still rough, we are all feeling better today. We have found a new confidence in our ship and in general we have a very positive attitude toward our own abilities, for we have passed right through the pit of one of mother nature’s worst encounters on earth and survived!

1200 hours, day 3:     I sent down the noon meal to the mess hall and I am now starting to clean up, I feel much more revived and have finished eating some solid food.   The storm is weakening a little, or else I am getting used to it (probably a little of both).   We will be sending down a regular meal for supper, so I must start preparing it in a few minutes.   The cooking of this chow will be my final work of the day.

1600 hours, day 3:     The typhoon is noticeably weaker now and time for me to leave the galley, I find myself grateful to be alive, happy to be off work and at peace with the world, I thank God for His goodness

0700 hours, day 4:   The storm is over and although the sea is still rough, I feel great.   As I walk to the galley for some good food, I notice that although the sky is covered with scattered clouds, but there is a lot of blue sky also, what a great day!   Now I notice other ships steaming with us in a loose formation and since communication is our top priority at this time, all signal blinkers are in action, damage is being assessed, and plans are made for repairs.

1700 hours, day 4:     We are now steaming triumphantly into our home port on Okinawa, the lookouts are surveying the damaged harbor area and relaying all information to the bridge.   The damage ashore is very severe and the few ships which elected to remain in port are now lying on their sides scattered along the shore.   The damage to the Okinawan towns and cities is much like what was seen after Hurricane Hugo thrashed its way along the Florida coast.   Our primary obligation and prime directive is to re-establish the sea-drome and get our planes into the air again.   Incidentally, our planes flew off to a safe anchorage, far from the effects of the typhoon, but they will soon be returning.

 

Synopsis:   The typhoon tested our mettle as nothing else would, for from it we learned first hand about awesome storms and what we must do to survive, we found that we could face severe adversity and function flawlessly, but we also learned that we could never relax, or lower our guard, because the consequences are irredeemable.   While we were in these waters, we went through three (maybe four) typhoons and found them to be: ‘All in the line of duty.’

 

Conventional                                                                Military

Time                                                                            Time

12:00 O’Clock AM     midnight                             0000 hours

1:00   ”          ”                                                               0100 hours

2:00   ”          ”                                                               0200 hours     oh two hundred hours

3:00   ”          ”                                                               0300 hours

4:00   ”          ”                                                               0400 hours

5:00 ”           ”                                                               0500 hours

6:00   ”         ”                                                              0600 hours     oh six hundred hours

7:00   ”         ”                                                               0700 hours

8:00   ”         ”                                                      0800 hours

9:00   ”         ”                                                               0900 hours

10:00   ”         ”                                                               1000 hours     ten hundred hours

11:00 ”         ”                                                               1100 hours

12:00   ”         PM       noon                      1200 hours

1:00   ”         ”                                                                1300 hours     thirteen hundred hours

2:00   ”         ”                                                                1400 hours

3:00   ”         ”                                                                1500 hours

4:00   ”         ”                                                                1600 hours

5:00   ”         ”                                                                1700 hours     seventeen hundred hours

6:00   ”        ”                                                                1800 hours

7:00   ”         ”                                                                1900 hours

8:00   ”       ”                                                                 2000 hours     twenty hundred hours

9:00   ”       ”                                                                 2100 hours

10:00   ”       ”                                                                 2200 hours

11:00   ”       ”                                                                 2300 hours     twenty three hundred hours

12:00   ”       ”           midnight                                   2400 hours

 

 

• ^[1]A typhoon is a Pacific cyclonic storm, as is a hurricane in the Atlantic.
• ^[2]Prior to contact with a typhoon, all ships would move out to sea and ride out the storm, rather than remain in port where they would certainly be destroyed on the rocky shore. No anchor could hold us in the path of such a violent storm.
• ^[3]One of the last things we did before departing, in order to make it possible for all personnel to be aboard.
• ^[4]Since we were always on the move, many times our mail was sent to the wrong area, but it usually caught up to us.
• ^[5]In order to survive, a ship must be steered across the waves, by this action the bow of the ship will drop deep into the sea, then pitch high into thin air, but not overturn. Otherwise, the ship will flounder and rollover.
• ^[6]When we are anchored in the harbor for an extended period of time, it took me some time to get used to constant motion again.
• ^[7]You can also sleep on your stomach, but if you are seasick, that position is not so good.
• ^[8]While I am upright. One feels much better while lying down.
• ^[9]When we were off watch, we still ate in the galley as did the other cooks, we seldom ate in the mess hall.
• ^[10]The wind driven rain was not quite horizontal, but appeared to be.
• ^[11]I was 40 feet above the water line, that would make these waves 80′ to 100′ high.
• ^[12]Many ships did not, ‘straighten up again’ and went down with all hands, several ships in the Okinawa area sank in this storm.   In this typhoon (they seemed to come every two weeks), the bow of the Cruiser Pittsburg was snapped off by 100′ waves, but because of water-tight integrity, she was able to ride out the storm in reverse and after the storm return to Guam in reverse!   The bow was later recovered.

 

CHAPTER 17

 

 

SURRENDER

During the months of May, June and July, many squadrons of US Air Force bombers flew overhead on their bombing raids to Japan.   The sky was filled with planes, and the incessant droning of their motors was heard from the early morning hours to mid morning, as wave after wave flew north and then again in the afternoon as they returned to their bases.   The damage from these raids was great and the casualties were high, but we knew that bombing alone would never cause the Japanese to surrender and a good case in point was Iwo Jima and Okinawa, where they were bombed and shelled, yet they defended their position to the death of each man. From this we knew that they would defend their homeland in a kamikaze frenzy that would turn the ground red with blood. Every inch of Japanese soil would be defended in such a way that the casualties on both sides would be very high, much higher than in Germany.   Of course I would be a part of this invasion force, as well as my brother Lawrence who was with the 163rd. Division in the Philippines awaiting these orders.   Many of us would never return home alive, so I was happy to see those bombers overhead each day on their way to the serpent’s head.

 

The kamikaze attacks on us had lessened somewhat by July since the Japs were committing less planes to Okinawa … They were saving more of them to defend their homeland from the invasion which they knew was imminent. One note in passing; somehow the Japanese had acquired our IFF code (a code our planes gave out when picked up on radar) so each one of their planes now appeared as one of ours on the radar screen, consequently they were able to fly into our harbor undetected.   The first we knew about it was when we heard explosions and saw fire and smoke enveloping our ships from a kamikaze attack.   From then on we had to race to our ‘general quarters’ station at the approach of every plane^[1], until the code was changed in all of our planes.   Those recognition classes which we had in Boot Camp and in Small Craft Training School were invaluable now, each plane approaching must be identified by sight.   This state of affairs lasted for the next four days or so.

 

General Quarters sounded just after evening twilight faded away and darkness settled in on August 15, 1945.   As usual we raced to our battle station with the expectancy of seeing a few Jap patrol planes, but the Army anti-aircraft batteries on Okinawa began to fire sporadically and the search lights began to probe the sky, this activity began to increase until every gun on the island was firing and the sky was ablaze with light.   I had never seen anything to compare to this, tracers were streaking into the sky and along the ground, they were zipping across the harbor with star shells and heavy artillery blasting the night sky to ribbons.   “What’s happening?” I shouted to no one in particular, “What is going on?” From around the gun mounts similar cries were shouted by my buddies, but no answer, until one petty officer shouted, “The Japs are sending in every plane they have, there are thousands on the way!”   My hands gripped the steel sighting crank until my fingers were numb, I didn’t even realize I was doing it.   Finally static from our loudspeaker jerked us alert, an announcement was coming and after another moment it came, “NOW HEAR THIS, NOW HEAR THIS,   WE ARE NOT HAVING AN AIR RAID… WE HAVE JUST RECEIVED THE NEWS,   JAPAN HAS SURRENDERED,   I REPEAT,   JAPAN HAS JUST SURRENDERED!” The Captain continued, “There will be no firing of the guns, there will be no firing from the ship… Secure from General Quarters.”

 

The Army on Okinawa was still firing, everything from .45 automatic handguns to the big howitzers, it was a bedlam.   I would like to note at this point, that many of the tracers coming toward us appeared to be just above the water, then rise sharply as they passed overhead on their way out to sea.   This optical illusion came because of the distance (about one mile or more) and our perspective of those rounds.   Actually they were aimed over our ship, but they looked low until they were nearly to us, then whistled harmlessly overhead.   However all was not well on the Island of Formosa, we got word the next day that eleven soldiers were killed in this wild barrage of gunfire.

 

No one could sleep that night, we were all too excited and full of questions, “What made them surrender?”   “Did Hirohito die?” “Was there an uprising of the people?”   “Did the military rebel?” ………

Finally another announcement over the speaker, “The Air Force dropped a ..static.. bomb on them, and they surrendered.”   “What did he say?,”   “What kind of a bomb was it?”   “Did you hear what he said?”   These questions came hot and fast in the mess hall where we were gathered, then an answer came from one of our shipmates, who just entered the room, “I think he said ‘Potomac’,” he offered. “A Potomac Bomb, I never heard of one before,” I said, “It must be a big one” (I was thinking size as in tonnage).   Finally we drifted off to our bunks and sat down, still talking, however we were very happy to be off the deck, we didn’t wish to got shot by those crazy soldiers on the beach.   The ship was called to attention by the bos’n whistle, followed by the Captain’s voice clarifying the message of last night. …”There were two Atomic Bombs dropped, one on Hiroshima August 6, 1945 and the other on Nagasaki August 9, 1945.   The bomb for Hiroshima used Uranium fuel the one for Nagasaki used Plutonium. It was these two horrific weapons of warfare that caused the Japanese surrender…. Each single bomb was equal to thousands of tons of T.N.T., there is no other weapon like it on earth!” I was completely flabbergasted, I never heard of such a bomb, “how does it work,” I mused.   While I was pondering this turn of events, my emotions had taken off like a skyrocket, I was deliriously happy, NO continuing war, NO invasion of Japan and NO more death and destruction!

 

The two weeks between the surrender and the formal signing^[2] of the papers on board the Battleship Missouri were weeks of lounging around, a lot of talking, no worrying about ‘general quarters’, we were just completely relaxed, finally!   Eventually the big day came, the papers were signed and General McArthur took over as commander of Japan.   My brother Lawrence got to Japan after all, he was part of the occupational troops that immediately moved in.   I did not go to Japan as anticipated, our ship was sent to Jinsen,^[3] Korea to oversee, (along with other ships) the Japanese surrender in that area.   As we steamed into the harbor, I remember huge monolithic rocks thrust up from the depths of the sea on either side of the channel.   I don’t recall much about Jinsen as we were not allowed to go ashore there.   One of our ships, a carrier I believe, reached port two days before we did and it was struck with tragedy.   The sailors that went ashore were drinking a lot of ‘sake’^[4] when many of them were struck down from the effects of this bad batch.   I believe two died and about forty went blind, consequently no one else was permitted to go ashore.   We could but stand at the rail and gaze at this foreign land and wonder what it was like.

 

We were there just a short while, time enough to set up and establish a seadrome for patrolling Japanese troop movement.   That was old stuff for us, as easy as eating pancakes.   Finally new orders filtered down and the anchor came up, we were directed to cross the Yellow Sea, to the mainland of China.   Shanghai, China was to be our first call and this would be our first real contact with a foreign country.

 

 

• ^[1]That was almost constantly!
• ^[2]September 2, 1945.
• ^[3]
• ^[4]A wine made from rice.

 

CHAPTER 18

 

 

CHOW MEIN, RICKSHA’S and PEDICABS

 

China is a magical name that conjures up images of the mysterious Orient, of Dragon Lady, Opium smugglers, firecrackers, tea, chopsticks, and shanghai’d sailors.^[1] In fact Chinese metaphors and proverbs enrich our language so well that we frequently use these phrases without thinking.   I had read of ancient Chinese civilization in books and I had studied their fascinating history in school, but I had never met one face to face; that was all about to change.   I was about to enter into one of the most exciting adventures of my life.     The time frame of my stay wasn’t long, in fact the window of opportunity for me to be in China was to last but nine months, but I believe I invested well the time allotted me.

 

Our compass guided the ship unerringly to the location of Shanghai, but I realized that we were in close proximity before the announcement was made from the Bridge.   I noticed that our ship had left the blue waters of the China Sea^[2] and had been traveling in silt laden,^[3] yellowish waters for the past several hours, no shoreline was visible, but things appeared different.   The familiar seagulls were wheeling and diving about in the skies as they did back in the States, they even made the same soft cries, but there were other sea birds unfamiliar to me and there were strange appearing boats with unusual sails in the distance.   I was off duty and I did not want to miss a thing, In fact I was glued to the rail, looking intently across the sea when the Captain spoke over the speaker, informing us that we were now entering the mouth of the Yangtse River, it was unbelievable!     No land could not be seen on either side, nothing but a calm glassy sea around us.   Onward, our brave ship sailed as if eager to carry its crew into this mysterious foreign port and we were just as eager to enter.

 

Shanghai is a considerable distance from the mouth of the Yangtse and before we reach it, we must sail up a tributary of the Yangtse, the Whangpoo^[4] River and as I remember it, the Whangpoo was quite a good sized river in its own right, about three quarters of a mile across at Shanghai. Finally, I could see some Chinese ships moving toward us, how strange they looked with their high rising stern and their strange squared sails that appeared to be made of horizontal canvas slats.   Some of these Junks (as they were called) also had painted designs on either side of the bow in brilliant reds and yellows and all had a Chinese crew walking about the deck with cone shaped hats of straw, they had no motor, but were carried along by the current of the river and the gentle breeze that blew.   I had never seen any craft like these before and I was determined to see everything that I could possibly see. By now both banks of the river could easily be seen along with some people carrying loads balanced on each end of a bamboo pole and others pulling and pushing two wheeled carts loaded high with material.   In the States nearly everything is moved by machinery which was rated in horsepower, I was to learn that everything in China moved by either man power or woman power.

 

I caught my first glimpse of Shanghai after we sailed up the Whangpoo a short distance.   First there were a few buildings along the shore then the city itself.   What a city! Shanghai was the largest city in China, the eighth largest city on the earth and the sixth largest seaport in the world at this time.   The shoreline was like any other modern seaport city with skyscrapers and a broad boulevard laid out parallel to the river.   This boulevard was an internationally known street and was called, “The Bund.”   These impressive buildings along the Bund were laid out to face the incoming river traffic, the most magnificent, I suppose, was the Hong Kong and Shanghai National Bank building.   I can remember this massive stone building quite well, but best of all I remember the two large brass lions lying down facing the Bund at either side of the entry.   The lions had oxidized somewhat by the weather, but the paws were polished to a magnificent sheen^[5]. I was extremely interested in this phenomena and thought, “Why do they just polish the paws?”   The answer, I soon learned, had nothing to do with the caretakers, but came from the actions of people who walked by every day and rubbed the paws with their hands; a Chinese gentleman beside me, informed me that the people believed that in rubbing these paws, they would have good luck.   I watched this interesting scene for a while, then I merged with the crowd, strolled by and rubbed them myself^[6].

 

Another imposing building along the Bund was the Custom’s House, it was tall and in the tower four magnificent clocks (known as big qing) that chimed on the quarter hour.   As impressive as the Bund was, it was much like the facade of a Hollywood Western Movie, behind the broad boulevard and these magnificent buildings were narrow streets with businesses packed together like sardines in a can.   These narrow streets were completely filled with a moving mass of humanity by day and half the night.   While I was there in 1945, 1946 there were very few cars and trucks and one was seldom seen on the streets, the streets were owned by the people, who walked, peddled bicycles, rode in rickshaws, or in pedicabs,^[7] but on that occasion when a taxi was driven down the street, (the driver honking his horn without a let up) this moving mass of people just parted enough to let it through and immediately closed in behind it.   I don’t understand why no one was killed in this arrangement, but I never saw anyone run down.   I digress, so I must return to the ship and her journey up the Whangpoo.

 

We slowly glided past the central part of Shanghai and dropped anchor in the muddy Whangpoo. Later we were to move upriver and dock at a pier along the shore, but for the present time we were anchored in the center of this strange river. The land was so flat here that the current of the river reversed itself and flowed backwards when the tide changed!   As the current changed directions, so did our ship, for once it was anchored, it always faced into the direction of the flow.^[8]     There were hundreds of small boats moving up and down the river as well as larger barges and Junks.   The barges moving against the current were pulled by coolies with long ropes struggling along a well worn path on the other side of the river, my heart went out to them.

 

As soon as we dropped anchor, certain officials came aboard and welcomed us to Shanghai along with the appropriate bows and polite phraseology, but there wasn’t much for me to see, since I was back in the galley cooking the evening meal.   When bedtime came, I found it hard to sleep with so many things going through my mind at this unique place. The next day one of the first things done was to establish a seaplane lane with the appropriate buoys and markers for our patrol planes^[9], the movement of the Japanese soldiers must be monitored during their surrender. Later that day we were all assembled on the fantail to receive instructions concerning ‘Shore Leave’ in China. First the Captain spoke, warning us of present dangers during this disarmament time and that we must be alert, (always travel in groups of two^[10] or more).   He also reminded us of Navy regulations concerning our activities toward people and property in a foreign land, since we are under their legal jurisdiction. The Captain also reminded us of our relationship to the ‘Shore Patrol’, which was, “obey them!”   Finally he wished us well and hoped that we would have a good time while in port. Next the ship’s Doctor spoke about diseases^[11] we might encounter in China, we were not to eat raw vegetables (danger of Cholera), not to eat ground meat, always order a T-bone steak, (it can’t be faked) etc.   Then we were released for Shore Leave.   About one fourth of the ship’s complement would be permitted to go ashore at one time, leaving three fourths of the crew to handle any emergency.   Since there were but two section to the cooking staff (4 cooks), if we chose to do so, we could go ashore every other day.

 

SHORE LEAVE:

As I stood in line awaiting our motor launch which was to transport us ashore, I, along with the other sailors, was inspected concerning attire, (a regular ritual, this dress code inspection). I passed the inspection and went down the ladder (stairs) into the waiting launch. Our cox’n backed away from the ship, made a sharp turn and we were soon deposited at the Bund.   I was so confident when I left the ship, but the minute I stepped on the landing, I felt completely helpless, since I was immediately surrounded by dozens of Chinese, all shouting, gesturing and pulling on my arms at the same time.   I knew none of the language, I did not know anything of the money exchange, except that I was to exchange my American dollars for Chinese currency at the first opportunity,   One sailor shouted to me, “Just jump in a rickshaw and tell the coolie to follow the other sailors.”   Actually that was quite easy to do, because as soon as I stepped into one rickshaw, the other coolies ceased their clamor and my coolie understood my pointing.   Off I went in my first rickshaw ride, the bicycle wheels turned smoothly and my strong young man wheeled into the flow of traffic, shouting at anyone in his way.^[12] He turned up Nanking Road adeptly moving through a solid mass of people (I could reach out and touch them on either side) and I suppose, awaiting further instruction from me.   I was enjoying the ride and the sights around me, when I spotted a couple of sailors stepping into a fashionable restaurant, “Stop, stop, here, right here,” I shouted, he quickly turned his head my way, saw my outstretched arm and wheeled to the entrance of this lovely establishment.   “How much money?,” I said, not knowing the price of anything in Shanghai, of course he didn’t understand English, but it wasn’t’ long before we began communicating by holding up fingers, gesturing and nodding.   I finally pulled some dollar bills from my pocket and held them up to him, his eyes gleamed and he took one and since I had them before him he took another, hesitated then a third, with those three dollars, be bowed and bowed and bowed. then thumped me on the back saying over and over, “Good Joe, Good Joe, Good Joe.”   Those three dollars were probably equivalent to a weeks worth of fares. Later when I converted Twenty American dollars to Chinese currency, I found the exchange rate to be 2000 to 1.   My twenty dollar bill got me forty thousand of their dollars!, I needed a wheelbarrow to carry it all… well almost. I had given my coolie friend 6,000 dollars of his money.

 

Into the lovely restaurant I stepped and was met by the Matre’D, who, to my surprise, could speak English.   He politely guided me to the table where the two sailors were seated, I asked if I might join them and they responded, “Please do.” They were from another ship which arrived a week before we did and had found this fine restaurant.   We had a great time sharing war stories, our travels and our plans for the future.   They helped me a lot by telling me of the good shopping stores, how to negotiate over every price and what to order in a Chinese restaurant where no one understood English, (order chow mein), etc.   This restaurant, as well as all eating establishments wanting the American trade, had an orchestra playing American songs.   They sang, Sentimental Journey , Penny Serenade, It’s Only A Paper Moon, and many others from that time frame.   I don’t know how they learned these songs so quickly since they couldn’t speak English, they just memorized the words, but now that the Armed Services Radio was being broadcast here, they listened intently and learned new songs daily.   When the Chinese girl sang, Sentimental Journey, in her sing-song accent, it really hit home, we became very sentimental and each gave her a dollar.   Mindful of my new advice, I ordered Chow Mein and I was not disappointed , it was delicious, (in Shanghai they always placed a fried egg on top the mound of chow mein). I was later told that ‘chow mein’ was made with dog meat!   If I wanted it otherwise, I must order, ‘pork chow mein‘ or ‘chicken chow mein‘, I don’t know if that was actually true or not, but from then on I ordered pork chow mein.   Finally we left together and to my surprise my friend the rickshaw coolie was waiting in front for me.   My new friends headed back to their ship and I continued west on the Nanking road.   I stopped at several shops, bought a few souvenirs and some silk cloth, (I thought) then decided to return to the ship as it was now nearly 10:00 P.M.   I was trying as hard as I could to make my coolie understand ship, sleep, go back, etc.   I couldn’t point the way since I had lost my sense of direction in the narrow twisted route that we had traveled, he tried so hard to comprehend what his new American fare wanted, that he was almost in pain.   Eventually from my mouth came the word, “Dock”, and a big smile crossed his face, “Boom Dock, Boom Dock,” I wasn’t sure, but it was better than nothing, so I nodded vigorously and off we went.   It wasn’t long until I was safely deposited on the wharf at the Bund, I started to pay him, but he would have none of it, repeating, “Good Joe, Good Joe.”

 

A Chinese merchant came aboard our ship with his trunks of goodies for us to purchase, he had every kind of jewelry, silks, German Cameras, etc.   I showed him my ‘silk cloth’ and got a laugh, “No, no, no,” he exclaimed, “That’s American rayon.”   I realized that in my ignorance I had made a poor purchase, “But how can you tell the difference,” I exclaimed.  He carefully pulled one thread from my cloth and place the flame of his cigarette lighter to it… it burned with a bright little flame, then with a real silk thread from his cloth he did the same… it would not burn, only char.   Now look carefully at these two pieces of cloth, “Can you see a difference?” he asked, “Not much,” I replied, so he laughed and sold me a cigarette lighter.

 

Day after day, I went into Shanghai, night after night I returned late to the ship until I finally knew my way around this large Asian City better than I did around Portland, Oregon.   The city was divided up into four distinct parts that I remember; The French, The White Russian, The British and of course The Chinese.   There were sub-divisions, but this was basically it.   For silks and fine clothing I generally shopped along Avenue Joffre, for furniture I went into the Chinese sector where I bought a large camphorwood chest overlaid with rosewood and carved with the most intricate carvings across the top and sides, it was beautiful.   My heart broke when I had to leave it on the ship in Shanghai, because it was time for me to return to the States for discharge and I could only take with me what I could carry, and that was my seabag.^[13]   Some lucky sailor ended up with it.

 

While we were anchored in the Whangpoo, I never ceased to be amazed at the diversity of activity on the river.   One morning, while in the beginning of lunch preparation, a friend of mine stuck his head in the galley and said, “Ellis, come and see this… you won’t believe what you’re going to see.”   I stepped out on the main deck and looked where he was pointing, “Is that a … my voice trailing off,” “Yes, it is a corpse,” he finished with a wry twist to his face.   Carefully I looked at this dead man slowly floating past our ship, he was dressed in the traditional blue baggy trousers that we had gotten to know so well by now.   After he floated out of sight, I went back to cooking, until I was interrupted a couple of hours later by my friend again, who demanded that I come see something even stranger than before, so I quickly stepped out onto the deck, this time to see the same dead person floating by, but this time he was floating the other direction, upstream!     This unusual event soon became common place (sad to say) with other bodies floating on the river.   When an opportunity came to be in the city early in the morning, I saw many homeless people lying motionless on the sidewalk, they had succumbed to the bitter cold during the night (December).   All they had was a few rags to cover themselves and a doorway to sleep in, it was not enough!     An old wheezing charcoal burning truck stopped and the dead were loaded in like cordwood.

 

Another oddity on the Whangpoo affected our sense of smell, it was the “Honey Barge” slowly propelled down the muddy river.   The Chinese people had large tiled underground urns at strategic locations in the city and country.   At the top of the urn was a round hole about 24 inches in diameter was just slightly above ground level and inside was a mixture of human excrement and water about the consistency of a thin soup, (pardon the comparison) that had an odor which would gag a maggot.   Now when this urn was full, the contents were transferred to the ‘honey barge’ to be taken to the farming fields and once there, it was carried by coolies in wooden buckets balanced on a bamboo pole to the vegetables.^[14]     Now back to the honey barge on the river… We could smell it coming, we could smell it passing and we could smell it going, it was horrible, but it was just another part of life in the Orient.

 

On a more pleasant topic, I was in Shanghai sauntering along a narrow street on day, when I noticed a great commotion directly in front of me, it was a parade with firecrackers and banners. The central part of this parade was a large, colorful, paper dragon propelled along by several pairs of legs (the bodies were up inside the framework) which caused the dragon to turn and twist its way down the street.   The children shrieked and screamed at this apparition, while the adults laughed with glee.   At first I stood silently in the center of the crowd, until I also got carried away with the lively festivities, then I shouted and clapped my hands along with the rest of the crowd.   I was the only Caucasian anywhere in sight and the Chinese showed their appreciation for my enthusiasm by shaking my hands, patting me on the back and all the while jabbering in rapid fire Chinese.   It was just a parade in Shanghai, but it made this day a great day for me, never to be forgotten.

 

Another parade in the streets of Shanghai happened as Bill (I can’t remember his real name) and I were on shore leave about mid morning one day.   Again there was an enormous crowd, but the thing that attracted our attention was the roar of this crowd, we heard it from at least eight blocks away.   As we hurried forward to see this event (curious people those Americans) we soon found ourselves in the midst of bedlam, I couldn’t even speak to my friend above the noise.   The crowd was so densely packed that we could hardly wriggle through, but we finally ended up against a Chinese Soldier, who was trying to hold the crowd back at this spot. From this vantage point we could see an endless line of surrendered Japanese soldiers being marched through the streets to a U.S. freighter awaiting their arrival.   While the screaming and shouting seemed to be enough for some of the crowd, others darted past the soldiers trying to hold them back and threw bricks, rocks and sticks at the Japanese. Some of the Japanese were knocked to the pavement, many were bleeding, but all were terribly frightened at this demonstration of hatred toward them^[15]. I don’t know how many Chinese were along that route, but it must have been in the hundreds of thousands and never in my life have I seen such a demonstration of pure hatred, yet I felt no danger, even as I was jostled and pushed by this agitated throng of Chinese.

 

It was a warm day in early October and I was on shore leave with my friend Burroughs somewhere in the central part of Shanghai.   While on liberty today we had visited the usual shops and novelty stores, but now evening was approaching and the sun was setting as a golden globe in a sea of haze, I suppose in Los Angeles we would call it smog, we call everything smog there, perhaps it was smog that filled the air, because millions of charcoal fires were being started at the same time, it was suppertime.   Many people stepped out of their shops or businesses and set up their cooking equipment on the sidewalk.   Soon the streets were filled with the delightful odor of home cooking, I decided that it was time for us to find some supper as well, Burroughs agreed and we did.   The sidewalk was not only a kitchen / dining room, but it also served as the place to see the dentist. The dentist who operated from the sidewalk did so with very little overhead, just some tools for pulling and filling teeth and a foot powered treadle drill (like a treadle sewing machine). The customer was seated on a stool and the dentist went to work while the jostling crowd squeezed by on either side.   Talk about entrepreneurs, they win the prize, hands down!   The sidewalks also were home for the beggars, there were hundreds of them standing, sitting, lying down or following you along.   There were leprous beggars^[16] lying on the sidewalk with no limbs, no noses, ears or eyes, how sad it was, but some of the people who passed by, stooped down and put food in their mouths.   The little beggar boys had a chant that went something like this:

“Please Joe,

No mama, no papa, no chow chow,

No per diem^[17]

We often stopped and gave them candy bars or coins, but when we did, we would instantly be surrounded by dozens of these beggar-boys of Shanghai with their endless chant.

 

Our ship is now docked at its new home, a pier several miles farther up the Whangpoo.   To take shore leave to Shanghai now, we must catch an Army vehicle, usually a 6×6^[18]and endure a bumpy ride into the city.   As we drove through the countryside, we passed many farms in this flat, river bottom land being worked manually by the people (no tractors) who straightened up a moment to take a quick look at us, then returned to their back breaking toil.   We went by several sepulchers for the newly dead along the road, these sepulchers were constructed with bricks above the soil with every other brick removed which gave it a honeycomb appearance.   I suppose the air circulating around the body mummified it somewhat as the fluids drained into the soil, whatever its purpose, one thing I know, the stench was terrible and the whole concern was covered with large black blowflies which sometimes entered the truck as we passed by.   One other extraordinary place along this route was the racetrack (I think) where executions took place by firing squads.   Every time we went by this high walled field, there were executions occurring, we could hear each volley of shots.

 

Two Shanghai incidents involving my shipmates:

The first occurred as I was strolling down one of the back streets of Shanghai, I saw a commotion in front of small business, where two policemen, (who always patrolled with rifles with fixed bayonets), had a sailor backed against the wall of a building, several Chinese merchants were there also speaking rapidly in shrill voices.   As I got closer I recognized that one of my shipmates was close to being bayoneted because of his belligerent actions.   I immediately ran to the spot, careful not to crowd the police and exclaimed, “What is going on here?” Both policemen turned toward me at the sound of my voice and Jim (not his real name) took this opportunity to shout his defense, “Ellis, these people are accusing me of something I didn’t do, and I’m going to whip the bunch of them,” at that he put up his fists as if he were going to fight them all.   At that outburst both rifles pointed directly at Jim’s midsection and the mechanisms were cocked.   “Oh, No… they’re going to shoot him now,” I thought, “Wait!” I said, “Let me talk to him, you don’t want the U. S. Navy to come after you, do you?”   One policeman understood English very good, the other a little, and they both appeared a little indecisive at this new turn of events, obviously they didn’t like the way things were turning out.   Jim started to speak, but I stopped him with the admonition, “Don’t say a word if you want to live,” and to the policemen, I asked, “What has he done, why are these merchants screaming at him?”   The senior officer turned to me and spat out in perfect English, “He is a thief, he stole merchandise from this shop keeper,” indicating the most vocal of the merchants. “I’ll pay for it,” I said as I pulled some currency from my pocket, But Jim quickly countered, “No I didn’t and you will not give them any money!”   The policeman looked at me and my money, at the merchant and then at Jim, finally he gruffly barked, “Get him out of here!”   I took hold of Jim’s arm and led him down the street with about two hundred curious Chinese taking it all in.

 

I walked with Jim eight or nine blocks before I saw a place of refuge, a small restaurant, so I said, “Let’s get something to eat.”     Jim had been drinking, but he readily agreed to this suggestion, so we stepped into this nice little Cafe, sat down and ordered our dinner.   I said to Jim in a low voice, “What happened back there and why would they accuse you of stealing?” With a mischievous grin Jim pulled a jeweled broach from under his Navy blouse, “Because I took their broach, that’s why.”   I was aghast at this stupidity, and told him so, but he paid no mind to me, just kept turning the piece of jewelry over in his hands, he was so proud that he had gotten away with this caper.   Just as I finished telling him that, that piece of jewelry would have been his death if I had not came along, I glanced toward the front of the restaurant and there was that same merchant peering through the plate glass window!   He had followed us and now he had the evidence before him.   I jumped up, threw some money on the table, grabbed Jim by the arm and said, “Let’s go, NOW!”   Jim resisted, so I said, “That merchant was looking in the window just now and he saw the broach!”   When that sank in, Jim quickly followed me out into the street, I was looking wildly for a way to escape, when I spied a pedicab coming toward us.   As we hailed the driver, he quickly sped to our location and in we jumped, shouting, “BOON DOCK, BOON DOCK^[19], HUBBA, HUBBA, CHOP, CHOP,” sensing the urgency in our voices, he began to pedal as fast as he could, but by now there was an army of Chinamen shouting and running behind us, and sad to say, gaining on the pedicab.   As they shouted at him, he began to slow down, at that Jim jerked off his sailor cap and began beating the coolie on the back, shouting, “GO, GO, GO…” However I used the direct approach, I leaned forward with a five dollar bill in my hand for him to see, so between the thumping and the promise of reward our coolie put some muscle into those pedals and we began to move.    Faster and faster the pedicab flew, careening down those darkened narrow streets, until we had left the mob far behind.

 

After thirty minutes of jolting and swaying, we arrived with such speed at the Bund, we were barely able to stop, but none the worse for wear.   I gave the coolie my five dollar bill, then jumped into the waiting Navy motor launch.   At that moment I didn’t really care what happened to Jim, but I knew that I was not going to be beaten to death over something that he did!^[20]

 

The second incident was more on the humorous side.   I was strolling down Avenue Joffre (Joff) one evening, when I heard a commotion a short distance in front of me.   “Curious,” I thought, “It sounds like a dog up in that tree.^[21]   As I drew nearer I saw one of my sedate, quiet shipmates in the branches of the tree, barking like a dog at the passing people below.   Obviously, he was as drunk as a person could be.   I tried to get him to come down, but to no avail, then as I was joined by another sailor, we both tried our best to entice him to come down, again ‘no soap.’ After an hour on the street and the laughing stock of Shanghai, we caught a pedicab back to the ship, with Fido (not his real name) still in the tree.   The next day as I passed through the sleeping quarters, there was Fido in his bunk!   That left two unsolved mysteries with me; (1) How could anyone as drunk as Fido was, get up in that tree in the first place? and (2) How did he ever get back to the ship in his condition?   The world will never know.

 

Hundreds of experiences both happy and sad occurred when I was in Shanghai, in fact, as I bade farewell to Shanghai for the last time, I had a real lump in my throat, it was like leaving home!   I had made so many friends there and I already missed them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

• ^[1]Kidnapped sailors, drugged and put on ships heading out to sea, enforced servitude.
• ^[2]Shanghai was located at the border of the Yellow Sea and the East China Sea.
• ^[3]I don’t remember how far the silt flows out to sea from this mighty river, but I think is is around 200 miles.
• ^[4]Huangpu, Wangpoo.
• ^[5]The paws of these lions were about four feet above the sidewalk.
• ^[6]I guess I was a part of history, since the lions are no longer in front of this imposing building.   The Communists took them away.
• ^[7]A pedicab was a tricycle means of conveyance that had an operator sitting on a bicycle frame in front with a narrow covered carriage behind him that seated two persons.   He had a greater range than that of his counterpart, the rickshaw cooley, he also made double fare.
• ^[8]If you live near the ocean, go down some time and look at the large ships anchored in the harbor, you will notice that they all face one direction, an hour later they will be facing another; it is the changing of the tide that determines their heading.
• ^[9]B.M. Mariner’s, made by the Martin Aviation Co.
• ^[10]We always did this when starting out, but usually split up according to differing objectives later on.   Returning to the ship was our own responsibilty, but many times I found a drunken buddy, put him in a rickshaw and sent the driver back to the Bund with him. From the waterfront he could catch the launch back to our ship, if he was too drunk to do that, the Shore Patrol would see that he did.
• ^[11]We had been given shots for the Bubonic Plague and a few other shots for this part of the world about three weeks previously..
• ^[12]A coolie without a passenger is almost a non-entity, but once he has a passenger, he is the most fierce, aggresive and loyal protector of your life that can be found anywhere.
• ^[13]It was time for several of us to be transferred back to the States for discharge, but the ship had to remain in Shanghai in an International Court case.   The Russians had shot down one of our patrol planes, and feelings ran strong against them at this time, some were calling for war.   If I could have stayed on the ship until it returned, I would have my exquisitly carved trunk today.
• ^[14]This is one of the causes of cholera in China.
• ^[15]This was in retaliation for seven years of atrocities from the hands of the Japanese.
• ^[16]When the Japs invaded China, they drove the lepers from their medical colonies into the streets of the cities as a demoralizing tactic.
• ^[17]An allowance for daily expenses.
• ^[18]An army troop carrier with three axels and all axels powered.
• ^[19]Boon Dock was jargon for Bund Dock, the main pier for arrival or departure by sea.
• ^[20]While I was in Shanghai eight sailors were killed in the city over stupid thingslike this.
• ^[21]Avenue Joffre was a lovely tree lined boulevard in the French section of Shanghai, the shopping place of the wealthy.

 

CHAPTER  19

 

 

COMMUNIST MOUNTAINS

After leaving the mouth of the Yangtse River our ship headed due north through the Yellow Sea until we reached landfall in Tsingtao.   The trip to Tsingtao was uneventful and since the Yellow Sea was calm, no one was seasick,  but all were ravenously hungry^[1] (more work for the cooks).  We anchored in the harbor at Tsingtao, established a seadrome for our patrol boats (PBM, Mariners) and settled down for a pleasant stay.   I went ashore, visited the shops, went sight seeing and bought some souvenirs.   After practically living in the great city of Shanghai for three months, Tsingtao was a letdown in many ways, but in one way it surpassed all of our other ‘Shore Leave’ ports,  horseback riding!  At this point I will note some times and dates of my Navy tour of Duty in the Far East:

August 15, 1945    Japanese surrendered.

September 2   ”      Formal signing of surrender papers on the                                                                   Battleship Missouri.

September 15  ”     Jinsen, (Inchon) Korea for a couple of weeks.

October 1        ”     Shanghai, China for three months.

December 30   ”     Tsingtao, China for one month.

February 4, 1946    Hong Kong, China for a month and a half.

March 15         ”     Shanghai, China for two months.

May 15             ”    Left for San Francisco.

These times and dates are approximate.

 

Horseback riding:

I don’t recall how we found out about the riding stables at the edge of town, but it appeared that this delightful, out-of-the-way place was just begging to be found and somehow we did just that.   It seemed to be completely out of character for the Chinese to have a recreational facility such as this, since life was so grim for them,  perhaps these ponies were basically for the foreigners, I can’t remember now.

 

The stables were a collection of nondescript sheds at the edge of the mountains, the horses were woolly Siberian ponies, short, stocky and ill tempered, with the riders at this time mostly American Naval personnel.   It was wintertime when we arrived in Tsingtao and while most of the sailors headed for the taverns on shore leave, I along with a dozen of my shipmates headed for the mountains.

I might say a couple of things about the people here in northern China, their dialect was different those of Shanghai and they were also different in size and bearing.   The men of Tsingtao were taller, huskier and more aloof than their counterparts to the south and they wore sturdy fur-lined winter garments, hats and boots and appeared somewhat like the Mongols^[2] one sees in pictures.   While those of Shanghai were more condescending and polite, very happy to be liberated from the Japanese, these people were tough to bargain with and didn’t seem to care that we had freed them from Japan.   I think the Japanese must have had a tough time with these independent thinking people.

 

I caught a rickshaw at the dock for the ride out to the edge of the mountains, paid the coolie and stepped into the stables.  We had picked up a parody on an old familiar song as we bounced along,  singing at the top of our lungs;

“I’ll be down to get you in a rickshaw honey;  Taxicab cost too much money…” I don’t remember the rest of the words, but I know that they were great, because the coolies just laughed and laughed at these happy go lucky Americans, then we all ended up laughing uproariously together.

 

I bargained with the proprietor for the best and fastest pony that he had and after stepping into the corral, he produced that very pony, “Just for  you Joe,” he solemnly said with a hint of a bow.^[3]    I bargained ^[4] with him over the price, then paid up as I was anxious to get moving.    When I got on this Siberian pony, it was a lot different than mounting a horse back home, first this ill mannered beast thought that he had to bite everyone and he tried his best to do just that.   After I mounted this woolly pony, I  tried to communicate with him and that would have tried the patience of Job, so I stopped at the first bush I came to and broke off a small limb to use if I needed to get his attention at any time during the rest of the day.   When riding back home,  I had learned the best ride was a gentle gallop, was I in for a surprise!   These ponies didn’t know what a gallop was, the best I could get from my pony was a bone jarring trot that nearly bounced my eyeballs out of their sockets.   I tried to adjust the stirrups so that I could absorb some of the jarring with my legs, but when I attempted that, my little monster first tried to bite me, much to his dismay, for he found out why I carried that short limb with me,  then he tried to run away, but I caught him on that maneuver as well, so he finally appeared to resign himself to the job at hand..   I never got the stirrups adjusted, so I had to compromise a little myself, accept my fate and ride into the pine covered mountains with my attention finally on the scenery.

 

The mountains were lovely with many species of trees that were new to me and a lot of brush, which I am certain will produce beautiful blossoms in the coming Spring (it was wintertime, consequently no leaves on the deciduous flora).

 

I rode up several miles of rugged mountain trail until I met a group of about eight sailors resting their ponies in a lovely little glade.  As I dismounted, I was met  with an admonition from one of them, “tie that pony up good, or he will run for the stables,”  I heeded that advise and tied him to a tree that an elephant couldn’t uproot.   Previous to my arrival, one sailor had stopped to obey the call of nature and when he finished, he had no pony awaiting him,  his pony had taken off, so he had to double up with another sailor!    Can you imagine one small Siberian Pony carrying two lanky sailors?   Well the pony did carry both of them, but under extreme protest.  We talked for quite a while, swapping war stories about different battles, ships that were sunk and comrades killed, but eventually we arrived at the thought uppermost on all of our minds, returning home.   We had all been away from home at least a year and a half and were anxious to see folks, wives, sweethearts or just plain old USA.   “Are you going to ship over^[5], Ellis?”  One sailor asked me.       “Not me I replied, I like it in the Navy and I like traveling to foreign ports, but Stateside is the place for me.”   One sailor was planning to ship over and make a career in the Navy, so we all told him how sorry we were for him.  After more good natured bantering, we noticed that it was getting late also much colder, so we decided that we had better start riding for the stables about 6 miles away.   Of course any ride back to the stables would involve a race, so off we went and as soon as these ponies knew that they were headed back to the barn, they remembered how to run; what a wild ride down those brushy, forested hills.  One sailor fell off, but we caught his pony and got him back in the saddle again^[6] and off we went.   The closer we got to the stables, the faster they ran, we were whipped by the brush and bounced from side to side by the ponies, until it was a relief when we finally slid to a stop at the corral.   The proprietor looked over his lathered ponies and shook his finger at us remonstrating us for running his ponies so hard.   I explained to him that once the ponies headed for home, we couldn’t stop them, and that was the truth!   “Next time I charge more money,” was his final word, but he didn’t and we rode out of these stables for nearly a month exploring the hills of Tsingtao.

 

During this time the Communists were gaining strength in these northern mountains and now that the war with Japan was over, they were receiving weapons and help from Communist Russia.   The Nationalist Chinese army was not doing too well at this time, since they had been so severely crippled by the Japanese.   They were understaffed, nearly weapon less and seemed to lack the spirit to continue fighting, consequently the Communists began to make great advances in the political fortunes of China.   It was at this time that some of our sailors, who had ridden a little farther back in the hills, were killed by soldiers of the Communist Army.   Of course our Government protested with the usual results (nothing) and we were forbidden to ride any longer into these Communist Mountains.

 

New orders came through for us at this time, we were to weigh anchor and steam south to that great international city of Hong Kong.   From my point of view, I welcomed this news with great anticipation since we had been forbidden to ride in the hills any longer, there wasn’t a great deal for me to do in Tsingtao.

• 1 ^[1]While in port, the sailors ate many of their meals ashore in various restaurants, but while at sea,  there was no where to eat but in the mess hall,  no food but Navy chow.
• 2 ^[2]At least the men in the country dressed this way, those in the city wore the more conventional clothing of bulky, baggy cotton winter dress.
• 3 ^[3]He brought to each of us, the fastest, kindest and  best trained pony in Northern China.
• 4 ^[4]They felt slighted if we didn’t bargain with them, I think that they just wanted to try out their bargaining skills on us.
• 5 ^[5]“To ship over ,“ meant to sign up for another  tour of duty, usually a 4 year hitch.
• 6 ^[6]Shades of Gene Autry!

 

 

CHAPTER 20

 

 

HONG KONG

Stormy weather awaited us as soon as we entered the open sea from the harbor at Tsingtao.   In fact this terrible storm caused us all to stagger about and end up feeding the fish as we steamed south.   The ship pitched and rolled much like it did when we were in a typhoon, although the storm wasn’t as violent nor the waves as monstrous, but it was a terrible storm never the less.   This was quite a change from four months earlier when we sailed across this same China Sea from Jinsen to Shanghai.   On that trip the ocean was as smooth as glass, not a wave nor a ripple in sight, as if we were on some alien world.   I had never seen the ocean like that before… Or since.   There was one sailor on board the ship who had never been seasick, even in the typhoons, but he was now and his condition reflected the condition of all the ship’s personnel on the ‘road to Hong Kong’.   I was seasick for three days, but still carried out my duties as cook, however there was not as much work to do, since no one was hungry on this trip.

 

We pulled into Hong Kong Harbor during the night and I might add, into one of the most peaceful nights of rest I can remember because of the peace and quiet of the harbor in contrast to the action of such a violent storm.     As I arose during the late night to check the galley, I staggered about like a ‘drunken sailor,’ the ship was at rest, but my brain was still continuing to follow the violent movements of the ship that it had endured over the past three days, in fact this strange result of the prolonged storm was to affect me this way for the next 12 hours or so!

 

I was amazed the following morning as I stepped onto the deck and looked around, I did not expect these high hills to be around us on the island, arising, it seemed from the edge of the ocean beach.   I was to later find out that there was a narrow strip of flat land that housed the business district before the mountains actually began their ascent.   We began this new day under a cloudy sky, but the wind and the rain had ceased, granting us a good feeling towards our new harbor-home.   There were many ships anchored here and several masts and superstructures protruding from the dephths of the harbor floor, reminding us of the violence of the war.   If I remember correctly, the British liner Queen Elizabeth was sunk here and her superstructure was also protruding from the water.   The surface of the water near the shoreline was covered with sampans that housed entire families, many of whom had never left the water for land.   Their entire life cycle from birth to death, was spent on the water!

 

I was anxious to go ashore and see this marvelous city that I had heard so much about.   When the time came for me to go ashore however, Hong Kong was not nearly so lovely as it appeared from our anchorage in the harbor.   While Shanghai was relatively untouched by the ravages of war, Hong Kong was a bombed out shambles revealing to us the fierce fighting that went on here.   Even when we rode the cable car^[1] to the top of Victoria peak, the mansions there were bombed out shells.   As I remember it, the Japanese used these mansions for their headquarters, so they drew the attention of British and American Bombers.

 

As we ascended the steep face of Victoria Peak, over 1300 feet above us, it seemed almost straight up, of course it wasn’t, but I think it is the steepest cable car in the world. This tram system was built in 1888 and as frightening as it was, it had a perfect safety record, so that made us feel more comfortable.   The ride took only about ten minutes, but it is probably the most scenic ride to be found anywhere.   After reaching the top I could look across the bay into Kowloon and the mountains of mainland China in the distance.   Then as I lowered my gaze, what a gorgeous view I had of the sparkling blue harbor filled with ships and the magnificent city lying at my feet and of course the tram rails that went straight down the mountain and appeared to disappear into the bay.   I took this wonderful trip several times and while at the top, hiked about, or caught a rickshaw to travel the various scenic trails and roads.

 

There was still some rubble in the streets^[2] of Hong Kong, but many building were intact and carried on a thriving business.   One such business was the Hong Kong Hotel, which had an excellent restaurant on the third floor (I think) and one that we frequented often. It was in this classy restaurant that I experienced the famous Chinese muti-coursed dinner. About 10 sailors from our ship had met at this hotel for a nine course dinner that required about two hours to complete.   I thoroughly enjoyed my evenings of Epicurean delights in this grand city on the rebound.

 

The sight-seeing was not limited to the city proper, but extended into the countryside as well.   One such excursion was a visit to the Ah boon Haw, Tiger Balm Gardens some distance from the center of Hong Kong and located on an eight acre plot of hillside ground..   These gardens and Pagodas were very ornate with carvings and plaster casts of dragons and many other Chinese characters. I, along with two of my shipmates, Burroughs and Wallen, explored the gardens, viewed the grotesque figures, walked through ornate buildings, then climbed six flights up the tall ‘Tiger Pagoda.   We spent the day here milling about with many Chinese people, climbing more pagodas and having a great time. ‘Tiger Balm’ was an ointment (similar to Mentholatum) that was supposed to cure you of whatever ailed you, plus it could take all the soreness from your muscles.   It was very popular in China and Mr. Ah Boon Haw became a wealthy man through the marketing of it.

 

While in Hong Kong we established a seadrome for our flying boats (PBM Mariners) and carried on our regular duties, but it was the shore leave in these cities that made our stay so memorable.   Speaking of shore leave, I must not forget my visit to the race track^[3], my roller skating^[4] venture and the delightful ferry crossing to Kowloon on the mainland. I don’t remember much of Kowloon, but the trip across the bay jockying for position among the junks and sampans was a grand experience and the view of Hong Kong from Kowloon was worth the cost of the trip.   All in all, I had a wonderful time; I loved the climate (much warmer than Tsingtao), the British influence (many people spoke English), and the comopolitan life of Hong Kong.   But once again duty called and it came time to pull anchor and retrace our wake to that great city of Shanghai.

 

While visiting in these Chinese ports, I seized every opportunity to visit the cities, eat their food, observe their customs and enjoy their company.   I learned much of their language and after nearly a year I could communicate quite well in Chinese.   As exciting as my shipmates and I found the Orient to be however, there was one sailor on our ship who feared to go ashore (and didn’t), consequently he missed out on some of the greatest adventures of our tour of duty.

 

 

• ^[1] I am not sure if it was a cable car in the same style of a San Francisco Cable Car, but one thing I do know, it went up a steep incline to Victoria Peak.
• ^[2] The Chinese were in the process of cleaning up the rubble when we arrived.   Also buildings were being repaired or torn down and replaced with new modern skyscrapers.
• ^[3] Horse racing was done differently here, since the horses did not start the race from the same point.   The slowest horse was placed closest to the finish line, the next slowest horse back a bit, etc. with the fastest horse at the back of the line.   Never the less it was exciting to watch them run.   The race track was a result of British rule over the island.
• ^[4] The floor of the skating rink was cement and the skates had steel wheels.   This combination produced a layer of fine cement dust over the surface and if you fell down (which I did when going through the waves) you arose with your navy blue uniform nearly white with dust.

 

CHAPTER 21

 

 

RETURN TO SHANGHAI

Here we are steaming at 18 knots^[1] on the gentle swells of the open sea, once again drawing near to Shanghai.   When we passed through the South China Sea on the way to Hong Kong a month and a half ago, this same sea was ferocious and violent (chapter 20), but how things change, now the sky is clear, there is a soft breeze blowing and the waves are barely perceptible.   A lovely day such as this, more than makes up for any discomfort of the past.   I am standing on the deck now and as I lean on the rail slowly moving up and down and from side to side with the ship watching the sea slip by, I begin to reflect on what I’m doing and where I am:

I can’t help but think about the War and its upheaval; I think about the misery and destruction that I’ve seen and finally I try to come to grips with the sorrow and heartache accompanying the death and dismemberment of millions of people. My mind dwells for a time on the conclusion of this conflict and the dropping of the two nuclear bombs (I’m glad that it was done in order to end this bloodletting) followed by the unconditional surrender of the Japanese.   Finally my thoughts return to the present and my presence here in the Orient; ‘what an exciting time I’m having here in the Navy, how I love this life!’     I must make a tough decision though, should I remain in the Navy and make this my career, or should I return to civilian life and the hills of Oregon?^[2]

 

A few hours ago we started up the silt laden Yangtze River and now The Duxbury Bay has made a turn to port^[3] and entered the Whangpoo River.   My, how familiar everything appears, how long has it been, a year, maybe two?   No! It was just two and a half months ago that we raised the anchor and left this port for Tsingtao… to Hong Kong… and return.   We slowly moved among the hundreds of sampans and junks plying the muddy waters of the Whangpoo and docked at a pier a short distance up river from Shanghai.   I would like to stand here all day and drink in the sights and watch the activity, but I can’t stand at the rail like a tourist any longer, it is time for me to be in the galley, time to go on duty.

 

As a cook, my watch normally began after the noon meal, the time wasn’t critical since my partner and I would begin preparing the evening meal.   The first thing that we did was to check the menu prepared by our senior cook (Petty Officer, Cook First Class), then we began gathering the supplies needed put this meal together.   One of us would take a mess cook down below to the cold storage locker and bring up fruit^[4], vegetables, eggs, etc., then to the freezer for meat for the next day (to thaw).   The meat for tonight was already out, thawing.   Now we were ready to start the meal.   The mess cook began peeling potatoes in the mechanical potato peeler, a large drum with a rough interior (like coarse sandpaper) and a revolving wavy shaped plate at the bottom.   There was a water inlet at the top of the drum and a drain at the bottom to drain away the potato skin particles, in other words the skins were simply ground off.   After the machine was filled with potatoes and water, it was turned on and the rotating wavy shaped plate forced the potatoes up and down and against the sides of the drum, as they tumbled around, centrifugal action forced them against the rough sides and they were soon as smooth as a baby’s bottom.   If they were forgotten and left running too long, we ended up with a tub full of marbles!   Our large containers were made of stainless steel^[5] and were bolted in place, they had a water inlet at the top, a drain at the bottom and a double jacket for steam.   To cook the soup, potatoes, vegetables, etc., we put the ingredients in the copper, opened the water valve, then the steam valve, the live steam (very hot) soon had the ingredients boiling, all we had to do then was to watch them for doneness and season for taste.   We had large electric ovens for baking, roasts, turkeys, casserole dishes, etc.

When making mashed potatoes, etc. after the potatoes were cooked and the water drained, they were dumped into a large mixer with a beater about 24 inches across which we lowered by an electric motor and turned to the desired speed.   Soon we had mashed potatoes for 300 men!   We had a large grill, like a restaurant grill, which we used for pancakes, frying steaks, liver, and even making toast.   For toast we shook salt over the grill, to keep the bread from sticking, and placed the bread on it. after turning it over it was placed in large pans and sent down to the mess hall in the dumb waiter.   I wonder if the crew ever considered why the toast was salty?

 

After the supper was over we would gather together most of the supplies needed for breakfast and then secure the galley, around 2000 hours.   If a seaplane came in late I would go up and prepare chow for them, but not for anyone else.   We arose early in the morning (about 0400 hours) and began breakfast.   It was on an occasion such as this (during the war) that I heard a pounding noise, then a tapping, then pounding, thinking that the machinists mates were repairing some piece of broken machinery, I ignored it at first, but when I went into the head (rest room) there was one of the sailors beating on the overhead pipes^[6] with a paint scraper.   I spoke to him, at first he ignored me then said something about the music that he made from the pipes, unusual, very unusual, but I had my work to do, so back to the galley I went and forgot the incident until another crewman stuck his head in the hatch and said, “ the master at arms just took Sorenson (not his real name) to sick bay, he’s gone Asiatic^[7].”   Sorenson was fair that day and I took a tray of chow to him, at that time he seemed somewhat withdrawn and quiet.   Two hours later though he grabbed a knife and began chasing another sailor through the ship, screaming at the top of his lungs.   Our other buddy was running for his life, until about 10 sailors jumped and subdued Sorenson.   Finally the master at arms got there and put him in a straight jacket.   He was then sent back to the States.

 

After breakfast was finished, we had an hour break before time to begin the noon meal.   That noon meal always seemed more hectic, but we were wide awake and restless, so we began it with gusto.   After we finished the meal, sent it down to the mess hall, we were finished for the day (24 hours), unless we worked over to help the next shift.   We could go on shore leave, or if at sea, read, play ping pong, lay on the deck and get a tan, etc. On one occasion after we had been smelling a kind of sour smell for a few days, we decided to really clean the galley before we were put on report.   When I pulled out the flour bin, to my amazement, I found a strange metal container behind it.   I called to the other cook, “Mitchell, I found our sour smell, its in this metal contraption.”   “But what is It?” he asked as he moved quickly to the place where I was kneeling.   “I don’t know, but it is sure strange,” I replied.   After examining it farther, we discovered that it was a ‘still’, converting raisins into wine! It seems that our little fat cook had hidden it there.   He was no longer with us since he had a broken foot and was sent back to the states a week prior to this event.   A broken foot?   Oh yes, he had dropped a large steel container on his foot and that so angered him that he cursed and kicked it with all his might, that accounted for the badly bruised and broken foot!   About this time our baker had broken his hand, so I did the baking (along with some cooking) for the next month.

 

Our seadrome with its patrol planes was still intact at Shanghai, having been taken care of by another seaplane tender while we were away.   Now that we were back, everything settled back into a normal routine again.   Soon it was time for shore leave, and I was anxious to see the city again.   When we traveled to Shanghai now it would generally be by truck or jeep, (only occasionally by boat) since the road came right to the pier.   Yes, the city looked the same as when we left it, however there were more Americans about now, more Shore Patrol, more officers and even WACS and WAVES.   We were required to salute all Allied officers including; British, Australian, Chinese and French.   We had to be more ‘spit and polish’ in our dress, i.e.., cap on straight and two finger widths above our eyebrows, cuffs rolled down, shoes polished, etc.   But the inscrutable merchant was just the same, bending with the shifting tide, he was able to survive through war and peace, I don’t know about Communism though.

 

THE BLACK MARKET

If WW II produced one universal side effect, I suppose it would be the black market, whether in Europe or in Asia.   After the war in Europe the USA formulated the Marshall Plan to funnel food and clothing into those war ravaged countries, the same was done for the Orient, but I forgot the name of the Plan.   They both had one thing in common, much of the material sent overseas ended up on the black market.   That means that officials or implementers of the Plans were receiving kickbacks to divert these foods to shady merchants who profited greatly from the transactions.   In Shanghai, a huge transport ship arrived from the States one day and much of the food was on the black market the next!   How do I know that?   I know that because the black marketeers who were set up in alleys and hidden away in old buildings were always trying to buy butter and white sugar from us, since the only sugar they had was raw sugar, a larger grained sugar, yellowish in color and less sweet.   Their butter supply was from zero to very, very little.   The day after our ship with its free food and clothing arrived, every black market peddler that I met, had pounds and pounds of white sugar and an unlimited amount of American butter in tins!   The poor got precious little, but the rich got as much as they wanted.   If one had the money, anything could be purchased on the black market.

 

THE COLD WAR

After WW II ended, there was one Super Power, that Power was the United States of America, with Great Britain as its principle ally.   But there was another power emerging from the wings of the world stage, USSR.   They lost so much during the war, but picked up a lot in different treaties forged during and at the close of WW II.   These treaties granted them control over large areas of the world and over millions of people.   Now they began to flex their muscles, that’s when it affected the Duxbury Bay.   Russian fighters shot down one of our patrol planes with the loss of the crew, our Leaders naturally protested, you know how that goes, then more protests, a more belligerent stand from Russia, etc.   Finally a world court was convened in Shanghai to settle the case, and our ship would remain in Shanghai until it was settled.   However many of us were scheduled to either be discharged or go through the process of re-enlisting back in the States before the trial began.   A plan was formulated; all those with the correct amount of points^[8] to be discharged would be given transfer orders and placed on a troop transport for San Francisco, the rest would remain in Shanghai with the ship.   That settled it for me, I opted for the discharge and transportation to the US.

 

SAN FRANCISCO HERE I COME…

We could take with us only what we could carry and that, of course must be legal material, no contraband!.   What a bittersweet day for us, sweet to be going home but bitter to leave behind all the souvenirs that we has acquired in China.   We said our good-byes to our shipmates, promising to look each other up as soon as we got settled Stateside and then were loaded on this huge transport (huge to us).   There was only one saving grace of that trip, we would soon be home!   We slept in bunks stacked five high^[9], we ate at a bar standing up and we had nothing to do but police our area and loll around on the deck for the next two weeks.   We never saw one speck of land on the return, until we pulled into San Francisco Bay and docked at Treasure Island to be processed out. Most of the time on the transport was spent on the top deck under the shade of a lifeboat talking about what our first States-side meal would be (from the civilian restaurants, that is). My craving was for a thick chocolate malt, a delight that I sorely missed over the past couple of years.

^[1]                 Knots per hour, similar to miles per hour.   A knot is 2000 yards while a mile is but 1760 yards, so 18 knots is equal to about 20 and a half miles per hour.

^[2]                 So far away now, both in miles and thought.

^[3]                 Port is left, Starboard is right facing forward.

^[4]           Once when I was in the locker gathering supplies, this big bully stuck his head in the hatch and ordered, ‘give me some oranges!’   ‘No way,’ said I and turned back to my work.   The next thing I knew, he had a grip on the back of my neck and twisted my arm behind my back, ‘I’m taking all I want,’ he growled and threw me down into the lettuce and tomatoes, after scooping up an armful of oranges, he ran up the ladder (steel stairs).   I was so mad that when I got to my feet, I grabbed a heavy cleaver (that I used to cut the wires on the wooden crates) and jumped through the hatch after him.   He was at the top of the stairs when I threw the cleaver at him with all my might.   It was fortunate for me, and for him, that I missed, the cleaver went between his legs and buried itself in a metal locker with a loud crash.   He stopped… Looked at the cleaver and started to say something, but I shouted at him, ‘if you ever come down here or touch me again, I’ll put that cleaver right through the middle of you!’   I never had any trouble with him after that.

^[5]                 They were called ‘coppers’ from a bygone day when they were made of copper.

^[6]                 Most of the overhead pipes were exposed on the ship.

^[7]                 Navy jargon meaning, he’s gone crazy, bonkers, over the edge, around the bend, etc.

^[8]   The need for your trade took precedence over ‘the amount of time in the Service’, i.e.., a cook needed more points to be discharged than did a seaman, etc.

^[9]   On the Duxbury Bay our bunks were but two high.

 

 

CHAPTER   22

 

THE JOURNEY HOME

As soon as the transport ship docked at Treasure Island^[1] we were given temporary quarters and had our first meal in two weeks where we could sit down to eat. When we entered the mess hall, the new enlisted men with their close cropped hair and snow white scalps, served on the chow line.   We were now the old salts, and they really boosted our ego by saying, “would you like more chicken, sir?”, “how about some cake sir?”, “can I bring you some coffee sir?, etc., etc.   What I didn’t realize at the time was, since the war was over, and we were the veterans of that conflict, they really looked up to us as such.   When we were overseas, we were all equal in our experiences, we worked together, fought together, had the same fear during the battles and the same exultation at the conclusion of the war, now for the first time in over a year and a half we met people who had none of these experiences and who eagerly quizzed us, “What was it like over there?” Answer: ‘Good and Bad’; “Were you wounded?” Answer: ‘No’; “Did you see action?” Answer: ‘Yes’; “Did you see Kamikaze planes?” Answer: ‘Yes’, etc.

 

As we went through the processing routine, among other things, we were given our War Medals, Ribbons, Battle Stars and any other meritorious awards due us.   Now when we walked about the base we had the appearance of a Russian^[2] General, well not quite, but we did get more attention.   It wasn’t long before we were put on trains to our own district base to be mustered out of the service, for me it was a train ride to Bremerton Navy Base on Whidby Island in the State of Washington^[3].   There I was asked for the last time, “would you like to re-enlist for a four year hitch?   You will be granted a one month leave and xxx dollars (I forgot the amount of money offered, but it was substantial). This offer was tempting, but I had already made up my mind, I was going home to stay!

 

Finally I was on the train again to Portland^[4] and since there was a four hour lay over before the train left for Bremerton, I walked about the city near the depot (still in uniform).   Everyone came up to me, shaking my hand and patting me on the back, I was congratulated over and over again, “Can I buy you dinner?” “Can I buy you a drink?”   “Can I give you a ride?” “We’re proud of you,” etc, etc.   I couldn’t even pay for a candy bar, or a coke, someone would do it in a flash.   I didn’t understand all this attention then, but I do now; WWII was an extra ordinary war, we were fighting for survival and everyone pitched in doing their part, now they were congratulating me for being on the front lines, but really we were sharing together in a common accomplishment.   I can’t help but compare the shabby treatment received by the Viet Nam Veterans, it was downright criminal. Most of them had to slip back into the country unnoticed so that they would not receive scorn and ridicule from the antiwar and hippie groups.

 

I would like to make one observation before I leave the Portland station, I left my seabag, containing all my clothing and possessions on a bench in the station, when I returned from my walk, everything was just as I left it. I think that in itself is a commentary on life as it was then and as it is today (1996).   What I did was not uncommon, since there were suitcases and other articles lying on the floor or on the benches with no police or security guards on patrol; what has happened to our Nation in the past 50 years??

 

I had already written home to my parents informing them of my arrival at the Eugene station and now with every click of the wheels on the track, I was drawing ever nearer home and to my family.   I was really getting excited now, how would everyone look?   It had been almost two years since I last saw them, three years since I saw Lawrence, who arrived home from the Army ahead of me.   Maybe they wouldn’t be able to come to Eugene to pick me up (it was 22 miles), when that fleeting thought went through my mind one gentleman on the train told me that if no one was there to meet me, he would drive me home.

 

As the train slowed to a stop, the porter opened the door of our coach and put down the steps for us.   Now the big moment had arrived, three weeks ago I was walking the streets of Shanghai, China, now I’m stepping on a cement walkway in Eugene, Oregon!   As I stepped on the ground and began to walk alongside the train toward the station, I saw my family coming to meet me, knew them instantly from the big grins on their faces.   I gave mother a big hug and a kiss, hugged all my brothers and sisters^[5], I just couldn’t believe how much they had grown while I was away.   My younger brothers were quiet and shy, but that shyness disappeared in short order, they soon talked without stopping.   Lawrence had bought a car shortly after his discharge ( the first car in our family) and now I saw it, a 1938 Chrysler New Yorker, very impressive!   I retrieved my seabag and we all squeezed into this magnificent automobile, “don’t slam the doors,” warned Lawrence, he had pet peeve about slamming doors, and if you wanted to ride with him, YOU DID NOT SLAM THE DOORS.   This was early June, the day was warm, the crops were growing and I was home, it was a perfect day.

 

The first impression that I had of Eugene, was how small it was.   When I was in high school, Eugene was such a large city with tall buildings (4 or 5 story at the most), but now it had shrunk (in my mind).   I had been in Portland, Seattle, San Francisco, San Diego, Shanghai and Hong Kong, large cities with real skyscrapers and huge bridges, Eugene was like a very small suburb of one of these real cities.   Then when I passed through Marcola, I couldn’t believe this little rural community and the quaint little covered bridge crossing the little Mohawk River. Someone has said, “travel broadens the mind,” I know that it surely expanded mine!

 

As soon as I returned home, I had to go shopping for civilian clothing, so back to Eugene and a new wardrobe.   I carefully packed my uniform away for posterity, but the moths loved the pure wool found in a Navy uniform and began to systematically destroy it, never the less I kept it intact for seven or eight years.

 

 

^[1]                 In San Francisco harbor.

^[2]                 Russian officers were decorated with medals nearly every time they turned around.

^[3]           Again I would be at the window as the train rolled northward through my home city of Eugene.

^[4]               My city of destiny. Although I was born and raised in Oregon, and Portland was but 120 miles distant from Eugene, I had never been there. BUT, the Service changed that… Portland for a physical (Army Air Force), Portland for physical (Navy pilot) , Portland on ‘D’ Day as an inductee, Portland on leave from Farragut, Portland on the return to Farragut, Portland on the way to Terminal Island, Ca., Portland on the way to Seattle to the Duxbury Bay, Portland on the way to Bremerton, and now Portland on the way home with an Honorable Discharge.

^[5]                 I think that Josephine had a job with Manereud and Huntington Fuel Co. near the station at this time.

 

CHAPTER  23

 

COLLEGE DAYS

There was a job awaiting me as soon as I was ready to go to work and that came to pass three days later.   Dad was working to get piling out of the Downing forest land, so along with my brothers I went right to work with him.   We fell the trees^[1] and cut them to length with crosscut saws, then peeled the bark from them with a spud^[2].   They would now become telephone, electric and utility poles (just like the ones that you see in your neighborhood), or be driven into the ground as support for bridges, causeways, etc..

 

I made enough money^[3] from this job to buy a used car.   There were no new cars on the market yet, in fact there had been no civilian cars manufactured since 1942, but they were on the way now.   There was one catch in purchasing a new car, you had to sign up and wait until your name came up (about one year)^[4]   Lawrence had signed up for a new Chevrolet as soon as he received his discharge from the Army, but he soon grew tired of waiting and bought the Chrysler, then turned his place in line to me.   I also grew tired of waiting and bought a 1929 Model A Ford coupe to drive until my name came up for the Chevy. I paid $275.00 for this Model A, and it was a great “fun” car with a rumble seat in the back providing an open-air ride for two or three persons back there.

 

My first car was this Model “A” coupe with a rumble seat for two or three persons. After I fixed it up, it was a pretty good car. It had mechanical brakes, so it took a long distance to stop. It also had 23 running lights on the front and around the top. The top speed was 55 mph. Lawrence is leaning on the car, no doubt giving me some good advice.

 

 

 

I taught Josephine to drive in this old Model A and we had a great time, a laugh a minute.   One time as she was driving on the Hill Road in farming country, we came upon a large flock of chickens crossing the gravel road in front of a farm house.   I said, “you’ll have to put the brakes on to slow down, honk the horn and they will get out of the way,” but Josephine’s foot was glued to the gas pedal and she pushed it all the way to the floor while wildly honking the horn.   I don’t know if you have ever seen chickens scrambling for their lives or not, but these chickens scattered as if a tornado struck them.   Looking through the back window, I saw feathers, chickens and dust filling the air where we had just shot through.   “Stupid chickens,” I laughed, “they’ll get off the road the next time they see a woman driver coming.”^[5]

 

When the piling job ran out, Dad and I went to work at the Eugene Planing Mill which was owned by our relatives, the Hyland’s.   While working there we commuted from Wendling to Eugene, a distance of 25 miles, in the Model A which chugged along at 55 miles per hour through the beautiful Mohawk Valley.

After a 45 minute ride, dad went to his job at the lumber re-manufacturing side of the mill and I went to the finishing side where we made doors, windows and cabinets.   When it came time for lunch, we would go to a cafe and order something tasty, or if we brought a lunch from home, we drove to the top of Skinner’s Butte and ate it while overlooking the city of Eugene and the Willamette River.

 

 

 

 

Ellis and George, April 1947.    

1947 Chevy

 

 

 

 

While I was working at the Planing Mill, the new Chevy^[6] finally became available for me.     This new car made the commute much more pleasant for dad and I since we now had a comfortable seat, a quiet motor, a heater and a radio.   The commuting miles slipped by quickly as we chatted about the farms, our work, the war, the pioneers, etc.   Dad was 62 years old at this time and I was 21.

I would like to make a few observations about those postwar years.   Foods such as meat, sugar and flour, etc., that were hard to come by during the war, were now becoming plentiful again as well as leather goods (shoes) and gasoline.   Rubber was an item that was still scarce and that hindered us from having good tires.   It is true that synthetic tires and inner tubes were on the market, but their performance was dismal.   There were no tubeless tires as yet, so all tires required those failure prone inner tubes.   A tire lasting 20,000 miles was outstanding, most lasted but 10,000 to 15,000 miles.   In contrast the Firestone tires on our 1992 Thunderbird have 82,000 miles on them and still look good.   How long has it been since you had a blowout?   In 1947, I would have one every month or so, but with the modern tires, I haven’t had a blowout in the last 20 years!   I think that some of this talk about the “good old days,” is just an invention of a poor memory.

 

I don’t know if it developed from my first hand experience with the misery and suffering that I saw in China or not, but by now I had developed a strong concern for people with needs and problems, and I wanted my life to be committed to helping them.   I discovered that suffering was not limited to China and that people in America had problems as well.   I then became convinced that spiritual strength through faith in God was the answer to these basic needs.   God’s love and salvation would inspire love, His presence would dispel the bleakness of despair and His hope would give new incentive to life.   After reaching this conclusion, I realized that if I were to minister to people from a moral/spiritual standpoint, I must prepare myself for the task. These thoughts gave me direction, but now I must furnish the commitment.

 

What better place to learn of God, study the Bible and prepare for ministering to people than in a Bible College.   I had planned to enter the University of Oregon and major in engineering, but at the last minute, I changed direction and made an abrupt change from secular education to sacred and enrolled in Bible Standard Institute, a Bible school located in Eugene, Oregon.

 

The classes at the Institute began at 7:00 A.M. and finished shortly after noon (12:30), with this schedule it was possible for students to work in the afternoon should they choose to do so.   I started school in September and began working each afternoon in walnut orchards harvesting nuts and taking other odd jobs.   This was a radical change from my good paying job in the Planing Mill, but I was happy.

 

Eventually I was hired to work at the Eugene Country Club, (along with my brother Ernie) for the Green’s keeper, Marion Sutton.   The crew on this job consisted of six to eight persons who mowed the grass on the greens and fairways, sprayed weeds, raked leaves, fertilized grass, trimmed shrubbery and a myriad of other tasks.   This job had a great bonus, we could play golf on the very best course in Eugene after the members were through for the day. This was a great job for me and I stayed with it until after I graduated.

 

 

 

 

1948; The author working at the Eugene Country Club spraying the greens to protect the well manicured grass (Astoria Bent) from fungus and disease.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part of the grounds crew at the Eugene Country Club 1948.

Duane Woods, Ellis W., Bill Johnson, _________, Ernie W., Marion Sutton (Greens Keeper and our boss).

 

Our Bible College not only had us involved in education through text books and manuscripts, but also in practical experience.   There were dozens of extension classes for us that reached out into the surrounding communities.   We assisted local churches by teaching Bible classes, providing and directing music, carrying out community visitation programs and even preaching.   I’m certain that we made many mistakes, but no one criticized us, in fact they continually encouraged us.   We were also involved in holding services at the jail, at convalescent hospitals, in the parks and on the sidewalks of the city.   It was at the latter that I had a rather unique experience.

After the street meeting one evening, I walked along the sidewalk and in the park passing out literature and talking to people about the love of God and allowing them to talk to me about their problems if they had any.   I encouraged them to attend church on Sunday, then we would pray together before we parted company. One evening I   met a gentleman near the park, who told me that his life had gone sour, that he had lost everything he owned and now he found that life was not worth living.   After sitting and talking together for about thirty minutes, we prayed and he made a decision to accept Christ as his Savior.   I reached into my pocket for a New testament to give him, but they were all gone, so I gave him my personal Bible, which he promised to read each day.   I felt good about this contact, knowing that he had made a lasting commitment to himself and to God.

 

A year had come and gone and as I was leaving school one day the registrar called to me, “Ellis, I have a note for you, it just came in over the phone.”   I took the note from her which stated that uncle Mason Warner^[7] would like to have me drop by his house.   Uncle Mason was a rather prominent person in the city of Eugene, also my landlord at the time since my brother Ernie and I rented one of his apartments. The first thought that came to my mind was, “did we forget to pay the rent this month?”

 

I drove to his house, about six blocks away and knocked on the door.   Aunt Celia came to the door and ushered me into the parlor where uncle Mason was standing tall^[8] and impressive.   After greeting me, he stated that he had inherited a puzzle and perhaps I had the answer to it, in any case he wanted to hear the story.   The crux of the puzzle was a book that he held in his hand, my Scofield Bible.

 

It seems that as a construction company was demolishing old buildings along the Willamette River to make way for the new Ferry Street Bridge, a workman found this Bible carefully wrapped in a cloth underneath one of the buildings where the transients hung out.   Since it was in such good condition, he took it to his supervisor, who carried it to the owner of the construction firm and said, “one of our workers found this Bible under the old warehouse we were demolishing.” The owner was a friend of Mason Warner and since it had the name of Ellis Warner inside, he drove to Mason’s house and asked if he knew this person.   Of course Mason did… And that was the reason for me being here today. At first I couldn’t remember why the Bible would have been under this old building where the bums hung out.   It was my Bible all right, but how it got under that building, I didn’t have a clue.   I knew that it had been gone for about a year and I had since replaced it with another… Then it came to me in a flash, I remembered the man in the park and our conversation that night long ago.   As I related this account to uncle Mason and aunt Celia, uncle Mason said with a twinkle in his eye, “I’m sure glad to hear that, I didn’t want to think that our apartment was so bad that you were now sleeping with the bums under vacant buildings.”   We had a good laugh and the puzzle was solved.   I still think of that gentleman and I trust that he found hope and encouragement through the reading of that Bible.

 

When I graduated from Bible College, uncle Mason and aunt Celia attended the ceremony with a wonderful present for me, their family Bible.   It had been given to him by his mother in the 1800’s.   That was the greatest gift I could have received and I treasure it to this day.

 

Meanwhile back in school, I was deeply involved in every facet of church activity from the Easter Cantata to the Christmas drama and in every special evangelistic endeavor between.   There were so many godly activities going on during this time that it was hard to keep up with all of them.   I think that it was the result of a grateful nation emerging from the horror of World War II, consciously or subconsciously being thankful to God.

 

During this time a young minister began holding evangelistic meetings in Los Angeles by the name of Billy Graham and another gentleman, William Branham, crisscrossed the nation praying for the sick and afflicted.   Shortly after this, we students had the opportunity to help set up a huge tent for special meetings held by another young minister by the name of Oral Roberts.   An organization by the name of “Youth for Christ” was born at this time and soon swept across the country.   It seemed as if something new and exciting was happening every day and we wanted to be a part of it: it truly was a great time to be living!

 

Some of the courses in our Bible College:

Bible Doctrine- The doctrine of God, of Salvation, of Angels, Baptism,                   Divine Healing, Second Coming of Christ, Resurrection of the dead, Holy             Spirit, etc..

Missions- Foreign and Home.

Pentateuch, the five books of Law (of Moses).

Bible History- Joshua, Judges, Ruth, Samuel, Kings, Chronicles, Ezra,          Nehemiah, Esther.

Poetry– Job, Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Solomon.

Prophets– Major and Minor

The Life of Christ, the book of Acts, the Epistles and Evangelism

Comparative Religions and False Cults

The Apocalypse and Daniel.

Also

English, Spelling, Foreign Languages, Music, Preaching, etc..

 

Our instructors were truly dedicated servants of God, since they couldn’t have been in it for the money, there was very little.   These classes were certainly inspirational and after three years of intense Bible Study we felt that we were prepared to face the world^[9].

 

During the school year there were also times of revival, when students prayed and sought^[10] the Lord. The faculty encouraged these times of refreshing, knowing full well that we would become much better students and would also gain a spiritual renewal that no amount of book learning could hope to produce. Not only did we find renewal in school prayer meetings, but our mother churches, Lighthouse Temple, First Assembly of God (Eugene) or First Assembly of God (Springfield) also had periodic revival meetings which we attended with positive results. During these meetings we heard ministers from around the world who challenged us to remain true to our study and prayer timer, to become great pastors, dedicated missionaries, fiery evangelists, knowledgeable teachers or Christian business people. We had but three or four years, and what an investment they were! What an adventure! What a life changing experience!

 

It is hard to state ones favorite Bible College course, but Bible Doctrine had to be near the top. How I enjoyed the classes along with the teacher, Harold Powers, he was a real prince when it came to professors.   The Bible Doctrine classes were classes of reason and focus, one had to prepare and that preparation had to become an integral part of one’s own self. In our Doctrine classes, every argument had to be from a Scriptural foundation, every presentation had to logically stated and if the preponderance of evidence was overwhelmingly against ones private view, then one must be man (or woman) enough to be able to say, “I was wrong.”

 

The course in ‘New Testament Greek’ was another favorite class of mine. I now knew what the scholars knew. I also discovered the ‘why’ of certain interpretations of Biblical passages. For the first time I knew exactly where I stood and why! It changed my life from walking on a layer of marbles to that of walking on solid concrete.

This short chapter could never portray all the wonder and excitement that I ex

perienced in this compact spiritual segment of my life, but I hope that it

conveys enough of my dedication to the ‘Higher Calling’ to influence others to step into the gap as a worker in God’s harvest field. I have never regretted my decision to serve God!

 

 

 

Eugene Bible College^[11] as it looked when I attended in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s. To the left is Lighthouse Temple, a Pentecostal church that came into being in the late 1920’s under the leadership of Fred Hornshuh, Joseph Conley^[12], and others, and was given a jump start by the noted evangelist, Dr. Price. This photo portrays a typical day in Oregon complete with a rain slick street and sidewalk. Ellis.

 

 

Summary: After I graduated from Bible Standard Institute, my sister Helen entered and graduated, followed by brothers Leonard (two years), and Wayne, who graduated in the late 1950’s (my brother Ernie attended a sister College in Pasadena). My niece Anna and her fiancé Wayne Cordeiro graduated from here in the 1970’s and at the present time our grandson, Jonathan Warner is attending (1997, 1998).

 

 

 

^[1]                 Piling trees were tall straight Douglas Fir trees with no limbs near the ground, after falling, bucking and peeling, Huston skidded them out and shipped them all across the US.

^[2]                 The “spud” was a tool with a wooden handle between 2 ½ to 3 feet long and a stiff metal blade about 3 inches long on one end.   It was sharp and when force was applied, it would peel the bark from the tree.

^[3]                 I had saved up about $600.00 while in the Navy on a $66.00 a month salary.   I left my Navy money in the bank for the new car awaiting me.

^[4]                 However the more prominent people, or the rich managed to purchase a new car immediately with a little cumshaw.

^[5]                 A “woman driver” was a rarity and the object of many jokes in those days.

^[6]                 It was a 1947 Chevy Fleetwood, costing $1400.00 plus some extras which boosted the price to $1800.

^[7]                 Mason Warner was a great uncle to me.   He was dad’s uncle and one of the three sons of Tom and Agnes (Stewart) Warner who had crossed the plains by covered wagon in 1853 and settled near Eugene.

^[8]                 He was about 6’4” tall.

^[9] About five years after graduation, I was back in the area and took a course in New Testament Greek, taught by Dr. Landros of the University of Oregon, who also taught English and Spanish at the Bible College.

^[10] “Sought the Lord” , a phrase that abounds in Pentecostal and Holiness groups, meaning continued and earnest prayer, many times it continued night and day.

^[11] This Bible college began as Bible Standard Training School, then progressed to Bible Standard Institute, finally to its present status, Eugene Bible College with a great campus on Bailey Hill Road.

^[12] Famous for the tract, “The Lonely Cabin on the Forty Mile.”

 

 

CHAPTER 24

BACK TO THE WOODS

While I was attending Bible College, I had a distinct purpose of ministry continually before me, but when I graduated with the Class of 1950, I couldn’t find the gate that would open into the field of my vision.   Several of my classmates were selected to become youth ministers in larger churches, others were invited to become directors of music, some elected to become evangelists and others were called upon to travel from church to church presenting child evangelism classes.   Since the graduation certificate carried with it a license to minister,^[1] some couples were accepted by congregations to be their Pastors.   But some of us fell through the cracks.   My desire and training was in the field of pastoring, but I was still single at this time and churches were looking for a minister who was married^[2].

 

I was at a quandary, what should I do?   I realize now, I should have been given specific guidance, but it was all generic and ephemeral; “Pray about it…” “Wait on the Lord and He’ll show you what to do…” “Something will turn up,” etc.   I had been praying about it for the past three years, I had also taught, preached, evangelized, and even did construction work in churches, but now that I had arrived with diploma in hand, I was at the station with no train in sight.   I did entertain the idea of going on to higher education, but I didn’t have the money to do so at this time, so I did what Peter did in John 21:3, I looked for a job.

 

Dad was working with a logging company, marking and scaling timber.   I inquired about a job there also and was immediately hired.   The company had hired many new ‘fallers’^[3] and needed an additional scaler… Me!   My job was to first obtain a list each day as to what lengths the company needed the logs to be.   Then I was to determine from the shape and taper of the tree what cuts would make the best scale, (the most board feet).   I then would measure for the first cut 16’ or 20’, etc. and cut a notch with my marking ax.   After surveying the remaining length of the tree, I did the same until I got to where the top was about 12 inches across.^[4]   I then measured the diameter at each mark, (and the length) converting this information into the scale of the log. The loggers then came back and bucked^[5] the

tree at my marks.   It was important that my scale be accurate since the fallers and the buckers were paid according to my scale.   Incidentally there was a built in antagonism between the logging people and the mill people.   The loggers worked hard and wanted good scale (and grade) for their work; the mill was paid according to the amount and grade of the lumber they produced, so they did not want to over pay for short^[6] or low grade logs.   Into this formula also came the truckers who were paid according to the scale and grade of the logs they hauled from the woods to the mill.     You get the picture now, don’t you?   The loggers had a tendency to over scale and upgrade a little, the mill to under scale and down grade each log.   I found that the mill usually had the best bargaining position and usually prevailed, much to the dismay of the fallers, buckers and truckers.   Many times though the logging company would find another mill that desperately needed logs and one that provided good scale^[7], so they would switch, then the woods crew and the truckers would be happy again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                          

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                     Photo and logging operation by Mark Warner

Hauling logs from the forest to the sawmill. This photo is several years later, but the operation was the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had worked with dad at this job for a year, when I realized that I must get back to my original commitment to the ministry. The original question still remained though, HOW?

For the past year events and time seemed to plod along at a leisure pace, but now that was to change drastically. In less than one week, my life would be forever altered.

 

School had ended for the year and my sister Helen decided to spend the summer with a school chum who lived in Dalles Port, Washington.   She talked to me about the trip and I readily agreed to transport her and her friend, Joy Brown, to this summer destination.   What an exciting day as we packed the luggage into my still new Fleetwood Chevrolet and off we went.

 

This was to be my first trip driving up the Mighty Columbia River, what an amazing sight greeted me as I left Portland behind and motored east up the Columbia Gorge.

 

 

 

 

The Columbia River from Cape Horn (Washington side) looking east. Beacon Rock is in the background left side.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The road that we traveled on climbed heavily forested hills, swept down into lovely sylvan glens, past innumerable waterfalls finally climaxing at the top of Crown Point for a most magnificent view of the Columbia (from Portland in the west, to Bonneville in the east).   It was over one mile wide and lined with trees, bluffs and rocky cliffs (Cape Horn in particular).

 

Over a dozen jeweled waterfalls were sprinkled along this gorge falling hundreds of feet to the base below.   After walking around for 30 minutes or so at the stone Vista House, it was time to move on since we still had quite a distance to go.   You must remember that there was no freeway up the gorge at this time and all traffic moving east or west along the Oregon side of the Gorge moved on this narrow crooked two lane corridor.   This road is still there but called the “Scenic Route.” today.   Now the road is downhill for us until we reach the river level near Multnomah Falls and our planned lunch break at Multnomah Falls Lodge.   After lunch we hiked up the famous Multnomah Falls trail for a better view of the falls and what an inspiration to see, hear, feel and stand at the foot of the upper falls descending directly down to where we stood.   The roar was deafening and we were soon covered with spray, but what an exhilarating experience it was!

 

Since we were traveling up the Oregon side of the river, I believe that we went to The Dalles and crossed the river by ferry^[8] there.   Dalles Port was on the Washington side of the Columbia just across the river from The Dalles, and at the time was basically nothing but truck gardens.   Helen was to stay with Joy Brown and her folks who lived there and work in the Japanese Gardens for the Magakes. This was to be a wonderful summer for her and she repeated this pattern each year while in school.

 

I soon met Claire Brown who worked for the S.P.S (Spokane, Portland, & Seattle) Railroad at the railroad terminal in Wishram, about 15 miles east.   He was also engaged in conducting home Bible Studies in the area.   When the pleasantries finally got down to serious talk, he spoke to me about the need of establishing a church in Lyle, Washington^[9] and hoped that I would be the one to do it.   I was impressed by his earnestness, but was non committal about doing this, since I had never considered going out and pioneering^[10] a church. We talked well into the night and soon it was morning and time for me to return to Eugene and my job.

 

After arriving in Eugene, I never gave any more thought to Lyle, Washington, but I heard from my brother Ernie^[11] that there was a revival meeting going on at the First Assembly of God in Eugene, conducted by Rev. A. A. Allen.   I had visited this church on one or two other occasions and on the strength of Ernie’s glowing report I decided to do so again.

 

These services were quite dramatic since most of the emphasis was placed on receiving personal active results rather than passively assimilating intellectual discourses.     Many people after being prayed for, returned and testified to exciting changes in their lives.   Some to physical healing, some to the repairing of broken marriages, some to deliverance from alcohol or tobacco and others to a healed mental state.   After I attended a few nights of this revival, the Holy Spirit began to impress upon me “need and time,” the Spiritual harvest was ripe and needed to be harvested… I needed to recommit my life to the work of God and the time to do so was now!   As many others had done before me, I began to argue with this, “still small voice” in my conscience.   I gave many reasons why I was OK working at a good job and putting money into the church, but with each excuse, I felt more miserable.   Finally after several days of this, I awoke one night to the voice of God and these words, “If you will not do My bidding here on earth, why should you be breathing the air that someone else could breath who will carry out My will?   If you will not work for Me in My harvest, why should you be eating food that someone else could eat and work for Me?   You are not indispensable, I will raise up someone else who will carry out My will!”

 

As soon as these words echoed through my mind, I was wide awake and trembled at their impact.   I needed no help interpreting the meaning of this message, It was no mystery… I knew the meaning!   Simply put, if I didn’t carry out my commitment to God, someone else would fill my place, but I would be the loser. Needless to say this experience was very unnerving to me and I slept no more that night.   I prayed earnestly, I reflected on the goals that I had set for my life, I thought about different possibilities; What could I do?   Where could I go?^[12] How would I begin? There was a directive, but no answer as to specifics; however the questions still continued until my mind was in a turmoil.   All too soon it was morning and time to get ready for work. I just couldn’t get away from this midnight encounter and I left for my job in the woods in a very somber mood.

 

It was still twilight when I stepped out of the Crummy^[13], dad and I laced up our logging boots, talked a bit until we heard the sputtering snarl of the chain saws then we knew that our day had begun.   Dad went off to the north while I waded through some dense brush to the east and it wasn’t long until I heard a faller shout “DOWN THE HILL”^[14] and with a crackling of branches a mighty giant began its descent which ended in a thunderous crash upon the forest floor.   Then another call and another until downed timber began to cover the hillside.   I quickly sprang into action by leaping upon the nearest Douglas Fir, made the first mark at 16 feet, then continued down the tree until I had it marked and scaled with a preliminary grade noted in my book.   Around midmorning one of the fallers walked back through the fallen trees to begin bucking the trees into logs at my marks.   “How’m I doin”, he queried with a woodsman’s drawl, (he knew that he had some good scale this morning).   I paused on top of the big fir that I was marking and said, “are you trying to set a record today?” He set the end of the bar of his saw on the moss carpeted ground, leaned on the motor and gave me a big toothy grin in appreciation and then drawled in a more serious note, “how’s the grade looking?” “You’ve got some awfully good wood on the ground today, looks like you’ll be able to buy that new pickup^[15] you been looking at,” I returned. He knew as well as I did that one morning’s work won’t put that much extra money in the bank. Tomorrow we might be run out of the woods because of low humidity, or strong winds, or a fire in a nearby stand of timber which we would have to fight.   There are many things that conspire to keep a logger from getting ahead, sometimes the price of lumber dropped so low that the mills quit buying timber and we were out of work, other times it was too muddy for the cats^[16] to skid logs out, or if in the winter, too much snow, etc.   These hard working men never complained (except when the mill downgraded their logs), they faced life as it was dealt to them and ‘made do’ with what they had. Each logger was an independent business man who bought his own equipment and worked hard with his hands for his money.   He received no paid vacations, no medical plan or paid sick time for being off, no paid holidays, no profit sharing, no pension plan, in fact all he ever received was pay for what he actually did. I salute them!

 

At noontime we gathered together and as we devoured our lunches we talked about the vision of a perfect year with no low humidity, no strong winds, no endless rain, no deep snow and every tree would be straight and tall on level ground, the bull buck would be kind and understanding and the company would always pay fair scale, on time!   Soon the talk would drift to problems with a particular chain saw, or a log in a bad lie for bucking, or snakes in the area^[17], etc.   At other times an acquaintance on hard times was mentioned, and everyone contributed a dollar or two to help out.   All too soon lunch time was over and the men began to drift off to the area where they were previously working and soon, through the trees and brush, I could hear the snarl of chain saws as they were fired up again.

 

I was alone again at my job mechanically measuring, marking and scaling downed timber, since my mind was far from my job.   I was still in a turmoil over decisions that I needed to make concerning my future.   I first swung one way; I’ll quit my job and somehow find a place to minister... Then the other, I’ll stay on the job just as I am, after all, this dilemma probably came from my overactive imagination.   Finally as I was standing on a large tree that I had just marked, I thought to myself, “At least I have a good safe job here in the woods, I am not in constant danger as fallers, buckers or choker setters are… I am not in any danger at all, nothing will happen to me here.   Just at that moment a large limb fell and hit the log not more than four feet from me, knocking me off the log onto the ground.   These limbs are called “widow makers” for obvious reasons.^[18]   This incident would have been frightening at any time, but falling as it did when I was in the midst of justifying my physical well being and longevity, completely unnerved me.   Maybe God was trying to talk to me, at least I accepted it so, but I still found it difficult to make the decision to cut loose and surrender to His will.

 

When I arrived home that evening, I headed for the shower, cleaned up and sat down awaiting the arrival of Ernie from his job at the Eugene Country Club.   When he arrived we decided to go to Hamburger Heaven for supper, then to church. I had not told Ernie about my experience the night before, or anyone else for that matter, it was something I would have to sort out all by myself

 

Sitting in the church service, I still pondered the events of the last 18 hours.   Was it really God speaking to me, or was it just my own guilt for not being in the ministry?   I knew from experience that many people attributed to God things that came from their own desires.   They wanted to do certain things and did so because, as they later explained, “God told me to do it.” They decided to go to a certain place that they wanted to go to, because, as they again explained, “God told me to go there.”   In fact, I had heard of a couple who had gotten married under the same scenario, “God told me to marry you!”   I knew that there was reality in knowing what God wanted one to do, but there were just too many in my church circle flippantly saying, “God told me to do this,” or, “God told me that”, etc., I didn’t want that to happen to me.   I had to know if it was truly God or just my imagination. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I desired reality above all else!.

 

 

Finally it was time for the evangelist to speak, so I sat up a little straighter and gave him my undivided attention since I recognized him to be a real man of God. He started to speak, paused, then stated, “The Holy Spirit is prompting me to say something that perhaps is unusual to you and I don’t understand all of it myself, but I will give to you just exactly what God is giving to me… This message is for someone present here tonight.”   This statement immediately got our attention and every eye was riveted upon him, then he continued, “God is speaking to a young man here to go out into the ministry and begin pastoring.   Young man you have already had your preparation in Bible College, but you are not doing what God wants you to do now.   I see you working in the forest among the trees, but since I am not acquainted with this type of work ( I am from the Midwest where there are no trees like what I am seeing now), I don’t understand exactly what you do, but your life is in danger and I want you to hear this, God says: ‘If you will not do My bidding here on earth, why should you be breathing air that someone else could breath and who would carry out My will?   If you will not work for Me in My harvest, why should you be eating food that someone else could eat and work for Me?   You are not indispensable, I will raise up another who will carry out My will!’     Young man I strongly urge you to do what God is speaking to you to do.”

 

Rev. Allen then preached the message, gave a call for sinners to come forward and repent, then prayed for those with specific needs in their life.   Meanwhile I was lost in my own world, since I knew now beyond a shadow of a doubt that God had spoken to me.   This was of God… Because:

• This church was not the one I attended, no one knew me here!
• The Evangelist did not know me, or anything about me!
• I had told no one about this previous experience just 18 hours ago!
• I told no one about the widow maker!
• Most important of all, the evangelist repeated the same message that I had heard from God the night before, word for word!

 

The service was continuing, but in a different vein now, money was being raised for a huge tent to carry out large inner city campaigns, I decided to be a part of this endeavor by donating my near-new Chevrolet, which I immediately did.   Afterwards I talked with the evangelist about his prophetic message at the beginning of the service and God’s very same message to me.   We prayed together, rejoiced together and even wept together.   “If you ever need any help in the ministry contact me ,” said Rev. Allen as we parted company about 1:00 A.M.

 

I took the next day off from work to straighten out my affairs, I delivered my car, the keys and the title to the campaign committee, then caught a ride home with another Bible Student.   Of course by now I knew that I must contact Claire Brown about my new commitment and my decision to come to Lyle.   Finally I felt free, I was exceptionally happy and excited about this new turn of events, but one problem remained, no wheels.   However I still had money in the bank and a couple weeks of wages due me from my job, together they would be sufficient for a down payment on another car.   I planned to do this by the end of the week, then leave for Lyle ,Wash.

 

It was then that I learned my first hard lesson about advice.   I had just heard from God and from a minister who confirmed this message, I was on a high, everything would be a rose garden from now on I thought.   But.. the next immediate voice with advise was not from God!   An elderly lady in our church, whom we all had accepted as a spiritual leader told me that I should take my money and put it as a down payment on a trailer house, then a fellow Bible Student^[19] who had a car, could pull it to Lyle and help me in the ministry there.   Well, I surely didn’t want another student to go along with me (least of all this one)^[20] for that was not part of my calling and I was very apprehensive about this advice, but I was soon persuaded that this was the thing to do, “a step of faith” is how it was put to me (it also appeared to be the logical thing to do).^[21]   I took all my money, put it as a partial down payment on a trailer house and prepared to go to Lyle.   I was assured that God would send the rest of the down payment to me and provide all the future payments, “just have faith”. However no money came in to me during the next thirty days, so the trailer house was forfeited along with every penny that I had!

 

Now I was broke!   I had no car, no money and no income (I had quit my job)… Nothing was left but that message from God… It seemed as if everything was going in reverse now!   I called Mr. Brown and told him I was still coming, but I had a minor setback (minor… it was a major detour).   My fellow Bible Student Bill told me that he would drive me and my belongings to Lyle, since, “that is the least that I can do,” this I accepted, for I was determined to be obedient to my heavenly calling.

 

I relate this only to inform anyone who has a desire to do something (in this case for God) be very careful about the advise you accept.   Many people give advice, but they do not have to live with the consequences of that advise… You do!  Even if you think that someone is a good person, a smart person or a spiritual person, make sure that your decision is based on your own grasp of the facts and your own intuition! Advice should never take the place of your decision, but rather to be weighed along with other factors that make up your decision!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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^[1] Activated when accepting or being accepted by a church as Pastor, Evangelist, etc. After faithfully discharging your duties as a licensed minister for a period of time, you would appear before the District Officials, who would recognize your ministry and grant you Ordination.

^[2] A Minister and his wife would avoid many pitfalls in home visitation, counseling, presiding over church functions, etc.

^[3] The men who fell the trees.

^[4] Later we went down to an 8’ top.

^[5] Sawed the tree in two.   Sometimes there were separate fallers and buckers.

^[6] The logs were to be cut in two foot increments, i.e.., 16’, 18’, 20’, etc. with a few inches added to each log for additional cuts at the mill.   If a cut was made at 17 feet, 11 inches, it is obvious that the mill could not make 18 foot boards and timbers out of it, and in that day it was 2 feet wasted.

^[7] Each mill had a scaler with a reputation that was known far and wide; Joe, at X mill gave “fair scale,” Pete at Y mill was a company man who only scaled for the benefit of the mill and Jim at Z mill was a downright crook, etc.

^[8] There was a bridge across the Columbia at Portland , one at Cascade Locks (Bridge of the Gods) and one at Hood River. There was a ferry at Rowena, a ferry at The Dalles, a ferry near Maryhill, etc.

^[9] A small town about 10 miles down the river.

^[10] Establishing a church from the bottom up.

^[11] Ernie’s home church was First Assembly of God, Eugene while I attended Lighthouse Temple.   He was very active in the church and hardly ever missed a service.

^[12] It is strange that I never thought of Lyle, Washington at this time.

^[13] The vehicle that drove us into the woods, there were about a dozen men in our crummy.

^[14] In an earlier day the fallers would shout “TIMBER” as the tree began to go over, alerting anyone in the neighborhood that a tree was coming down and to stay clear.   Our fallers always shouted, “UP THE HILL,” or, “DOWN THE HILL”.   This not only alerted people in the area that a tree was coming down, but also the direction it was coming.

^[15] Every logger needs a pickup, and a busy logger needs a new pickup!

^[16] Caterpillar type tractors.

^[17] The snakes in this area were timber rattlesnakes, a very serious problem in the minds of the fallers and buckers since the chain saw made so much noise that they could never hear one buzzing near them.   Their high top logger boots gave them adequate protection, unless they would be kneeling down for an undercut, etc.

^[18] As a tree begins to fall , limbs break off while making contact with other standing trees.   These limbs generally fall to the ground with the tree, but some of them lodge in the in branches high above us and are dislodged when a breeze moves through the forest.   We usually think of a limb as something not too heavy, but these Doug Fir limbs can be six inches or so at the butt and weigh a hundred pounds.   As they fall the small branches and foliage catch the air and always allow the butt end to fall downward.   If a person is struck by one of these limbs, it is usually fatal.

^[19] Her foster son, Bill.

^[20] A fellow Bible Student with many problems, whom I had tried to help during college days. I finally realized that I was very little help to him and that he was only getting worse, so I severed all contact.

^[21] Read Acts 27:10-13   Sometimes what appears to be the logical way to go is not God’s way !

 

CHAPTER 25

 

 

A PIONEER CHURCH

After arriving in Lyle, I soon found a small house^[1] for rent near the edge of town and it did not take long for me to move in, since I was traveling light, but Bill had a large wardrobe of rather expensive clothing which entirely filled a closet and necessitated many trips between the car and the house.   Even at that it wasn’t long until we had everything unloaded and then while the house was cooling down^[2] had our first meal at a small cafe in the center of town, this lovely town was to be my home for the next couple of years, one year for Bill.

 

I had two “musts” on my agenda: First, I must find a place to hold church services and second, I must find a job, since no one was supporting me and money did seem to be a necessary ingredient for this endeavor. The first item was quickly accomplished, the Lyle Women’s Clubhouse on Main Street was available for rent, the second was found just as quickly, a job at the planer of Thoren Bros. Lumber Co. about six blocks from my house.   These two “musts” were accomplished in a couple of days and I had time left over to distribute hand printed flyers notifying the townspeople of my plans to hold Sunday School and Church services each week at the Women’s Club House.

 

The work at the planer wasn’t too difficult, since I was accustomed to hard work, but it was hot!   In the Willamette Valley 90 degrees was a hot day, now I was looking at temperatures of 105 degrees to 110 degrees each day.   I drank cold buttermilk by the quart along with many quarts of water and ice cold soft drinks in an attempt to adjust to this new environment.   There was one saving feature about this hot little town on the Columbia River, the wind blew and blew and blew. The action of the wind and the low humidity combined to make life rather enjoyable once that I was adjusted, in fact I actually grew attached to the sound of the wind rushing through the large cottonwood and locust trees.

 

Sunday at last!   This is the first Sunday since I have been in town, the Club House is cleaned out and the swamp cooler^[3] turned on, but will any one attend the first Sunday School class?   Yes! Two ladies^[4] with their 5 children, along with several others that I can’t remember now^[5], arrived at the Clubhouse just prior to the time of service.   I welcomed them and we began the first Sunday School class.     This day was extremely important to me, since it was the culmination of three years of intense study and innumerable hours of teaching preparation along with two years of intern teaching and preaching.   During this first Sunday School class, all my worries melted away as everything went along without a hitch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Evening another service was scheduled and more people showed up with loads of enthusiasm to assist in this endeavor of starting a new church.   This was all that I had hoped for, excited people attending church services to hear the Word of God and be ministered to.   Everyone pitched in to help, even Bill was a help, as he contributed by playing the piano for the congregational singing.   I don’t remember what I preached about that first Sunday evening, but the people attending the service told me how much it helped them.     Of course my sister Helen was there along with the Brown family (Claire and Opal along with their teenage children Joy, Donna, Dona and Donald) that she was staying with during the summer.   From that moment on I realized that the church was on the way!

 

Keith Ewing (a high school senior) entered the picture then by attending a service and committing his life to GOD.   Keith became a a real inspiration, who never missed a service and assisted in so many ways.   He was a real sponge when it came to soaking up biblical knowledge and it seemed that there was no end to the questions that he wanted answers for, in fact he would write down questions that he thought of during the day and bring them to me in the evening to be answered.   I answered each question of this young disciple, to the best of my ability, using the Bible as my text and authority.   Many times these sessions went to midnight and beyond, but what an inspiration he was to me, since this was the purpose my life now.

 

The demands of those early days of pioneer ministry were the most exciting and fulfilling days of my life. It wasn’t long before others began to attend and soon we had a good sized congregation. Bill played the piano. Keith also played the piano, Helen the accordion, Claire Brown, his daughter Joy and Helen directed the singing.   What a wonderful time we had together.   Soon more people began to attend, one in particular, the owner of the planer, along with his family.   Many children and adults in the community of Lyle soon became Christians and are still living for God today, forty-five years later.   Each of us in a leadership role, worked an eight hour secular job during the day, but our work for God never ceased.   I prepared Bible Study material, planned the day to day calendar and established the long range goals of our group.   Then together we visited homes, conducted a midweek evening service, and an open-air service on Saturday night. But Sunday was our big day for God; with Sunday School and Church in the morning and then in the evening, another Church service which was attended by many townsfolk who did not attend the morning service.

 

This updated view of Lyle shows the area where the sawmill, planer, loading dock, and the log deck occupied. The little house on the edge of the Columbia that Jan, Mark and I lived in one summer was at the left of the grassy peninsula. The Rowena ferry traveled between the point of land extending from the Oregon side and docked (out of view) left edge of photo. This area was a beehive of activity and many people received their income from working here.

 

 

During the week I worked at the planer, pulling lumber and sorting it for size and grade^[6] from the planer chain.   After a stint of that I was elevated to the trim saw, then to running the lumber carrier (straddle bug), operating the forklift, loading lumber into the boxcars, unloading lumber from trucks, grading and tallying, finally to feeding rough lumber into the planer in order that it might come out with a smooth surface and be of a uniform size.   There were so many exciting things to learn and do around a place like that.   Eventually I became the planerman with the responsibility of sharpening planer knives and circular saws, setting up the planer to surface the size of lumber called for that day, exchange the trim saw blades (10 of them) for sharp ones and see that each order was carried out.   By now I had learned to weld, run the metal lathe, repair machinery and keep the owner happy with lots of board feet of lumber surfaced.

Basically we surfaced dimension lumber such as 2×4, 2×6, 2×8, 2×10 and 2×12 as “S4S^[7]”. We also surfaced a lot of one inch, quite a bit of 3 inch, some 4inch, some 6×6 and 8×8 timbers and quite a lot of pattern lumber such as, ship lap, tongue and groove, etc.   It was hard fast work, but the workers prided themselves in their skills and they were certainly justified in that.   Theoretically we could surface 80,000 to 100,000 board feet per day, but we seldom achieved that goal because of breakdowns, changing lumber size, a stuck board in the planer, broken saw blades to change, etc.   What a hectic, frenetic pace we maintained at that planer, how I loved it!

 

TRAGEDY STRIKES:   Clarence was driving the lumber carrier ( he was very good at it), when he picked up a load of 2×8’s that had no stickers in the load.   These stickers were small thin strips as long as the width of the carrier load and placed across the lumber at least in two different levels to bind the load together.   Without the stickers the lumber could separate and fall to the ground like pick-up-sticks, necessitating quite a loss of time to restack the load.   Clarence deposited the load of lumber on the chains that moved the load to the planer endwise.   He then walked alongside with his hand steadying the lumber as I brought it to the hoist.   Just as he arrived at the hoist he stumbled, clutched at the load and the outer layer of boards peeled off (since there were no stickers) and tumbled on top of him.   I rushed around the load to help him, but he was nowhere to be seen, then I realized that he was under the lumber.   I called for help and began pulling the lumber off as fast as I could, soon the entire crew was there and Clarence was soon uncovered, but unconscious.   He was rushed to the hospital, but never regained consciousness.   This event affected me deeply as Clarence was a very good friend of mine and a devoted Christian with a wife and children.   How well we were all reminded of the brevity of life.

 

Life goes on, no matter the circumstances and we were soon back to full production at the planer and I was more and more involved in the work of God in Lyle.   The Sunday School grew larger and more people from the community turned to God which brought us to the next step in a pioneer church, a water baptismal service.   The only logical place for such an event (at least in my mind) was the mighty Columbia River that bordered Lyle on the south.   I located a small boat ramp that had a gradual slope into the river (the Columbia had a depth of 90 to 100 feet here) and at this ramp I baptized every convert that wished to be baptized.   Many townspeople attended the service and watched from the rocky bluff at the edge of the river.   This was a very exciting event for the new Christians, the church, the townspeople and for me.

 

CHRISTIAN INTERRELATIONSHIP   “The Columbia Gorge Fellowship” was a loosely knit group of “Pentecostal” believers who met together for fellowship and a church service once a month.   This group included the following church organizations: “Assemblies of God”, “California Evangelistic Association”, “Pentecostal Church of God” and “Open Bible Standard”. These churches were located in small towns bordering the Columbia River in the state of Washington, viz. Bingen, White Salmon, North Bonneville and Lyle   Of course many other people attended who were not members of the above mentioned church groups, such as Nazarene, Baptist, Pentecostal Holiness, etc.   They all came because of the exciting revival type services and the Camp meeting atmosphere.   These services alternated between the different towns and the host church would provide the evening meal for those attending.   Each service was always packed out with Christians enjoying the fellowship of other Christians.

 

THE OLD TIME RELIGION     By now our church in Lyle had quite a few young people attending the services and I thought it was time to introduce them to a Columbia Gorge Fellowship meeting.   We packed our cars full of serious new converts along with a few of the curious, who just wanted to go along for the excitement of meeting other young people.   This month’s meeting was to be held at the Pentecostal Church of God, located in the town of North Bonneville and as we arrived, many people were already on the church grounds getting acquainted or reestablishing old friendships.   Our young people soon fit in, with new friendships being forged by the minute.   Eventually I found myself in the ministerial group planning the evening service.       The structure of a service such as this was very flexible and the meeting was allowed to move in the direction of “God’s leading”.

Welcome ……………………………………………… Host pastor

Song Service ………………………………………… A pastor or layman

Prayer ………………………………………………….. A pastor

Special Music, vocal or instrumental ……….. Several selections; pastors or laity.

Testimonials (sharing what God has done) .. A pastor or layman

Message ……………………………………………….. A pastor

Conclusion ……………………………………………. Prayer time^[8]

 

The service in North Bonneville began as a rather large lady stepped up to the old upright piano, and the people began settling down for an enjoyable evening.   When she began to play, that old piano shook under the force of her hands and everyone stood and began to sing the gospel choruses that we all seemed to know.   This intense singing filled the church and spilled out into the surrounding area, prompting more people who were just passing by, to enter the church.   Finally it was absolutely filled to capacity with many other folks participating by standing around outside and singing along with us as an extended congregation (in touch because of the open windows and doors).   As people began to respond to the fervor of the service, the church was filled with shouts of “Hallelujah”, “Praise the Lord”, “Glory to God”, etc.   It was a real tribute of love and praise of the created to the Creator^[9].   No one was told that they must praise the Lord, it was a spontaneous outpouring.     After about 20 minutes of praise and worship, the congregation settled back into the pews to hear a quartet sing about heaven, followed by a duet and a trio singing about the Cross of Christ and about the Christ who made it possible for us to obtain Salvation.   Interspersed between these special numbers in song were testimonies from people who had been saved from alcohol, gambling, immorality, profanity and such like.   Also there were testimonies of those who had been healed of various sicknesses and diseases, just like in Bible Times.   We were all touched by these songs and testimonies and while tears filled our eyes, many wept openly.   Then before the message, a young lady^[10] sang the song entitled, “The love Of God”

 

The message (not sermon) was thundered forth by a minister, who paced back and forth, preaching about sin and judgment to follow, about hellfire and brimstone, about the Christ who died for the sinner and about heaven which awaited the child of God.   He proclaimed the soon return of Jesus Christ for his church and he preached about those who would be left behind.   At the conclusion of his message he gave a call for those who were living in sin to come forward to accept Christ as their savior.   This invitation was accepted by many who were soon confessing their sins to God and weeping at the altar.   Then all the congregating moved as close to the front as they could get and began praying and worshipping God.   Some stood with arms outstretched, others prayed quietly in a corner, still others were lying on the floor with tears streaming from their eyes.   This type of “altar service” was common in Pentecostal meetings and when the people left, they walked away with a changed life, changed by the presence of God!

 

Finally it was time to gather my young people and begin the drive eastward up the Columbia Gorge toward home.   Some of our young people went to the altar and accepted Christ as their savior.   I began thinking of what to say to them about the meeting (not one of them had ever been in a meeting like this before), but before I could say a word, one of the boys said, “Is this what they call, ‘The Old Time Religion?”     That broke the ice and soon all were talking and commenting on what the service meant to them.   I later wondered what transpired in each individual home the next day, with these pumped up kids.   To my amazement I later learned that many of their parents told the kids that they were raised in churches just like that, and they too at one time were Christians.   What a testimony these young people were to their parents.   A very devout Christian grandfather of one of the boys^[11] came to town on a visit, and when Ronnie told him about the meeting, he walked over to my place thanking me for allowing his grandson to attend the meeting and he stated, “I have been praying for my son and his family for several years, and since Ronnie accepted Christ, My prayers are being answered.”   The visit by that grandfather along with his statement is the real reward that a pastor looks for in the ministry.

 

Another reward that I received from the Columbia Gorge Fellowship was meeting a very lovely young lady, Janice Collins, who was to become much more than, ‘just another face in the crowd’. Janice will have a chapter devoted entirely to her, Chapter 26

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                                                               Ellis and Jan March 9, 1952

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looking East up the mighty Columbia R. The town of Lyle is at the center and at this time pop. About 400.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ellis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

^[1] Just prior to leaving Eugene the “Trailer house lady” told me that I should allow Bill to stay with me for a while until he ‘found himself’… “he really needs help getting into the ministry and he could be a help you as well,” * again this counsel seemed to be logical, but it was counsel that I was uncomfortable with; I should have said NO, ABSOLUTELY NOT, but again I acquiesced and said “OK, I will do it for a while and see how it turns out.”

^[2] By now it was mid-June and hot (near 100 degrees and above each day).   It took several weeks for me to completely adjust to this climate. The house was cooled by a water cooler so prevalent in that area., cf. footnote #3.

^[3] This was a forerunner of modern air conditioning.   A large squirrel cage fan in a metal box was attached to a window or to the roof of the building and it moved cool air into the building.   The outside air was cooled as it moved past filter pads of a shredded wood product, called excelsior.   A small stream of water continually kept this filter wet and cool and, voila! A cool house.   Surprisingly this method was quite efficient ( in low humidity) and is still used today (1996) in many areas of the country.   It is much more economical than refrigerated air.

^[4] Juaneta Bryan with daughters Connie and Jill; and Joyce Bryan with sons Tom , Dick and Dale.

^[5] That was 45 years ago, I am now 70. (Sounds like a cop out for a shaky memory, doesn’t it).

^[6] his was fast work that demanded dexterity.   The lumber was pulled from the chain, slid onto a pile on carrier bunks.   These bunks were made from 3×8’s or 4×8’s about 4 feet long with an 8×8 block inset on each end .   This allowed the lumber carrier to drive over the full load, pick it up and drive off.   Then we put out new bunks and started a new pile.   —__————__—

^[7]   Surface four sides, in other words, smooth ed on all sides.

^[8] A Pentecostal service never ended with a benediction, everyone was invited to the front of the church to pray.   This prayer time usually lasted from 30 minutes to a couple of hours.

^[9] Praise such as this is mentioned in Lk. 19::36-40.   To GOD be the glory!

^[10] Janice Collins.

^[11] The boy’s father was part owner of the sawmill in town.

 

CHAPTER 26

JANICE

 

I first saw Janice when she sang in a trio with her pastor and his wife^[1] at one of the Columbia Gorge Fellowship meetings.   They were good, very good and were in great demand to sing at church services everywhere.   There was something about Janice, however, that electrified me.   I had never seen a young lady so lovely and so dedicated to God and I just couldn’t seem to take my eyes off her (except when she looked my way, then my shy nature took over and I would quickly glance away).   This bit of peek-a-boo went on for some time before the order of service changed and I had to step to the podium, where I didn’t dare look at her for fear of losing my thoughts and remaining speechless.   Eventually the service was over and soon the church was emptied and dark, but even as the people left, I was determined to meet this young^[2] lady again, soon!

 

“Soon,” came to pass as Valentines Day arrived and though I didn’t have the nerve to speak to Janice at church, I decided to go to her home, meet her and invite her to go out to dinner.   I stopped at the local florist shop for flowers that would be fitting for the occasion, perhaps a dozen red roses, (they were temporarily out because of the demand of Valentines Day), or a corsage (it would take too long to make one up for the same reason as above) , so as I glanced quickly about, I spied a pot of beautiful red tulips, they would have to do.   I did feel somewhat foolish with a pot of tulips in my hand, but I was determined to see this through, so I climbed the exterior steps to the second level^[3] of their home and knocked on the door.     The door was soon opened by one of her brothers^[4] and I was ushered into the living room.   Jan’s father was working on the old cabinet radio and had parts all over the floor; Jan was in the kitchen peeling potatoes for the dinner and the rest of the kids were milling about in and out of the house.   Since Jan didn’t respond immediately to the call to the front door, her father called out in his big deep voice, “Janice, there’s a young man here to see you!”   That brought Jan to the door of the kitchen with a potato peeler in her hand and when she saw me in the front room her mouth dropped open in amazement.   She quickly recovered and introduced me to her father as, “the minister from Lyle.” At that, her father came over and said, “Did Janice tell you what I think of preachers?”   I replied, “no, she didn’t” and before I could say another word he spotted the tulips and it suddenly dawned on him that this was Valentine’s Day, so he proceeded to lecture me on the evils of pagan holidays.   Jan came to my rescue by taking the flowers and leading me to the kitchen to meet her mother.   Jan’s mother, Jewel, was a real jewel when it came to meeting people and I was instantly at ease.   We talked for some time, then I asked Jan if she would like to go out for a Coke.   To that suggestion she readily assented, quickly changed her clothes and off we went.   We drove down the hill to the White Palace Cafe, one of three or four restaurants located in Bingen (Ben-jen).   We had a great time over those Cokes and agreed to attend a church rally in Portland the next evening.     That’s the way our courtship went: every night attending a church service somewhere in the area.   This continued for ten consecutive evenings, then at the conclusion of our tenth, I reached into the glove box, pulled out the ring and offered it to Jan along with my heart.   After a brief moment (it was very late) she slipped away from the cozy, warm car and disappeared into the large darkened house.

During these times together, we came to know a lot about each other.   We were both raised in the country in small towns, had attended Sunday School and church since infancy, had the same set of moral values, were from large families and we both desired to be in the ministry.   What a great beginning for our relationship!   After these ten dates and considerable prayer, I knew that this step of commitment would be pleasing to God, so I presented the ring^[5] to Jan with great confidence.

 

After our engagement, I continued to work at the planer in Lyle, pastor the infant church and race down to White Salmon (12 miles west along the beautiful Columbia River) as often as I could to see Jan.   Jan was a senior in high school and remained very busy in church activities.   One of the more impressive activities was her involvement in the church weekly live radio broadcast in Hood River, Oregon.   There was a large plate glass window with a direct view into the broadcast studio. Consequently many people would drive up, turn on their radio and watch the broadcast.   Talk about excitement… Because of these broadcasts many people accepted Christ as their Savior and many others wrote in to tell how the broadcasts gave them a new lease on life. One day, prior to meeting Jan, I was driving up the Columbia Gorge when I tuned in to this station,   Just as the sound of the station came into the car, I heard a young lady^[6] singing a gospel song entitled, “How Great Thou Art“ then after a few words she sang with Rev. Marvin and Betty Bell, “Where The Roses Never Fade,” it was absolutely beautiful, I was transfixed!   And to this day it when I think about that time, it still has the same effect on me, and I hope it never ceases.       Jan sang in Youth For Christ rallies as well as local churches and church conventions. God had given Jan had a great gift and it soon developed into a real ministry.

 

Each evening I spent most of my spare time in White Salmon at the Collins home, there were appliances to fix (I was good at that) and Bible teaching to sort through.   I got along fine with Art^[7] and we spent many an evening discussing the doctrines of the Bible.   With Jan and her mother, however, our discussions centered more around the life and ministry of Christ and the work of the Holy Spirit.   These inspirational studies had an uplifting positive effect upon us by leading into prayer and worship.   I thoroughly enjoyed these discussions together when the house was quiet and everyone else was in bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ken Vermillian

 

When Jan wished to go shopping, she and her sisters would walk across the Hood River bridge from Washington to Oregon and shop in the Pe nney’s Department Store and other shops not found in a small town such as White Salmon.   The bridge had a network of crisscrossed steel plates set on edge to form the deck^[8].   The girls had a rather difficult time tip toeing across this bridge in order to shop, since they wouldn’t venture into the big city without wearing high heeled shoes.   Those of us who lived in Lyle however had no bridge; we must cross the Columbia River on a ferry.   One ferry crossed from Lyle to Rowena, but one that we seldom took, we preferred to drive up the Washington side to Dallesport and cross the river directly into The Dalles.

 

The Rowena to Lyle ferry was a ferryboat that could carry about six cars at a time.   If you were number seven, you must wait for the ferry to cross, (about 15 minutes) pick up a load of cars and make its way back (total wait, about 30 minutes), then for you to get to the other side, another 15 minute ride on the ferry.   It was a good thing that we lived in the slow carefree days of yesteryear.   The ferry at The Dalles (rhymed with “the pals”) was much faster since the ferryboat was larger, the river narrower at that point and if the traffic was heavy, a second ferry, a tugboat with a large barge outfitted to carry vehicles, would be placed in service to help out.   At times the motor of the ferry stopped running for one reason or another and the ferry would be adrift at the mercy of the fast moving current.   As it moved swiftly down the river, the ferry operator would begin to sound the horn in short blasts. It wasn’t long before a local tugboat would come after the hapless ferry and after a few miles catch up to it.   It took some time to secure a line to the mischievous ferryboat and bring it back upriver to the landing.   Those travelers on board got a great sight-seeing tour of the Columbia Gorge, but most did not appreciate the extended ride.

 

The Spring and Summer months soon slipped by and the date of our marriage, August 2, 1952 finally arrived.

The building was packed with friends and relatives that hot August day when we were joined in holy wedlock, I had forgotten the wedding band, so my cousin Tony raced 12 miles to my house for it, but didn’t quite make it back in time to get it to me.   What a dilemma!   My future sister-in-law, Dolores Collins, came to the rescue by loaning me hers and the wedding continued without another problem. The ceremony was performed by Jan’s pastor, The Rev. Marvin Bell, and it seemed as if not only Jan and I were united, but everyone present was united in Christian love.

 

Jan’s brother Dale sang the “Lord’s Prayer” and her sister Toni sang the most popular wedding song of our day, “I love you truly.”

 

After attending a great reception where we received many gifts from friends and relatives, we changed our clothes for casual wear then had a wild ride around

town by Jan’s brother Dale^[9].

 

 

                                                         Wedding photos by Elmer Baumgarden

Rev. Marvin Bell, Tony Davis, Donald Brown, Keith Ewing, Cap Rogers, Ellis/Jan, Marie Baumgarden.       Helen Warner, Ann Collins, Betty Ericson, Virginia Jones, Sterling Collins (R.B.), Lisa Scott (F.G.)

 

Eventually we were returned to the reception in one piece, got into our 1947 Buick^[10] and began our honeymoon.

We arrived in Portland very late to our honeymoon cottage, then up early to motor on to the

Oregon Coast. We next stopped in Astoria where we rented a rowboat and rowed around on the river, then toward the ocean and back.   Finally we began our drive down the beautiful Oregon Coast, stopping at every lovely town and beach.   We hiked along nature trails, climbed sand dunes, waded in the ocean, picked up seashells and frolicked on the beaches. We returned by way of central Oregon through Bend, Redman, Dufur and ‘The Dalles.’   We stayed in ‘The Dalles’ that night, then drove into the mountains to one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, Lost Lake at the foot of Mt. Hood.   Lost Lake was a beautiful gem of glistening water surrounded by stately “Old Growth” firs and overshadowed by the majestic snow covered Mt. Hood.   This time together was fun time and we were probably the happiest couple in the entire Northwest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Francis Kies

 

Our trip into the Cascade Mountains of Oregon was the highlight of our honeymoon and this lovely lake backed by majestic Mt. Hood was an experience which we shall forever cherish. I was raised in the foothills of the Cascades in Oregon, Jan in nearly the same location in the State of Washington. Someone once said, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever…” May I add, “A place of beauty is a joyful memory forever!”

 

Jan was born in grand- mother Collins’ Home in White Salmon, Wash.   The Doctor arrived with his black satchel and immediately shooed the curious children out of the room, but not out of the house, since it was snowing hard that January 14th in 1934 and it was bitter cold.   The children immediately began to whisper, “the doctor has another baby for mama in his black bag!” Incidentally, none of the children of my generation believed that ‘stork story,’ we all knew that the Doctor brought the baby in the satchel!   The delivery was without incident and another beautiful baby girl entered the Art Collins family, bringing the total to 3.   Three boys had also preceded Jan making her the 6th and in the very center of this family eventually to reach 12.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                         Janice Collins, age 13; second row from front, center of row.

 

The family moved to Underwood for a short time, back to White Salmon, then to Cascade Locks on the Oregon side for one year and then finally back to White Salmon for good (at least until Jan was married).   Jan excelled in her scholastic ability, becoming the Salutatorian of her graduating class, all the while completely involved in church endeavors. She carried her Bible to school, and gave the teacher, Mr. Richardson a hard time as he tried to teach evolution to the students. Mr. Richardson finally compromised with Jan; if she would not raise her hand and read from the Bible to the class as he taught evolution, he would continually state, “this evolutionary THEORY teaches that …. That was a satisfactory agreement, but he had a real watchdog in that class.

 

The work ethic was very strong among the country people and Jan was no exception, she worked in the orchards picking cherries and other fruit, she also baby sat and did housework.   It was from this hard work that she made enough money to buy her school clothes, help with the household budget and make contributions to the local church.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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                     1952: Jan age 18

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why did everyone smile so much in the old days? All I can think of is those days were an exciting wonderful, carefree time with nothing before us but positive goals!

 

Jan and Ellis, Spring of 1952                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

 

 

 

                                                                                      

^[1] Rev. Marvin and Betty Bell; In their travels and on the radio, they were known as “The Musical Bells).

^[2] Janice had just celebrated her 18th birthday.8

^[3] The living quarters were on the second floor, there were bedrooms and storage rooms on the first. This building had been a barn on grandfather Collins’ place, but was remodeled into a two story house, consequently the Collins kids always referred to it as the “Barn.”

^[4] There were 12 children in the family, but the 4 older ones were married and had homes of their own and one brother, David was on a mine sweeper in Korean waters at this time.

^[5]           After I had been out of the Navy for a bout 4 years, Mom was talking to me one day and said, “Soon you will find a young lady that you will plan to marry, so you should start planning for that event now.”   “In what way?” I asked, wondering where this conversation was leading.   “You should buy the rings, since you are working and have some money in the bank. They will be expensive, so buy them now, then after you are married, that will be one less expense for you.”   Mom always was very practical, so at my next opportunity, I stopped in Hoffman’s Jewelry store on Willamette Street in Eugene to follow through on this motherly advice.   Since I knew nothing about diamond rings, the salesman guided me through the selection.   “A solitaire is your best value now and will be in the years to come,” he said, “ a size six is average, but when you meet the girl that you wish to marry, we can re-size it for her if needed at no charge, and one last thought, you should get a solid mount so that the diamond will not loosen and fall out.”   That sounded good to me, so after looking over several selections, I made the purchase, a down and the remainder in monthly payments.   I carried this ring around in the glove box of my car for a year or so before I discovered Jan and presented it to her.   It’s a wonder that I never lost it.

^[6]           Of course it was Jan, 17 years old at the time.   Rev.Marvin and Betty Bell carried an organ, accordion, Jan and a base fiddle protruding from the trunk of their 1949 Ford across the Hood River bridge each Saturday evening for this broadcast. I had never heard a finer gospel radio broadcast than this.   Later after meeting Jan , I also had a part in it.

^[7] Jan’s father.

^[8] The bridge was long, nearly a mile long and to keep the weight down, the bridge was fabricated by this method.   It was also a drawbridge and the center section lifted straight up to allow the large ships to pass under.

^[9] Dale was one of Jan’s older brothers.   It was a custom in those days and still is, to drive around the area with an entourage of cars following, honking their horns and yelling.

^[10] Someone had put Limburger Cheese all over the manifold and it soon melted and ran down into hard to reach places.   We could smell that Limburger Cheese for a month or more!   Also there was the usual writing on the car, “just married ….”   This I cleaned off the first morning with a lot of elbow grease.

 

 

CHAPTER 27

 

Sometime prior to getting married, I decided it might be best to turn the Church in Lyle over to the Open Bible Organization and let them install another minister, since I was thinking about pioneering another church with Jan after our wedding.   I had no sooner arrived back in White Salmon from my honeymoon when I was informed by Keith that no minister arrived and that none was available.   At first I said that I could not return after committing myself toward another venture, but I relented, after all they were my children in the ministry.

 

Once again I was the pastor of the church in Lyle, and along with Jan became totally involved in ministering to these people on the banks of the Columbia.   We worked diligently, teaching the children the things of the Bible, about the love of God and about His Salvation through Jesus Christ, we also prayed with them and taught them to pray.   We went out and picked up kids for Sunday School that had no way to get there, even helping them to get ready.  Several times I braided the hair of little girls and tied the neckties for little boys, because their mother^[1] was busy with other things, but we got them to Sunday School!   There were classes to teach, questions to answer, needs to pray for and burdens to bear.   These demands of the ministry were full time for us, but we loved this work.

 

There were very few rentals in Lyle, so we counted ourselves fortunate to be able to rent the entire second floor of the old bank building in the center of town.   After picking up a piece of furniture here and there, we newlyweds soon settled into our cozy, quiet, apartment high above the traffic on the street.   I was too optimistic, however, about “peace and quiet,” we weren’t told that on Saturday night there would be a dance on the main floor below us and what a loud and lively band they had.   It was a band that was accompanied by such amplified singing that the old bank building vibrated until after midnight, Oh Me!     That just wasn’t the best introduction to a busy Sunday.   Jan thought the best thing to do would be to visit in the homes of our congregation on Saturday night, arriving back to our bank apartment around 11:00 PM or so.   We immediately put the plan into action and it worked out very well, we got less noise and more people in church on Sunday.   We also got to know our congregation better, because they talked to us about their needs, problems and aspirations that they never would have done at the church.

 

The second destructive threat to our cozy, quiet home was worse, because it was unpredictable; let me explain.   It was about 2:00 AM Sunday morning, the dance crowd had gone and we finally got to sleep, when we were awakened out of our sound sleep by the loudest screaming, undulating sound that I had ever heard in my life!   I sat straight up, leaped out of the bed then raced through the house trying to discover what was happening.   On and on it went for three or four minutes while we held our hands over our ears, if I was intimidated by that awful noise, Jan was terrified.   Finally it came to a stop and the deathly silence that followed was also unnerving. Eventually we returned to a fitful sleep, but when morning came, I was determined to find the source of that terrible earsplitting sound.   There it was!   Just outside and a little above the height of the open living room window (it was a warm night) was a large emergency siren^[2] on the top of a telephone pole.     There was a fire in town that early morning and the call for the volunteer firemen had to go out.   I’m sure that it could be heard for several miles.   So much for the “Quiet” apartment above the level of the street.

 

Shortly after this traumatic event, I was awakened around midnight by the sound of a woman screaming and screaming.   To my horror, I discovered that it was my new bride halfway out of the second story window screaming for help.   I bounded out of bed, quickly pulled her back into the room with such force that I awakened her, for she was in the middle of a terrible, realistic nightmare.   It seemed that, the air raid sirens had gone off, the Communists were everywhere and I was being carried off by them.   Jan was just screaming for help!   It did seem strange though that none of our neighbors came to her “rescue” and it was a great relief that no police arrived that night.   So much for the neighborhood patrol.

 

The greatest natural wonder of the area (and one that we visited often) was the place where the great Columbia River tumbled through a series of downward steps creating Celilo^[3] Falls.   The Indians fished for salmon here as they leaped through the force of the falls returning to their spawning grounds far upriver.   The Indian village was comprised of small huts made from the bark of trees and slabs of wood from which innumerable children and nondescript dogs frolicked about.   While the women cut up the salmon and placed the strips on racks to dry in the sun, the men from the village were out on the river fishing. These men braced themselves on small platforms fashioned from boards and planks, or in some cases, small trees that were wedged into crevices of the rocks and hung precipitously over the raging, rushing river below them.   A net attached to a long pole was used to catch a salmon as it flashed from the dark water and foam into the open air above, for a moment or two this fish was airborne and vulnerable to the dexterity of the Indian with the net.

 

At times a large salmon of 30 or 40 pounds on the end of a long pole would unbalance a man so, that he tumbled into maelstrom below and certain death.   While we were living in the area, I noticed that many of the men had a safety line tied about their waist for just such an eventuality. The young men of the tribe could also fish, but were allowed only in safer areas and with lighter, shorter poles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Celilo Falls from the Mason Warner collection, University of Oregon

Jan and I made a trip to Celilo Falls, since we wished to buy a salmon from one of Indians, but the first Indian that we met along the bank of the river told us that since he had caught but one thus far, it would be too expensive, “Go to that man, he has many fish, he sell one cheap,” he said as he pointed to another Indian on the rocks below.   Sure enough the man with eight or ten salmon quickly picked up a twenty pounder and said, “good fish, one dollah.”   I paid the man the incredible low price (five cents a pound) and we were soon on our way home with the freshest fish obtainable.

 

It is sad that this place of beauty, that great fishing spot with its entourage of Indians is no longer there to be seen, it is completely covered with the water backed up by The Dalles Dam.   Our government paid the Indians for covering up their tribal fishing grounds and the total price figured out to be about $1500. per person.   How sad it was to see their perpetual means of food taken away, while the money was gone before the year was out^[4]!     The government, according to the treaty, also made new houses for them, but these new houses turned out to be surplus military Quonset huts.   The Indians at first tried to live in the “white man’s” house, but soon returned to their wooden huts, cheated again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Indian huts along the Columbia River at Celilo Falls

Winter soon arrived with frozen ground and snow.   I continued working at the planer, but the simplest tasks became much more difficult to do.   We were bundled up with insulated underwear and heavy outer garments and all around the planer there were men gathered around five gallon buckets of burning diesel oil trying to stay warm, these buckets produced a hot flame that reached about two feet above the container.   The machinery was very cold, so we could not touch any of it without gloves, since our fingers would freeze to it.   This cold machinery, along with planing frozen lumber, produced poor results, so eventually we ceased operations until more moderate weather arrived.    I then entered a new phase of work: repairing, rebuilding and remodeling everything connected to the planing mill, preparing for full production in the coming Spring.

 

These winters in eastern Washington were very severe with ice reaching out to the center of the Columbia.   Just prior to my arrival in Lyle, the mighty Columbia had frozen completely across with the ice so thick that vehicles were driven across^[5], dangerous to be sure, but a daring few will always rise to the occasion of a challenge.

 

Before the onslaught of winter, we discovered that Jan was pregnant and a new addition was on the way.   This knowledge brought with it a new excitement, as we began preparations for the new arrival in June.   I built a crib from pine lumber obtained at J. Neal’s Lumber Co^[6]. in Klikitat, about 20 miles north of Lyle on the Klickitat River.   Jan sewed sheets, hemmed blankets and made several outfits of tiny baby clothes, until we finally felt that we were ready for our first child.

 

The bank building had a very high first floor ceiling, consequently we had to descend, or climb a long flight of stairs (22 steps, I think) which became increasingly difficult for Jan.   At times the doorbell would ring while I was at work and Jan would make her way down that long stairway to open the front door, then back up those 22 steps to the apartment; this was not good!   I brought home an extra solenoid from the planer, attached it to the lock on the door and with the addition of a couple of springs, I had an automatic door opener.     When the doorbell rang, Jan flipped a switch at the top of the stairs and the door would open; oh yes, I wired in a light just over the doorway which came on as the solenoid was activated^[7].   I think that many people came to visit Jan, just to see this new marvel of the electronic age.   Incidentally one elderly lady refused to come in after hearing the buzzing of the solenoid, seeing the door opening, “all by itself^[8]” and the light flash on. Jan had to go down and lead her in.

 

One other invention that comes to mind from those ‘prehistoric’ times was a small table or sidebar on my rocking chair.   I attached a steel rod to the arm of the chair, centered the sidebar and fastened an old sad iron and a few other weights from each side of the table with cords which culminated directly below the center of the table, then as I leaned back, the table always remained level.   Step two was to attach another weight from the rod on a cord which hung straight down (a little longer than the length of the counterweights).   Now I could rock in my rocking chair with a full cup of coffee on the table and amazingly, no coffee would spill!   If the chair was stopped from rocking, the momentum from the chair was transferred to the counterbalance which

would swing rapidly back and forth canceling the tendency of the table to continue its movement and again the table remained level.   I called it my “Stable Mable Table.”

 

School was out and the summer recess was finally here, so we made plans for many picnics and outings for the Sunday School children.   One of these outings was to Beacon Rock State Park near North Bonneville.   Beacon rock is an enormous rock at the edge of the Columbia, but a rock that had a trail built around the side of it to the top^[9].     The children all wanted to climb the rock, so we had a pow wow about staying on the trail and obeying every command, this they readily agreed to do and we were off, or should I say up!     Eventually we arrived on top, gazed up and down the Columbia Gorge, snapped a few photos and began our descent.   No sooner had we started, when we were surprised by Jan and Joyce Bryan, who decided to climb the rock also. Jan was about one week away from delivery at this time and my first question to her was, “how do you feel?”   She said that she never felt better, but I could tell that she was tired.   Back we started with our troop and it was a real job riding herd on those excited boys and girls wanting to run down the face of that rock.  I had to remain near Jan to help her down the steep trail (there were two other adults to supervise the kids).   It was much harder for Jan to descend the rock than it was to ascend it, since she was quite a bit off-balance, however just to be safe, I held on to her all the way down.   Two days later she had a doctor’s appointment in ‘The Dalles’ (still tired from this ordeal) and when he heard what she had done, he scolded her quite severely, with “Did you want to be the first woman to have a baby on the top of Beacon Rock?” Jan was properly subdued by this gruff lecture and agreed not to do such a foolish thing again.     One week later our first born son^[10] arrived, not on Beacon Rock, but in the hospital on the bluff, in the town of ‘The Dalles.’

 

The first Sunday after Jan returned home from the hospital, she and Mark were in church .. and every Sunday after that!     The congregation was so proud of Jan and the example she set, even though they repeatedly said, “you should have stayed home until you were completely rested up.” Jan would have none of this ‘resting up’ advise, her place was in church with her husband and that is where she managed to be.   Because of this, Mark was in church at age five days, a good beginning for the preacher’s kid.   My sister Helen came down from Dallesport to help with household chores and care of the new baby,^[11] what a blessing she was to us at that time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

^[1] If the father and mother both attended Sunday School and Church, there was no need to help out, but if neither parent attended, or if the mother only attended, usually help was needed.

^[2] Originally it was a WW II air raid siren set up to warn of air raids, but now it was used to warn of a Russian nuclear attacks, fires, natural disasters, or any other emergencies.

^[3] Pronounced, see-lye-low; The Indians pronounced it, she-lye-low.

^[4] Salesmen came from everywhere selling everything from refrigerators (but there was no electricity in Celilo) to automobiles (they didn’t know how to drive) to vacuum cleaners, etc, etc.

^[5] The temperature fell to 351 below zero for two weeks or more.

 

^[6] J. Neal Lumber Co. manufactured pine lumber in all dimensions.

^[7] If you came to visit and rang the doorbell, there would be a buzzing sound, the light came on and the door opened.

^[8] She just kept repeating, “it opened all by itself…”

^[9] I think that the trail was about one mile long with steep pathways and many steps, both stone and steel.

^[10] Mark Ellwood Warner;   June 20, 1953.

^[11] Helen was spending the summer with the Browns and was working in the Japanese gardens.

 

 

CHAPTER   28

 

Good Bye… Good Bye… What a feeling of sadness enveloped us from the utterance of these two little words, while they invoked a scene of friendly parting, they also brought about a tearful separation from our very close friends on this moving day.     This parting also brought to us a sense of finality since some of these friends would never be seen again, at least not in this present life.

 

Jan and I had loaded all our belongings into the rear seat and trunk of our 1947 Buick, plus a few pieces of furniture were stowed away in the small trailer attached behind us. The baby (Mark) was held by Jan, although there was a little bed made for him among the items in the back seat when he became sleepy.   We had previously given away every item that would not fit into our diminutive moving van, with the idea that we would replace them later on.   We said our goodbye’s to the Church and were soon on our way, now both Jan and I could lean back, relax and quietly reflect on the parting while the Double Eagle tires of our Buick hummed away the miles on Oregon State Highway 30 that bordered the magnificent Columbia River.   We had been asked by our District Office to go to Spokane and check on an Independent^[1] church which was in the process of seeking affiliation with an organized church group, Open Bible Standard was one of their considerations.   When we arrived, the members had a business meeting, but voted to remain Independent for the time being.   Our headquarters then asked us to check on another church with similar desires in Pasco, Washington.   The Pasco Church Group was in a quandary over this step, but they also decided to remain Independent for the present.   After reporting our findings to District Headquarters,   we were notified of an emergency church opening and asked by our District Superintendent to assume the unexpired term of a pastor who had left the church in the town of Stanwood, Washington, (a small church on the Puget Sound).   This we accepted.

 

The church building was old with many modern conveniences lacking (rest rooms among other things).   I was not able to correct many of these needs, because of the lack of money, so the bulk of our time was spent ministering to the spiritual needs of the people.

 

While in Stanwood (Fall, Winter and Spring) we did have some great times picnicking on Camino Island^[2], we had brother Wayne up for a weekend pass from Ft. Lewis and a few other family visitors.     These family fellowships were great and meant a lot to us, in fact if it wasn’t for them we would have felt isolated.

It seemed that the pastorate here had more than its share of problems.   While some of the congregation wanted nothing emotional in the services, another lady wanted to swing from the chandeliers and shout herself hoarse.   This lady had long hair done up in a large bun at the back of her head, anchored with dozens of hairpins.   She took me aside and confided that she wanted the services to be free so she might dance up and down the isles, “I want to be able to run and dance and shake my hair down,” was the way she put it.   I took the middle ground of the ministry by teaching, preaching, baptizing in water and praying with the people for their needs and concerns.

 

One young man, an official in the church, had a real problem because he had embezzled hundreds of dollars^[3] from the company he worked for and left town with his family on an extended vacation.   I found out about it from another minister who was a friend of the owner.   I went to the businessman, had a conference with him about this serious matter, since I didn’t want anyone from my church to end up in jail^[4].   I also mailed a letter to our District Superintendent in Tacoma with the particulars of this church crisis.   As soon as Tom (not his real name) returned from abroad, I met with him on this matter, but was angrily rebuffed by his denial.   The following morning he and his wife appeared at the parsonage.   He was very contrite, had confessed to his wife^[5] and wanted help to resolve this matter, “I told my wife,” he said, “then we prayed all night about this since we both knew that I would probably go to jail.”   Jan and I prayed with them, counseled them and stood by them until the matter was resolved with the owner^[6].   The owner had previously told me that if Tom paid back the money no legal action would be taken, and he would be forgiven (a real answer to prayer).   About that time I received a phone call from our Superintendent, who told me not to get involved in this matter since (1) “the young man’s family was prominent in the organization,” (2) “these allegations were no doubt lies” and (3) “never stir up water in a puddle, since all that you will get is muddy water!”   I happily told him that it was too late now for his advice, since the matter was settled…and without muddy water. Several years later the young man and his family stopped by our parsonage in California and thanked us profusely for standing by them in that dark hour of their life.

 

The spiritual rewards were great here, but financially we suffered.   The congregation paid the salary of the minister by one freewill offering each week and that offering averaged $5.00 per week; $180.00 for the entire nine months that we served.   We had to rent a house out of this money, pay our utility bills, buy gasoline and purchase food, especially food for the baby.   It was obvious that this money from the church would never meet our needs, so I picked up an odd job here and there.   One such job was working four hours a day^[7] on a large dairy farm owned by a man who was a millionaire, he was also a member and the treasurer of our church, but even with this additional job, we suffered from lack of proper nutrition.   It would be a year after we left before our health returned to normal.

 

One day we received a phone call from our District Superintendent, that he and his wife were touring the district (Washington/Idaho) and would drop in to see us the following evening. We looked in the cupboard, but the cupboard was bare!   What a dilemma, no food, no money, nothing!   Jan then called some of the ladies of the church to help out by preparing food for the occasion and this they graciously did.   As I went to the Post Office that morning, I found a letter from my sister Helen with a five dollar bill enclosed, what great timing.^[8]

 

The term of ministry that I had agreed to, finally (and mercifully) came to a close in June of the following year.   We simply packed up our Buick and left, as we were preparing to drive away one member of our congregation asked, “why are you leaving us?”   I candidly replied, “Our financial resources are gone (and have been for six months), our health is poor, we are indebted to people for rent, utilities and car payments, so I must leave in order to survive.”   The gentleman was taken aback and blurted out, “I didn’t know… we didn’t realize… we thought that you folks were rich people from the city since you drove a big Buick^[9], you always dressed in nice clothes and you never complained about money.”   Perhaps it was my fault, maybe I should have confronted the congregation with our needs continuously, but I just couldn’t do it, I knew that they were aware of our income from the church since they had the monthly treasurer’s report on the bulletin board… But it was now time to leave and as I had written to Everett Thoren in Lyle

about a job for the summer^[10], I was anxious to be on my way.

 

 

Living on The Edge

When we arrived in Lyle, there was not a house to be rented anywhere, but Thorne had a house which he offered us, free of charge on a bluff overlooking the Columbia River.   It wasn’t much of a house, (one room, with an outside rest room and a storage area) but the price was right and it was a good little house for us. There was, however one bad part to this arrangement, it was only 10 feet from the side of the house to the edge of the cliff, then a 40 foot sheer drop to the river.   This drawback cause us great concern, since our year old son Mark was just learning to walk, but you can rest assured that no young child received more attention and supervision than he did that summer, we really kept an eye on him!     Near the house was a log dump where logging trucks brought their huge loads of logs to be dumped into the river, then while in the water, these logs were made up into large rafts^[11] and towed down the Columbia River by tugboat to Portland. This log dump was about 100 feet from our house on the same bluff, but it was far from a nuisance, it was fascinating to watch those huge logs tumble into the water from the top of the cliff.

 

 

 

 

Jan and Mark at the edge of the Mighty Columbia River and our front yard (1954). In the photo at the right, the Rowena ferry is at the left edge of the frame. Mark is 14 months old.

 

 

 

 

 

My duties at the planer were the same as before, i.e.. run the planer have oversight of production, and keep all the machinery operating at peak efficiency.   After my regular working hours, I scaled and graded logs on the late arriving logging trucks, unloaded them at the sawmill’s log deck and loaded the trailers onto the trucks for their return.     This was easy for me to do since, we lived only 100 yards from the deck.

 

While living at Lyle, one of our favorite places to visit was Multnomah Falls and this we did at every opportunity.   Our trips down the Columbia were always planned with a stop at these beautiful falls, a hike up the trail and lunch in the lodge. While we lived along the Columbia, the road to Portland was down the Evergreen Highway to Vancouver on the Washington side, then across the bridge to Portland, or down the crooked, narrow highway^[12] on the Oregon side of the river.   Both of these routes are fabulous and the views unsurpassed anywhere.   We usually crossed the Columbia by ferry at Rowena, then motored west toward Portland.   The old, crooked, narrow highway of bygone days is still open for leisure traffic and is called the scenic route today.

 

During the winter months, fierce storms swept down the Columbia Gorge with blizzard conditions, stopping all traffic.   Several times we struggled homeward through ice, gale force winds and a curtain of snow, just one step ahead of the road closure.   I recall once when the passenger train was stranded at Multnomah Falls because of the deep snow and the howling blizzard from the east.   The passengers of the train struggled into the lodge and there they remained for three days before rescue crews got through to them, but I digress, so back to Thoren Bros. Lumber Co.

Mission Accomplished

 

In a little over three months I had made $2400.00, paid off the Buick, sent the rent money to Stanwood, put money in the bank and bought many things that we really needed^[13], but had to do without.   When summer ended and Thorne was contemplating a move to Northeastern Oregon, we decide to move to the Eugene area instead.     What a great summer we had in Lyle, living on the edge of the mighty Columbia, watching the tugs go by.

 

Seventh and “B”

Seventh and ‘B^[14] ‘was the fond nickname given to the First Assembly of God Church in Springfield, Oregon.   This church was to be our home church for the next five years after our relocation to Springfield.   We first lived in a home along the McKenzie River up Camp Creek Road.   While we were here, our second son, Dwight^[15] was born in the Sacred Heart Hospital in Eugene.   Jan’s sister Sharon Kathleen stayed with us during that time assisting Jan with the new baby and in household duties.   Kathey (as she was later called) was not very old at the time, eight or ten I think, but she helped out so much.

 

Our next move was into a rental house next to the Springfield Airport on Scott Road and while there we (along with the rest of the world) saw the first sputnik moving methodically across the evening sky as a bright dot of light.   Then along with everyone else, we pondered just what impact this little light in the sky would have on our future, the future of our nation and the future of the world. .   Needless to say, our government was caught by surprise.

 

As I look back to that day, a time when the ‘Cold War’ was in full swing, nuclear war appeared immanent and our Nation was entangled in the Korean conflict, I find it difficult to enumerate all the changes which occurred from that time unto the present time, some forty years.   The Korean Conflict ended, but our nation was soon trapped in another (worse) involvement in Viet Nam.   This war too, eventually came to a close, but at what a price, no victory for us only the loss of thousands of American young men and a divided nation to show for these 9 years of fighting.   The great superpower, USSR soon crumbled and the Berlin Wall came down.   Communism was now in full retreat around the world.   The fighting and military skirmishes in the Mideast however are much the same today as they were at the time of the little Sputnik and will continue until the return of Jesus Christ to establish His everlasting kingdom.   The next forty years saw the USA placing satellites in space also and when we put two men on the moon the entire world cheered.   We also sent probes to Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Venus, Mercury and to the Sun.   At the present time (1997) we have we have “Sojourner” on the surface of Mars, and “Global Explorer” circling the planet; Galileo released a probe into the upper atmosphere of Jupiter and is now orbiting that planet gathering data and photos from it and its moons, while the sophisticated spacecraft Cassini is on its way to Saturn.

 

Our house in Springfield bordered the airport^[16]and we had a front row seat to all the planes taking off and landing, which delighted Mark and Dwight immensely.   It was a sobering time though when one of the planes crashed on takeoff and the pilot was killed. This plane ended up just behind our house.

One evening my brother Wayne came by and talked to me about getting a job with him at Reed’s Fuel Company.   I went to see Alvin Reed the next day and was hired immediately.   From that moment on I worked in the fuel business by day and in Gospel work at ‘Seventh and B’ evenings and weekends. At that time we made our final move in Springfield to a nice rental house at 727 Eighth Street.

 

While we lived in Springfield, we went on many picnics and campouts.   One of our favorite places was up the South Fork of the McKenzie where we would stay in a three sided forest cabin (the open fire pit made up the forth wall) in the National Forest Reserve.   Here the immense old growth firs grew straight and tall and the beautiful river was picture perfect.  The boys had great times on these campouts, as did we.   Our camping trips up the Willamette were a carbon copy of the McKenzie and gave us some of the most idyllic, relaxing times of our life.

 

Jan played both the piano and organ in the church and was involved as a vocalist in the music department.   I taught Bible classes and assisted the pastor as a song leader. I soon became the youth minister, the Sunday School Superintendent and also a Sunday School teacher.   Jan also taught Sunday School classes and when I left the youth department, she became the Youth Leader.   When the Pastor was absent, I took his place preaching, yes it was a hectic pace, but we really loved it!.     Jan and I also worked in the radio broadcast ministry, which was taped once a week in Eugene for Sunday release.   During these tapings, Mark and Dwight really got to know their grandparents^[17] in Eugene, since they stayed with them while we were at the studio.   Their aunt Helen (who was living at home during this time) was very good to them by taking them to the park to swing on the swings, slide on the big slides and listen to the Scottish bagpipe marching band that practiced every Thursday evening.

 

Seventh and “B” was a continuous hive of activity, the church services were nearly non stop and we were involved in them all.   One time when Jan was at choir practice and I was home with the boys, I answered a knock at the door to a distraught, troubled young man whom I knew from Bible College days.   It seems that he was having marriage problems, financial problems, emotional stress and he blamed his wife for each of these.   After talking and praying with him, he finally confided, “I was planning to kill my wife and daughter tonight, then shoot myself, but I thought of you and that is why I am here.”   At that he pulled a pistol out of his waistband and gave it to me.   The first thing I did was to unload the gun, put the bullets in my pocket and lay the pistol on top of the cabinet.   “Do you have more bullets?” I queried as I faced him again; “No he replied, those are all I had.”   I counseled and prayed with him again and it wasn’t long until he became very contrite and began to sob.   After a bit he calmed down and said, “I’m OK now, I’m all right… I want to thank you for your time and help… I feel a lot better now, I’m going back home… you don’t have to worry about me, I’m OK … thanks for your help and advice.”   With those words he left, quite differently than when he arrived, to my relief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I made the decision to transfer from the Open Bible Standard organization into the Assemblies of God and was licensed by them in 1969 while at Springfield, Oregon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I soon became the leader of a group that ministered at the Eugene Mission each Saturday night.   These meetings were directed toward the alcoholic drifters and the down and out homeless people^[18].     The Mission provided food and a place to sleep while we provided food for their souls.   We began with music and song, Jan played the piano or the accordion, then we testified to these people what a loving God had done for us.   Finally I preached and invited them to accept Christ as their Savior and when they responded, we knelt and prayed with them.   Many of these drifters were changed by the power of God and decided to straiten up.   On the confession of their faith, we encouraged them to return home, become reunited with their family, get a job and live for God.   While in this ministry we received dozens of letters from our alcoholic Saturday night congregation, who returned home changed people and were now living new lives. One night when we were walking back to our cars, I noticed that Marion Tedro^[19] had no shoes on, “what happened to your shoes,” I asked.   He sheepishly replied, “the fellow that I was praying with had his shoes stolen and since it was cold and rainy, I gave him mine.”   Marion was like that!   He gave everything to the work of God, and at this writing he is now with God rejoicing along the “golden streets” of Heaven.   We were all on a spiritual high each Saturday Night after the Mission service.

 

Mark attended the first grade here and got his start in the academic world as a grade “A” student. Dwight still had a year of freedom left before he would begin school in Mill City. Incidentally the new Middle School that is being built in Springfield is named after the boys great, great grandmother, Agnes Stewart Warner, a pioneer who crossed the plains in a covered wagon to became Springfield’s first school teacher during the 1850’s.

 

When Mom and Dad Warner married, they settled in the town of Wendling in the early 1920’s. Mother’s parents^[20], along with two sisters and a brother also lived in Wendling at that time^[21], no doubt influencing them to settle here.   Finally with the mill gone^[22] and along with it, the entire town of 800 or more people, my parents finally decided to sell and move to Eugene, and that is where they were living while we in Springfield,.

 

While working in the Assembly of God Church at Seventh and “B” streets as an assistant pastor, I was ordained a minister in the Assemblies of God Organization^[23].   After the ordination ceremony I was asked by the Presbyters if I would accept the pastorate in Mill City, Oregon.   Now it was moving time again for Jan and me along with our two sons, Mark and Dwight. It was now time to leave the refinements of the city and head for the rustic mountains of the Oregon Cascades along the Santiam River.

 

 

 

 

 

Mark and Dwight in Springfield, Oregon. Mark was six and Dwight was four years old.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I received my ordination from the Assemblies of God while living at Springfield, Oregon. The difference between License and Ordination is similar to the difference between an apprentice and journeyman in the trades. When licensed, one is recognized by the church to carry out the functions of the church as one of its ministers. This licensed minister is also recognized by the state to perform marriages, etc.

 

An ordination carries the additional recognition of the church that the licensed minister has proven himself faithful to the calling of God and is accepted as one who is ordained of God to carry on the work of leadership in the church.

^[1]           An Independent Church Group was one with no organizational ties.

^[2]           We even house- sat a large, well to do home on the shore of Puget Sound for two weeks while the owners were away.

^[3]           Equal to $20,00 – $25,000 in today’s money.

^[4]                 The owner of the company had an inventory taken which revealed the extent of the loss, then planned to have Tom arrested as soon as he returned to town.

^[5]           She did not know that he was embezzling money from the company.

^[6]           It was resolved by noon that very day.

^[7]           At 75 cents per hour, the job lasting about one month.

^[8]           Later on Jan’s brother Dick and his wife Judy sent us $20.00, “For the cause.”   At that moment we prayed that God would richly bless these wonderful brothers and sisters who showed us compassion during a very needy time in our life.

^[9]           The down payment on the Buick was made with money paid me from a past loan and payments made while I was working in Lyle.

^[10]          I needed a job in order to pay rent that I owed and finish making payments on the Buick that the company graciously suspended until I was able to make them again.   There were also many other things that were needed desperately needed at this time.

^[11]          During the previous summer Jan’s brother Dale stayed with us while he worked making up the log rafts at this backwater inlet on the Columbia River.   He and Dolores lived in Madera, California where Dale was a teacher and coach in a Christian School.   They suffered nearly the same fate as we did in Stanwood., now it was work time to catch up on financial obligations.

^[12]          There is a modern super highway along the Columbia River now on the Oregon side.   This highway was under construction while we lived in Lyle.

^[13]          Best of all we could eat real food again.

^[14]          It was located on the corner of Seventh St. and “B” Street.   Rev. Lester Carlsen was pastor at the time.

^[15]          Dwight Jonathan Warner, August 3, 1955.

^[16]          Not even a fence between us.

^[17]          Harry and Ethel Warner.

^[18]               To the rest of the community they were “winos and bums”.

^[19] A local building contractor, who spent every Saturday night at the Mission helping these derelicts straighten up.

^[20] David and Addie Bowers.

^[21] Hazel Bowers Bailey, Alvira Bowers Davis and Giles Bowers.

^[22] Booth-Kelley Lumber Co.

^[23] I was licensed with the open Bible Standard Churches and the Assemblies of God prior to this.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

The 1955 Roadmaster Buick easily pulled the U-Haul trailor filled with our meager possessions up the Willamette Valley to Albany. After we passed Albany, we made a right turn onto country roads through the towns of Jefferson and Scio, crossed the Jordan River (a small stream) and finally reached Lyons. The drive was very pleasant through rolling hills covered with a patchwork of small farms bordered by wooded areas. From Lyons it was but seven miles east to Mill City, our destination and home for the next two years.

 

Our two son’s, Mark and Dwight^[1] burst free from their captivity in the back seat as soon as the car stopped at the parsonage^[2]. These two boys were as excited as two squirrels in a pine tree and immediately began to explore their new home. Jan and I on the other hand, had things to unload and carry into the parsonage, but were interrupted every few minutes by new discoveries from the boys. Soon two men^[3] from the church congregation arrived to help move us in and when the last bed was carried in and assembled, their wives appeared at the kitchen door with a complete dinner for us to enjoy. What great country hospitality to conclude this wonderful day. Vern even offered to take the stray cat away that had taken possession of this vacant house (more on this later).

 

The town of Mill City^[4] was small in population at this time and the church congregation averaged no more than 20. This town surely presented a challenge for us, so we immediately went to work. There were people to visit (who had dropped out of church), people in the hospital to see, a Sunday School to rebuild, and a dozen other things that required our immediate attention. Our efforts quickly paid dividends and attendance picked up.

 

Mark and Dwight were the best helpers that any pastor could wish for, they passed out hymnals, greeted people at the door, kept the furnace^[5] filled with wood and swept the floors. They always went with us when we visited in the homes of our congregation (evenings and weekends) and knew almost as much as we did, concerning the health of the church. I bought Mark and Dwight fishing poles and soon they were off to the Santiam River catching trout. The first string of fish they proudly presented to their mother brought a look of consternation, she had no idea how to clean a fish. I was gone at the time, so Jan sent them over to a neighbor lady who did the job and we had fish for dinner. Later Mrs. Hoodenpile confided to Jan that she had never cleaned a fish before in her life, but did her best for the boys, that acknowledgment produced a good laugh from the ladies. Mark was eight years old at this time and Dwight was six, just beginning the first grade.

 

I had many pastoral duties that needed attention, but we were also in need of money, since the church congregation was too small to support a minister and his family. The logical thing to do was to find a job and this I did at Stout Creek Lumber Co. seven miles down highway 22 in the town of Mehama. I worked during the day in the planer and sawmill, then put on my ministerial hat and began church activities in the evening and into the night.   I never worked with a nicer bunch of guys than I did at Stout Creek Lumber Co. One of the men later told me that the owner gave them strict orders not to harass me (I was a Protestant Minister, they were Catholic). From this union there soon developed a great bond of friendship among us as we worked and labored together   I was still working at Stout Creek when Christmas drew near with a large order for lumber to be shipped immediately. This demand translated into ten and twelve hour workdays in zero degree weather. Our first concern was this terrible cold weather that caused our hands to freeze to the machinery^[6], so it wasn’t long until there were dozens of five gallon buckets of burning diesel fuel strategically placed around the work area, which made our job somewhat more bearable. When this new ten hour shift was imposed on us, there was a general howl of protest from the men and it was then that I wrote a poem, “Christmas time at the Mill.”[[0]]

 

Let’s now return to that move-in day at the parsonage. Remember, Vern volunteered to take the stray cat away and this he did when he left that afternoon.   As soon as his truck left the yard, one of the ladies came directly to me and blurted out, “ you know what he wants that cat for don’t you?” “I suppose that he wants to keep the church area free of strays,” I volunteered.“ “He wants that cat so he can loose his hounds on the poor thing,” she snipped, ignoring my lack of understanding. Alas, it was true, Vern had hunting hounds and one method of keeping them sharp was to free a cat in a field near his house, then release the hounds which would eventually catch the animal and quickly dispatched it.

 

On another occasion when our mighty hunter checked his bear traps in the mountains one Saturday, he found a large bear caught in one, so, as was his custom, he loosed his hounds on it. As the hounds rushed in for the kill, the bear grabbed the first one killing it instantly, then proceeded to maul several of the others in quick succession. This left Vern with no other choice but to shoot the bear in order to save what was left of his dogs. The following Sunday morning, as he related this sad new to some of the men prior to the beginning of the church service, one of the older ladies listened intently and when he got to the part about the bear killing his best hound, she shouted out, “GOOD FOR THE BEAR!”   Of course this response was not what Vern anticipated, so a general hubbub broke out, forcing me to intervene in order that the service might begin with some measure of decorum.

 

Perhaps the most significant event to happen during our ministry in Mill City was the conversion of Jerry B. Jerry and his family lived in a small, one bedroom house^[7] across a vacant lot from the church and although Jan and I visited many families in Mill City, we had yet to visit here, but one cold day as Jan was looking out the kitchen window, she observed the little children sitting on the steps in a skiff of snow. They had nothing on but their underwear as they huddled together eating a sandwich. She was appalled and said, “we have got to help those little children, I don’t care if they are on welfare, we can help out also!”   I casually remarked in a prayer meeting the next day that we were going over and bring those children to Sunday School and get them some warm clothing. One of the ladies immediately warned us to stay away from there, “that guy is a profane evil tempered drug addict, he is also a drunk and always carries a gun with him, he is bad, bad, bad.” That was sobering advice, but we were there to take the Gospel to everyone, so over we went to the lion’s den. The visit was uneventful since we had a bundle of warm clothing for the children and more importantly, Jerry wasn’t there at the time. Mrs. B. was very pleasant and agreed to have the three children ready for Sunday School next Sunday. True to her word, Mrs. B. saw that the children were in Sunday School the following Sunday, but along with the children there was a bonus, their mother also came with them. The following Sunday Mrs. B. accepted Christ as her Savior and from that day on, never missed a service. Jerry however was a different story, he was elusive, drugged out of his mind most of the time and unapproachable. Later, we found that he was vitally interested in the church services, since he quizzed his wife as to what went on when she returned home from each service. Mrs. B would then re-preach each sermon and re-sing^[8] every hymn, pressing upon him his own private church service. He was impressed with the radical change in her behavior, since she was now peaceful and quiet, reading the Bible most of the day and praying with the children each morning and evening, but he made it plain that this was not for him.   He had one question, however, that he asked after each service, “did anyone talk in a foreign language in that service?”^[9] Mrs. B. had no idea what he was talking about and told him so.

 

Three weeks later at the conclusion of a Sunday morning service during the altar call, the Holy Spirit spoke by a ‘message in tongues with an interpretation’ that went something like this, “The Lord is calling you to repent, you have sinned against God for many years, today is your day of Salvation, turn from your life of sin, accept Jesus as your Savior now and the Lord will abundantly pardon you, if not, the judgment of God remains upon you and the everlasting torment of hell is awaiting you.” At the conclusion of that message, several people came forward to the altar, knelt down and began to pray. Mrs. B. though ran straight home, burst into the small house where her husband was half lying on the couch with a bottle of wine in his hand and blurted out, It happened, it happened, the ministers wife stood up and spoke in a foreign language, then she said what it meant in English!” Jerry was visibly startled by this sudden outburst, but had one thought uppermost in his mind as he sat bolt upright, “what was the ‘Interpretation’, what was said in English he shouted! Mrs. B., was quite startled by this reaction, but quickly related, to the best of her ability, what had been said. When she concluded, Jerry threw the wine bottle against the wall with such force, it broke into dozens of pieces and he began to tremble, saying, “pray for me, pray for me.” There was no doubt in his mind, but that the message was meant for him personally, as the minister, I would have to agree.

 

Sunday evening Jerry walked into the church service with his wife and children and sat down on one of the pews. A few members went over and greeted them, but most held back wondering what he was up to. The service went smoothly without an incident and at the conclusion, Jerry went forward, knelt at the altar and accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior.   What a changed man he was, his face just beamed and his smile was from ear to ear as he turned to the congregation and said, “I was a terrible person full of bitterness, hate and violence, but Jesus has set me free tonight, I’m a new man!” At that everyone crowded around, shaking his hand and hugging him, until all were laughing and crying.

 

Jerry’s battle had just begun, since he was completely addicted to drugs,^[10] booze and cigarettes. He told me that if I would pray with him and help him, he would quit these drugs today. I quickly assured him that I would be with him each step of the way and all the church would be praying for him. I don’t want to minimize the battle, it was tough, he sweat, he screamed, he pounded on the wall, while his wife changed the perspiration soaked bedding. I prayed with him, held him, read the Bible to him until that wave of agony would pass. “You can go home now, I’m OK,” he would say, so back home I went, but an hour or so later his wife was knocking on the door, with, “Jerry needs you” and off I went again. During this battle I was also working full time at the mill, so I got very little sleep, however I never felt any bad effects of that lack of sleep.   This withdrawal time lasted about four days, then it was abruptly over. Jerry had given up drugs, (painkilling and others) Liquor and cigarettes in one instant as an act of faith, yet it was to be four more days until all the effects left his system. At the conclusion he was weak, but happy and at peace. The poor little children must have wondered what was going on with daddy and the preacher fighting that evil monster.

 

The longest battle for Jerry was still ahead, gaining control over his profane and obnoxious language. Trying as hard as he could to suppress them, these words would spill out into his daily conversation. We prayed while he agonized day after day, he would give up, but we would not allow it, so back into the fight again he went.   I drove home from the mill one evening, walked into the Parsonage when I heard a thump on the back porch, it was Jerry who had watched for me, then ran to the house and with one jump hurdled the steps. “I haven’t said a bad word for twenty four hours,” he yelled. Oh! he had slips from time to time, but that battle was also won, total time about three weeks.

 

The final segment of Jerry’s life in Mill City (related in this book) was frightening for the family and a test of my own faith. Mrs. B. scurried to the parsonage one cold, snowy afternoon in those Oregon hills with a troubled request, “Brother Warner^[11] can you come and help Jerry, he is bleeding very bad?” I grabbed a heavy coat and off we hurried through the deepening snow.^[12] What a terrible sight greeted me as I stepped through the door into that little house, there was blood everywhere near the prostate form of Jerry. Although He was conscious, he was also very weak from loss of blood. Mrs. B. had filled a bath towel with snow and wrapped it around his head in an attempt to stop the flow, but on it came. Blood was coming oozing from his ears, his nose and his mouth, his face was a mask of blood, a terrible sight! “Do you want me to take you to the hospital,” I quickly asked since I knew that their car was broken down. “No” he whispered, “then I’ll get my car and go for the doctor,” I immediately replied. Jerry gave a shallow sigh and slowly spoke again, “no more Doctors for me, you preached last Sunday that God would heal us from sickness if we believed and prayed in faith.” He was right, I had preached that last Sunday, but I had not expected this. Now I was aware of the children screaming and crying in the corner with Mrs. B. quietly trying to console her dying husband. “all right,” I said, “Sister B. Bring the children here, we are going to pray.” The little children knelt at the side of the couch, his wife at the foot while I knelt at his head. I don’t think that I ever prayed more fervently as this man’s life was ebbing away.   As I earnestly prayed, I also quoted many verses of Scripture, perhaps to inspire my own faith more than theirs. “This man is depending on me to touch God for him,” I remember thinking, as I continued to pray to God in the Name of Jesus that that this bleeding be stopped. After a few minutes, Mrs. B. excitedly spoke up, “it’s stopped, the bleeding has stopped!” She was right, the bleeding had stopped and Jerry was lying very still and relaxed now. I began to thank God for answering prayer, while Mrs. B. began to clean Jerry’s face and head. As she raised him into a sitting position, we all began to praise and thank God for His love and concern. Then Jerry spoke with authority, his voice gathering strength, “I knew that God would heal me, just like it says in the Bible.” “Amen,” we added.

 

As I walked home through the deepening snow and the gloom of the approaching winter night, I reflected on several things:

1. God is faithful, He will answer prayer according to His Word, if we act upon it.
2. Jerry was a new Christian, only a couple of months in the Faith, yet he believed that if                   he called for the minister, God would heal him, “because God said so.”^[13] Many                             Christians have lived their entire life without manifesting this simple faith.
3. We must never limit God, He is omnipotent!

 

Jerry was in church Sunday morning testifying to all what God had done for him, causing the entire congregation to stand to their feet and spontaneously give thanks to God.

 

The fallout from this event was spectacular. When I went to work on Monday, everyone at the mill had heard about what had happened^[14] and they began to quiz me about it. That gave me a great opportunity to talk to them about God’s love and power, and since they all knew of Jerry B. the degenerate, drunken, drug addict, I could use him as an example of what God could do for them. After a time some of them began to conjecture, “I know how you did it,” spoke up Dave one of my new friends at the mill, “ you are the seventh son of a seventh son, right?” “Not so,” I replied , “I am the second son of a first son, and I have already told you, I did not do it, God did.” He shook his head at this disclosure, since he was sure that he had the answer. Another said, “you quoted the ‘blood verse,’ “What are you talking about?” I asked in astonishment, “It’s very simple he added, we all know that there is a scripture verse in the Bible that stops blood from flowing from a wound in man or beast and heals the problem. Will you tell us where it is so we can also use it when we need it?”   “I know of no such scripture, although I quoted many scriptures while I prayed, but God healed this man,” I again replied.   Many others came with their explanations, finding it difficult to believe that such an event could have the simple answer, “God did it.” I am sure that Jerry’s previous accident was the cause of this event, since he told me he felt something ‘pop’ in his head, then the blood began flow^[15].

 

The Columbus Day Storm, October 1961

The west coast does not experience Hurricanes, these storms are reserved for the eastern seaboard and the gulf of Mexico, however a violent storm of hurricane magnitude and properties touched ashore at the California-Oregon border in 1961 (officially labeled a typhoon) and swept northward through Oregon and Washington.   This storm smashed through our forests, uprooting trees by the hundreds of thousands, resulting in losses extending into millions of dollars. It then moved into the Willamette Valley smashing houses and structures, destroying dairies and farms and killing hundreds of farm animals. The State Capital in Salem was especially hard hit with nearly all of its decorative trees destroyed. Each city, each town and each county had its own tale of terror to recount in the succeeding weeks as this misplaced hurricane finally spent itself at the Seattle Space Needle.

 

I had no sooner arrived at Stout Creek Lumber Company^[16] on that fateful October day, when one of the men asked me if I knew that a big storm was approaching. Indeed, I had heard on the radio that a terrible storm had moved through the city of Brookings^[17] the night before leaving the city in shambles. “It is not supposed to come up here is it?” I replied. He wasn’t sure, but didn’t think it would. Throughout the morning, whenever men gathered together, the subject of the storm always surfaced, but no one was taking the news too seriously. In Oregon many storms sweep in from the Pacific during the winter months with lots of wind and rain, and occasionally frigid storms moved in from the north bringing snow and ice, but very seldom did one blow in from the south and in our memory never had a severe storm appeared that early in October.

 

The day was unusually warm, the bright sun in a deep blue sky seemed to foretell a lovely Indian Summer Day (a perfect day for a picnic). I was operating a large cutoff saw that squared up the ends and trimmed slabs of timber to the correct size for further milling when the power went off just before noon and the machinery came to a stop. We went to lunch at the, ‘dog house,’ as our lunch shed was called, knowing full well that the power would soon be back on.   This thought was prophetic and on came the power just after we reached the lunch room. Our lunch was quickly bolted down and back to work we went. One of the workers, who went home for lunch, returned with this late news, “the storm has entered the Willamette Valley and was rapidly moving our way.” I had just started to cut a timber, when my saw came to a stop, the power was off again and all machinery was now silenced. I took this opportunity to step outside, since I wanted to see what was going on; the air was very muggy, but the wind was now blowing in sharp little gusts, however it was the sky which had the major change, it was now filled with strange looking clouds scudding across our previously bright blue sky leaving a yellowish cast on everything around me. I had seen this phenomena before and a feeling of apprehension came over me as I realized this is how it was in Okinawa at the onslaught of a TYPHOON! ^[18]

 

The machinery came back on, then off, then on again but this time the power went off immediately, so the foreman came into the mill and said, “men, the storm will soon be here, go home and get ready for it.” I needed no second invitation, I jumped into my car and headed east, home was just seven short miles away.   The road home was along the north side of the Santiam River which was heavily forested and the lovely Santiam Highway made a thin narrow cut through these giant firs for six of those seven miles. There was but one hill to climb between Mehama and Mill City and it rose up in the thickest part of these trees. About the time that I reached the heavily timbered hill, the wind was gusting strongly, but it still didn’t seem to be bad. I was just happy to be going home, my mind ticking off things to do in order to prepare the church and parsonage for the coming storm (I think that it was about 1:30 or 2:00 PM).   My reverie ended when a loud crash, that jolted my car, came from behind me as I was cresting the hill. In my rear view mirror I saw a giant Doug Fir lying across the highway still bouncing up and down where I had been a few seconds before.   Now limbs were falling all around my car, so I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and tightly gripped the steering wheel as I charged down the hill at full speed.   Another crash, then another and another until the road was littered with these forest giants like pick-up-sticks, but I was ahead of them, just barely! After what seemed forever, I finally broke free of the forest and raced through open fields to the bridge that crossed the river, into the town.   I quickly made my way through streets covered with debris and finally arrived at the parsonage amid falling limbs, flying lumber, metal roofs, papers and dust along with an unearthly din of the general carnage. What a sight! As I drove to the door on the back side of the house, I found my family braced against the wind, watching the show. “Look dad!” Mark shouted, “look at all this stuff flying by!”   Dwight was running around trying to pit his strength against the wind and losing, while my dear wife Jan was braced on the porch, her eyes wide open in amazement.

 

I leaped from the car and shouted above the roar of the wind, “Let’s get inside quick!” We didn’t walk into the house, we tumbled in, propelled by the force of that mighty wind. There was nothing that I could do now in way of preparation, except stay away from the windows in case they broke.   The wind was a howling banshee by now that incessantly buffeted our parsonage, but above the scream of the wind we soon heard a terrible crackling and crashing from the west. I couldn’t resist the impulse to see what was going on, so, crouching low, I forced myself out onto the back porch, followed by Mark and Dwight. A super large gust of wind was racing through the trailer park to the west of us, uprooting trees and filling the air with flying limbs which were now beginning to crash against every building in its path including the parsonage and the church. No home was spared, no building bypassed, there was nothing but large scale devastation.

 

Although many structures and trailer homes were destroyed, I don’t believe that any lives were lost in our area, however this was not the case in the rest of the state. The terrible wind howled and moaned throughout that night as our house was bombarded with debris and continually shuddered and shook until the early morning hours.   Finally, we were able to drift off into a fitful sleep. The angry snarl of chain saws awakened us to a new day (one without electricity), and roads were now being cleared of trees, homes were being repaired and damage assessed. The Columbus Day Storm had passed and we were all alive!

 

We had been in Mill City just a little over two years, when we were asked if we would consider moving to Port Orford and pastoring the Assembly of God Church in that Southern Oregon Coastal town. Jan and I had fallen in love with the church in Mill City, and this would be a big decision to make, but nothing stands still, especially when pastoring, so we settled into our 1961 Plymouth and hit the road again to check it out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My poem, which was written verse by verse when there was a lull in our busy lumbering activity, was tacked to the lunchroom wall and somehow picked up by the local newspaper and printed. All men who worked in the sawmill and planer are mentioned in the poem, each according to his own special ability, ie., Red always told us tall tales, Elvis was always grinning, Elmer and Leonard were our geese hunters, Mike always rubbed his ear when he talked, etc, etc.

 

^[1] Mark was seven years old and Dwight nearly six at this time.

^[2] The parsonage was attached to the church with a hallway connecting the two.

^[3] Homer Gallion and Vern Davis along with their wives _____Gallion and Millie Davis.

^[4] About five or six hundred, but at one time it was a robust city containing five sawmills which employed a great many workers. One by one the mills had moved away leaving a very scenic town but very few jobs.

^[5] This furnace was located in a partial basement and burned wood for fuel. The boys had this job until another man , Jerry, joined the congregation and wanted something to do.

^[6] A ‘must’ at any sawmill are heavy leather gloves, doubly important in zero degree weather, if the gloves froze to the metal, we could at least pull our hands out of them.

^[7] The house was a small, rundown, cabin with an exterior siding of a composition material made to resemble bricks, the locals called it Oklahoma brick.

^[8] She borrowed a hymnal so that she could learn the songs during the week.

^[9] Jerry had stayed with his grandmother for a while when he was young and she had attended a Pentecostal church in Oklahoma. These churches believed in being baptized in the Holy Spirit with the attending phenomena of, “speaking in tongues”, according to Acts chapter two. They also embraced the, “gifts of the Spirit” as defined in 1 Cor. chapters 12,13,14.

^[10] Jerry’s addiction began by his dependency to prescription drugs. Jerry was working as a logger in the Woods when a large piece of a broken tree flew through the air striking him directly in the face. As the men picked up his broken body, his face was unrecognizable and he was barely alive. He was placed in the Crummy (the modified truck used to transport men to and from the forest) and started toward the hospital with little hope that he would be seen again.. The surgeons stabilized his life and completely rebuilt his face, wiring all the bones back together. Jerry had by now the appearance of one wearing a catchers mask, since much of the wiring was on the outside of his jaw.   It wasn’t long until he was allowed to be released for the weekend, but he went to the local tavern, got drunk and into a fight which caused the stainless steel pins and wires to be torn from his face, leaving the bones in a tangled mess.   Back to the hospital he went for more reconstructive surgery and a long convalescence on pain medication.. When I met him, he was still on this medication along with any other illegal drugs he could acquire .

^[11] In our organization as well as in others, the men were referred to as Brother and the women as Sister.

^[12] About 10 inches deep by now.

^[13] James 5:14,15 Is any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him , anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord; and the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.

^[14] Even though the mill was seven miles away in another small town.

^[15] Later Jerry and his family moved back to Oklahoma, where he entered a Bible College and became a Minister.

^[16] My place of employment, on this day I was working in the sawmill.

^[17] Brookings, a city on the Southern Oregon Coast near the California border.

^[18] See chapter on TYPHOON.

[[0]]

Activity at mill marked by poem

Pre-Christmas activity at the Stout Creek Lumber Company inspired this poem by Ellis Warner, entitled,                               “Christmas Time at the Mill.”

Twas the week before Christmas and all through the mill

The men were all working just to please Bill.

The planer was a humming and the re-saw too;

When up spoke Ed with a cock-a-doodle-doo,

Start an hour early, work an hour late,

Don’t feel bad, it’s just your fate.

Right after midnight we started the chores,

Gobbled down our breakfast and slammed the doors,

The sun had set and the moon had too,

Before we drove back home to face them anew.

We came back to work the very next day,

We were all tired out, but we wanted our pay.

Back on the job, we worked like a dog,

Our eyes were bloodshot and we saw through a fog.

When up in the mill, we heard such a clatter,

We all turned around to see what was the matter.

While we dreamed of Christmas and Jack of marriage,

Don went to sleep and sawed up the carriage.

We picked up the pieces and felt pretty hearty,

For Bill walked in and said, “Come to the party.”

Bernie came in, in a Santa Clause suit,

He tripped over Willie and fell on his snoot.

Bill’s present, all wrapped in red,

Flew through the air and hit Vern on the head;

Doug picked him up and laid him on the table,

Red sang a song and told us a fable.

The door flew open and the wind blew in;

There stood Burl, Jack, Ed and Jim.

Ellis and Ben came in lookng like elves,

For they just finished pulling their three-by-twelves.

Tillie walked in and spread out the eats,

Who was her helper? Our mechanic, Ed Lietze.

Elvin was grinning while Ray cracked jokes,

Ed shouted, “Step right up and get your cokes.”

Elmer and Leonard were dreaming of geese;

Dave with his guitar was singing of peace.

Then up jumped Mike a-rubbing his ear,

And he said, “Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.”

Ellis Warner 1961

 

 

CHAPTER 30

 

Port Orford, Oregon

(Southern Oregon coast)

Port Orford is a very unique place and without a doubt it is the most scenic area in which we have ever lived.   The coastline here is extremely rugged in places and nearly inaccessible, but other stretches have broad sandy beaches with an unlimited amount of sea shells, agates or driftwood for the dedicated beachcomber. There are four noteworthy places for the tourist to visit:

1- Battle Rock, a large rock with one edge resting on a sandy beach and jutting into the sea. At low tide one can gain access to this small mountain and climb to the top. At the top there is grass, shrubbery, small trees and a grave.^[1] During the early 1800’s a small contingency of settlers were attacked by Indians, but made their escape to the top of Battle Rock and there made a successful defense^[2] until help arrived, hence the name, Battle Rock. There is a natural tunnel under the Rock and at low tide one can also walk through it. This is a must for any tourist traveling through the area.

2- Coast Guard Hill is located on a high bluff near Battle Rock that previously contained the barracks and offices of the US Coast Guard station in Port Orford. The Coast Guard no longer operates from this station, but I believe the tunnel from the station down through the rock to the water line remains. This tunnel was used to launch life boats in order to aid seamen in distress. The southern coastal area of Oregon is rich in historical lore and these historical records are well worth searching out.

3- Cape Blanco Lighthouse, is a very strong, solid, structure, made so for protection from the Indians more than for Pacific storms, although this solidity certainly kept it intact to this present time. The magnifying effect of the light is obtained by the Fresnel Lenses shipped from France. The tourist can climb a narrow stairway to the top and gaze about twenty two miles over the Pacific Ocean to the west ( the reach of the light). The Cape itself is a narrow peninsula that rises steeply 200 feet from the ocean edge to its majestic prominence. While we lived in Port Orford, I drove a school bus^[3] that also picked up children from the Coast Guard families. When it was very windy or stormy, the bus could not go out on this narrow promontory or it would end up 200 feet on the rocks below. A Coast Guard vehicle would drive that “tight rope” road, pick up the kids from the bus and quickly move them to the safety of the station. The strongest wind gust recorded here was 200 mph. (the gage broke and locked in that position).

4- Agate Beach is a real ‘fun’ place to go. Contrary to many beaches of this name, lots of real agates are found here and a person is able to relax and leave the world behind, since he or she will be completely absorbed in scrutinizing that pebbly, sandy beach for these lovely stones. The soft cries from the wheeling gulls over the booming surf and the fresh salt air adds the memorable touch to this magic moment.

 

Our first trip to Port Orford was to scout out the church.^[4] This reconnaissance was necessary to determine, if possible, whether our particular ministry would be productive here.   We discovered, to our dismay, that the church membership was at an all time low since there had been a bit of fussing among the congregation and many of them just simply quit! One family that had quit, to our surprise, was from a church where I had been an assistant pastor several years previously.   We found their house up a narrow, gravel road solidly lined with manzanita brush. This family was happy to see us again, extending the usual Oregon hospitality, but when we mentioned that we were considering the move to Port Orford to pastor the A/G^[5] Church, they were delighted.

 

The membership of Port Orford Assembly of God Church voted to accept us as pastors^[6] and we were moved into a small three bedroom house in the Hamlet^[7]. This lovely setting was very near another church family with a boy about the age of Mark^[8]. This was great for the boys since they had not had a real chum their age in the Mill City Church. That first summer became a flurry of activity for the three boys and they explored every nook and cranny of the Hamlet and excitedly brought back many souvenirs from the beach.

 

Jan^[9] and I immediately threw ourselves into the work of the church, visiting homes, inviting children to Sunday School, posting announcements, preparing study materials, and becoming involved in dozens of other necessary activities. As usual, these activities paid off and the church began to grow in numbers, but more importantly, the congregation was infused with an excitement that had been lacking for several years. Many times we tend to relate the outstanding events occurring in the church body (such as Jerry B. chapter 29), but the basic activity of the ministry is what moves the church forward and that involves studying, preaching, teaching, visitation, fellowship dinners, counseling, overseeing the different departments, organizing youth activities, joyfully conducting marriages and ministering to the bereaved at funerals. These activities are the daily grind of the ministry which will slowly but surely stabilize families, provide a foundation for the young, encourage the weak, while making the community a better place for all.

 

Shortly after moving to Port Orford, I also got a job in the local sawmill, since church finances were extremely low. To my surprise this mill was the ‘steel mill’ relocated from Marcola, four miles from my home town of Wendling. There was still quite a bit of logging being done in this area of the Coast Range and many townsmen were employed in the woods and at the sawmill. There was also a large co-op plywood mill here (Western States Plywood) that employed six men^[10] from our church. The sawmill (F.S.P Lumber Co.) was located about two miles from the Cape Blanco Lighthouse which employed another man^[11] from our church.   I worked at F.S.P. for about six months until the church began to prosper and was able to provide a pastoral salary

.

“Today is a lovely day for a picnic,” shouted Jan as she caught up with me while I was forcefully pushing the old rotary lawn mower at full throttle. I paused and turned off the motor in order to hear what she had to say, at this she repeated the statement or was it a question or was it a directive? No matter, it was exactly what I wanted to do as well, so, “good by lawn,” I whispered, “I’ll come back to you another day.” Jan knew me well enough, that she had already prepared the picnic food, packed paper plates, eating utensils and a checkered tablecloth before she even contacted me.. All that was left for me was to carefully pull out our Coleman gas stove and we were on our way to Humbug Mountain Picnic Area and State Beach.

 

The day was absolutely gorgeous and I never saw the ocean a deeper blue than it was on this day. Mark and Dwight along with Tim Sparks made for the beach at the edge of this massive, rocky mountain that rose steeply from the sand and water. Finally the time arrived for our regrouping at the picnic table and what a spread it was, hamburgers fresh off the grill layered with slices of fresh garden tomatoes, onions, lettuce and mayonnaise.   Our plates were heaped with potato chips, salad, baked beans and our cups were filled with all-you-could-drink Kool-Aid. “A simple meal”, you say, yes, it was simple, but along with a combination of the gulls wheeling and darting about us (they too have a good sense of smell) the salt air, the mighty Pacific Ocean and the muted crash of incoming waves, it was a feast that kings long for. After lunch, it was off to the beach for all of us and while Jan and I walked the sandy beach, the boys clambered about on the ragged rocks of Humbug Mountain. Oh! If only we could recapture those simple bygone days of innocence!

 

There is a trail to the top of Humbug and on another occasion, I led the boys on a hike to the top. The trail begins on the east side in a small, but dense coastal forest and winds through steep timbered terrain until it terminates in an opening at the top. From there one can lie down and rest on the warm cushion of grass and gaze over the vast Pacific while meditating on the great grandeur of God’s creation… and our own insignificance.

“Oh! Why should the spirit of mortal be proud.. Cowper

 

Humbug also has the most incredibly realistic placement of dinosaurs in that thick rain forest on the east side. If you have the good fortune to visit during a light rain and mist and enter this forest, you will most certainly be transported back in time to their world. Out of the mist, in a tangle of vines, and ancient moss covered trees, they frighteningly appear in that dim, ethereal light of the rain forest.

 

Port Orford was at the receiving end of vicious Pacific storms during the winter months, but one in particular is unforgettable, the deluge of (1964?). The storm, as predicted, was on schedule raking the Northern California and the Southern Oregon Coast with torrential rain and gale force winds. The damage to us was minimal, since we were high above the ocean’s fury and not subject to runoff, but in Northern California it produced the record flood of the century.   Nearly every town north of San Francisco along Highway 101 was inundated. The damage was astronomical causing many businesses to close, never to reopen. Log decks^[12] caught by the flood waters were carried into the ocean. Homes and businesses were smashed into kindling and washed away. Railroad boxcars floated down these swollen rivers like toys and also carried out to sea. Many people lost their lives along with hundreds of head of cattle. Highway 101 was closed in many places and not open to traffic. What a tragic disaster!

 

Back in Port Orford the tempestuous winds and driving rain finally subsided, leaving the highway and school ground covered with ocean foam and seaweed. We finally awoke to a morning of light rain, gusting winds and dark clouds scudding across a somber sky, but the storm was over!

 

“Pastor, go look at the beach! Never have we seen anything like this,” shouted one of my congregation as he drove into the driveway and out. Jan, the boys and I piled into the 1963 Plymouth sedan and raced to the beach to see what produced this outburst. As I stopped the car at Battle Rock^[13], I was aghast! Our sandy beach had disappeared, and as far as the eye could see were thousands of logs, dead cattle, propane gas tanks, trees, brush, and an incredible collection of flotsam. No sand could be seen! These logs were piled up to twelve feet deep in places and extended several miles north and south. Most of this debris originated 200 to 300 miles south of us in Northern California. The floods had washed these logs, cattle and belongings many miles out to sea and the ocean current carried them our way until the incoming tide dumped them unceremoniously on our lovely beaches.

 

Everyone in town became a beachcomber that day and continued in the days to come. We recovered everything from air mattresses to aluminum pots and pans; from heating pads to broken cabinets. It was very unsettling however, to be climbing over crisscrossed logs and finding a dead steer in that tangle. The scavenging was irresistible, just imagine finding beautiful pieces of broken furniture, large sections of boats or trailer houses, or other items completely intact just for the taking. Finally the logging crews moved in with chain saws and bulldozers to re-log this beach bonanza, of course the branded logs had to be returned to their rightful owners.

 

The church was now growing spiritually, numerically and financially with all church related programs in place and operating, leaving us with a little breathing room. It was during this time that Jan, who also played the accordion, began giving accordion lessons.^[14] This new venture soon became a ministry, one that brought her a great deal of satisfaction and pride in the accomplishments of her pupils. Tim, now mayor of Port Orford, is still the pianist for the church.

 

Mark and Dwight had a tree house in one of the twisted coastal pines, across the driveway from our house. The platform was about eight feet high and the boys spent a lot of carefree time in that house hidden by those dense branches. This particular evening, Dwight had taken a large inner tube to the platform and was bouncing on it like a trampoline. Then one large bounce projected him gracefully into the air, off the platform, only to crash onto the gravel below, breaking both bones in his forearm. I gathered him up, Jan cleaned his face of dirt and blood and he was raced to Dr. Boots’ office. Dr. Boots did not have the equipment that was needed for this type of fracture, so he said, “Meet me at the Gold Beach Hospital,” and he was gone. Stirling^[15] drove the car like a race driver while I held Dwight, keeping his arm immobile down that thirty miles of Pacific Coast Highway. Dr. Boots met us, then quickly and expertly set the bones, it wasn’t until the following week when the swelling went down and a permanent cast applied that that the bones slipped slightly and the alignment was a little less than perfect. After that came the ultimatum from father and mother, “no more inner tubes in the tree house!”

 

Bereavement: One Sunday afternoon we received the sad news that Jan’s mother who was living in Montebello, suffered a stroke^[16] that claimed her life. Sad news indeed, since we were so far away with no means to hurriedly rush to her side. Nevertheless, we quickly packed clothing for the trip to the Los Angeles area and hit the road. Jan’s younger brother Stirling was staying with us at the time and he assisted in driving down that long crooked road through the redwoods into San Francisco, then on into the HOT^[17] central San Juaquin valley. We finally arrived at our destination, Dale’s^[18] home in Temple City. It was a long tiring trip of about 24 hours, we drove all night and most of the next day, nonstop.   As tiring as the trip had been, it was nothing compared to the pent-up emotional pain within, since mother/grandmother Collins was especially loved by us all, and we could not easily give her up. We knew that she was with the Lord Jesus in Heaven, but we found it difficult at this time reconcile our loss. The last visit with her had been when she and Art (a father and grandfather to our family) stopped by our parsonage in Mill City for a visit when they were on their way to California. The Holy Scriptures ask us a question then provides an answer, “what is our life? It is but a hand’s breadth compared to eternity!

 

Garrison Lake:   A gentleman from Redlands invested in a large home on Garrison lake that was equipped with a boat dock no more than forty feet from the house. The house stood silent and empty, so Jan contacted him about renting the place, and we were in. What a lovely place^[19] with 17 wooded acres to go with it. We barbecued, the boys fished, at times we just sat in lawn chairs at the edge of the lake and relaxed. It doesn’t get any better than this! The fireplace was always filled with ‘Port Orford Cedar’, a white cedar that crackled and snapped as it burned, filling the house with the most delightful fragrance.   It was in this house that a most curious and humorous incident occurred. Brother Eidet was leaving town for the weekend and on his way out he stopped at the local butcher shop to buy a roast for the ‘Preacher’ and his family. He bought a large roast, had it set out and asked another member of the church to call us, so that we might pick it up. You guessed it, the other member forgot to call us, so the roast sat out all weekend waiting for the pastor to pick it up, finally three days later, brother Eidet met me at the church with a strange question, “How was the roast?” Well, when you are in the ministry you learn never make quick answers that might offend, instead the mind leaps into high gear, with, “what roast is he talking about?”   “The one he brought to the house last month, or the one he brought to the potluck?” Or… Reacting within a second or two, I assumed he referred to the one that he brought to the house last month, so I quickly replied, “It was great and we really appreciate your thoughtfulness, thank you very much.” At that He just beamed, “Ya dat ist good, very good, ya.” When I arrived home there was a very contrite visitor on the phone with my wife. She was saying as I walked in, “… He told me to call you to pick up the roast, but since you weren’t home and I was going to be out of town also, I called and asked Sister X to call you. She evidently did not understand the message and never called you, but you can go down to the meat market today and pick it up. Of course Jan did not want to do that, she just felt awkward about going to the market and saying, “I’m here to pick up the roast for the pastor that you prepared four days ago,” but she went and to her surprise it was not in a cooler but lying on a warm shelf. As soon as Jan returned home, she called, “Honey, will you check this meat?” As I drew near, I didn’t have to pick it up, “It’s gone,” I simply said, then seeing her expression, I quickly stated, “That’s OK, don’t lose any sleep over it, it’s just an honest mistake..” But I did wonder what Bro. Eidet would say when he found out, since it must have cost him quite a bit.   Jan looked at me and said, “I sure hate to see things like this happen, what will I do with the meat?”

You think that that was the end my friend, no way! Just read on.

 

I cut the roast in half, placing it on a plate in the garage for our cross eyed Siamese Cat.^[20] Later that evening another member of the congregation along with his wife and daughters came to visit and instead of walking to the front door, decided to enter through the garage arriving at the kitchen door. Of course, they saw our Siamese Cat eating on that large beautiful roast in the garage. Our dear brother was not known for his tact, so as soon as he stepped inside, he blurted out to Jan, “I sure wish that I was a preacher, so I could feed my cat a nice big expensive roast.” “Brother Al. it is so good to see you, how are you folks?” I exclaimed, as I entered the kitchen. “Take a look at your cat in the garage,” he said as he reopened the kitchen door.   I had already forgotten about that meat in the garage, but there it was and there was Missy, our cat caught in the very act of eating away on it, I could not deny it.   Oh My! How can things get out of control like this? How? Tell me how?

 

It was a long story, but we finally reached the end, extracting a promise from him that he would not divulge it to brother Eidet, since we had already promised our forgetful lady, that we would keep it a secret.

 

Late one evening I received a phone call from a college chum who was now in Sacramento, California, “How about coming to Sacramento and helping me in this pastorate,” he said. This was a radical change of direction for us and required a lot of thought and prayer for guidance. After several days, I called and agreed to come. It was the most difficult decision that I had to make up to that time, since we really loved the town of Port Orford, the church and all the people. “Things are going good here, why leave,” I thought. Yet we both agreed it was the right decision to make.

 

 

 

^[1] I don’t remember now who is buried there.

^[2] Each year on the Forth of July a battle is enacted by the local citizens, some dressed as Indians, afterward fireworks are set off over the ocean.

^[3] I was a relief driver, but I drove constantly, since a driver from the bus pool seemed to be ill or absent daily.

^[4] In our denomination (Assemblies of God) a pastoral change is decided by a minister‘s desire to accept the church, then the membership will vote to accept or reject this minister as their pastor.

^[5] Assembly of God.

^[6] I say, “us”, because our leadership was a joint venture. While I was an Ordained Minister, taking the oversight as the pastor, Jan was the leader of the Women’s Missionary Group, Sunday School teacher , youth director, and church pianist.

^[7] A small section of Port Orford on the west side, that bordered the Pacific Ocean.

^[8] Tim Sparks.

^[9] Jan was the pianist (she was very good ) who played by reading the music or by hearing it once. She was also the soloist and music director.

^[10]Bill and Irvin Weyermier. Jim Magee, Eidet, Bob Tope and Cecil Colson.

^[11] Brother Sparks.

^[12] Huge piles of logs that were stored for future cutting, usually during the winter.

^[13] The highway and lookout point was about 50 feet above the sandy beach.

^[14] Tim Sparks was her first pupil and he became very proficient with this instrument.

^[15] Jan’s youngest brother who was living with us at the time.

^[16] Aneurysm.

^[17] We had adjusted to the cool coastal temperature of Oregon.

^[18] An older brother.

^[19] Also within walking distance of the ocean

^[20] This lovely cat was given to Mark by one of the young ladies who attended church, she could no longer care for the cat.

 

 

CHAPTER 31

 

California

How exciting it was to cross the state line into California. We were entering a new world and everything about us told us so. The first stop was the Agricultural Fruit Inspection Station a few miles over the border where the highway automatically directed every car and truck into a huge barn like building. After our Plymouth with its large U-Haul trailer rolled to a stop, a very polite gentleman in uniform stepped to my widow and asked whether or not we were bringing any fruit into California. We had already been prepared for this stop by native Oregonians, so like a lot of other naive (and ignorant) emigrants we had gobbled down all apples, bananas and oranges in the car to keep the nasty guard from taking them away from us. We were stuffed like teddy bears, but we thought that we must protect the money that we had spent on fruit; yeah!

 

Sacramento:

Shortly after arriving in Sacramento, we went house hunting and located a small house to rent. It was at that small house we also encountered our first California shyster, “No, there is no air conditioning in this house, you just don’t need it,” drawled our future landlord, “ you’ll find that this place will remain cool all summer, just open the windows and it will cool right down.”   Being the trusting people that we were, we said, “fine, we’ll take it,” and unloaded our U-Haul trailer then and there. That June, the sky was completely overcast with a marine layer of clouds daily moving in from the San Francisco Bay area making the temperature very pleasant, BUT on the first day of July when morning broke without a cloud in the sky, that all changed with the mercury shooting up from 75 degrees to 105 degrees over night and remained there for the next three months. A neighbor said, “you should not have listened to that old man and his ‘no need of air conditioning’ spiel. Everyone knows that you can’t live in Sacramento during the summer without air conditioning!” We survived with electric fans and by daily eating our supper as a picnic in the much cooler city parks. Incidentally we did adjust to the hot, dry climate of Sacramento and soon soaked up the heat like a native.

 

The church in West Sacramento was comprised of a congregation which was predominately teenagers and young married couples. This was a welcome surprise since the churches that I pastored in Oregon and Washington were basically filled with middle aged and elderly people, so this presented a new challenge for me. Pastor Duane^[1] and I renewed an old friendship that went back to my High School days and extended throughout college, but the subject soon changed to business at hand; how to establish the operation of a church with two associate pastors. We agreed to alternate the preaching duties, each of us to extend counseling to the parishioners as needed and participate together in social events. This arrangement proved to be as acceptable to our congregation as it was to us.

 

Jan, the boys and I were no sooner settled in the church when I received a call to move to North Sacramento and become the pastor of Country Center Assembly of God Church. They were without a pastor since their former pastor had left to engage in radio broadcast ministry.

 

The church building was a low modern style with extended classrooms along one side. The planning committee anticipated that a new sanctuary would be built and this unit to be eventually used as a multipurpose building.   The Parsonage, however, was just the opposite, a large two story farmhouse built in the early 1900’s. It was still surrounded by palm trees, enormous oaks and oleanders, also by olives, figs and oranges. Off to one side at the rear was a tall ‘well house’ where water was once pumped from a deep well by a windmill, which was now disconnected. This building was full of old tools, pieces of machinery and it had become a depository for boxes and boxes of storage items. An excellent place for the boys to snoop around in, but watch out for Black Widow Spiders!

 

The church had the normal assortment of problems that all new pastors face. While I announced a New Year’s eve watch night service followed by Communion, one board member quietly made plans for a New Year’s eve razzle dazzle party at his house with lots of fun and games. I found this out on New Year’s Eve when less than half the congregation showed up for the service. This tug of control lasted for some six months, until that board member resigned and left the church along with many of his friends. On the positive side, numerous events were added together to make for strong ties and long lasting, spiritual relationships.

 

During the early days of our pastorate at Country Center, a young effervescent couple drove up in a Jeep one day. Now-a-days a Jeep is a commonplace vehicle, but not so in the 1960’s, especially with a young couple on board. Jim and Liz were a fun loving, outdoor type from Canada. They had made their way to California on their honeymoon and since he was a carpenter, he joined the construction trade to make a little money while here. Jim Kitch was the most outgoing, energetic young man that I ever met and Liz was a perfect match for him. They entered our church services with all the gusto of their philosophy, “nothing is impossible; if you fail, it’s because you gave up.” What an addition to our group, just what we needed. It wasn’t long until Jim became a Christian and shortly afterward both he and Liz were endued with power by the Holy Spirit (filled with the Holy Spirit according to Acts 2:4). The church up to that time had been rather staid and formal, but two things changed all that forever; (1) The Redmons moved to Sacramento from Alabama and (2) The Kitch’s were led to Sacramento from Canada.

 

Grady Redmon Sr. became a Christian rather late in life, and he was determined to make up for lost time. He prayed with fervency, he sang, he testified and he preached about visions and dreams which he received from God. One Sunday evening while I was preaching, he had a vision of Jesus standing on the platform beside me, in this vision Jesus was clothed with a crimson robe, looking over the congregation. Brother Redmon questioned in his mind, “Why is this Lord? I thought that you would be wearing a white robe.” The Lord then spoke to him these words, “I have on this crimson robe that was placed upon me during the time of my crucifixion, because I am being rejected afresh by people living in sin and unbelief.” At that, Grady Redmon Sr. stood up and said, “Brother Warner I have something to say.” “Say on Brother,” I replied, and he then related the previous vision. At the conclusion, I stated that this is the time for those living in sin and hypocrisy to come to the altar and make their confession to God, NOW!

 

Most of the congregation went directly to the altar and began to pray. Jim decided that he was getting out of this crazy place before things got completely out of control, but he could not move. He said that he pulled with all his might, but could not lift either foot from the floor, now he was frightened and desperate with no way of escape. As he stood there looking wildly around for a way out, one of the men asked him if he would like to go down to the altar for prayer. At first he said no, then changed that response to a yes, at that reply his feet were loosened from the floor and he walked to the front of the church and asked God to forgive his sins, and grant him salvation. I prayed with Jim, read Scriptures concerning salvation, then prayed some more. Finally I asked him if he believed that God had forgiven him, he wasn’t sure, so I read more Scripture and prayed with him again. Again I asked the same question and again the same answer, so I replied, “Jim we’re going to pray with you until you are positive that your sins are forgiven by God through Jesus Christ. At the third session of Prayer, Jim began to pray again then he began to shout his thanks to God for saving him and setting him free from sin. He was now a new Man in Christ and wanted everyone to know it!

 

Shortly after this experience, Jim and Liz went to their upstairs apartment after an evening church service and found one of Sacramento’s homeless winos passed out on the stairs to their apartment. Jim dragged him inside, where they fed him black coffee and good food. The solid food was too much for this miscreant and he vomited all over the floor, but he was sobered up somewhat by now and Jim began to pray with for his salvation. Finally, after midnight the derelict began to pray as well, “what will we do with him now?” asked Liz, “we can’t turn him out on the street in this cool weather.” Jim had the answer immediately, “I’ll take him to a hotel,” he said.   The first hotel refused the man, but told Jim where to take him. “Down on skid row, on ‘J’ Street,” was the answer. On a good day ‘J’ Street had only a couple of stabbings and a few muggings, now Jim was in the center of this notorious strip. There was fresh blood on the lobby floor and the police were just leaving as Jim entered with his new convert in tow. Jim gave the man his Bible and paid for a week’s lodging, all the while talking to him about living for Jesus and never going back into his old ways of sin. That was our Jim and Liz!

 

One morning while I was studying in my office, a young man^[2] drove up who was rather new to our congregation and asked if there was anything he could do around the church since he wanted to help out. While I was mentally taking inventory of things that needed to be done, my wife came to the door of the parsonage and said that I was wanted on the phone. While she talked with Grady, I went in and picked up the phone. The person on the phone was from the church in West Sacramento, who needed immediate help. Her husband had entered into a depressive state and had confined himself to bed, but next to the bed he placed his shotgun with the warning that his family^[3] must remain in the house with him at all times or he would kill them and take his own life as well. This sad event was in its third day, when they ran out of certain items of food and he sent her to the store, but kept the girls hostage. It was from the grocery store that she called me for help. I knew them both very well and assured her that I was on my way. Out the door I went with my Bible and said to Jan, “ I have to go see the Blitzen’s^[4], I will be back as soon as possible, pray for us,” then to the young man who wanted something to do, “Grady you can go with me on a pastoral call if you wish.” Grady was delighted and jumped into the car with me, but before I left the church grounds, I gave a brief outline of the problem and said, “Grady, this is a very dangerous situation, you don’t have to go with me,” but he was all the more determined to go, since he felt that he must take care of the pastor.

 

We drove into the front yard of the Blitzen’s home about thirty minutes later, casually got out of the car and carefully approached the door. When I knocked on the door, there was no answer, so I knocked again, this time I heard a slight stirring within and the door opened a crack to reveal the frightened face of Mrs. Blitzen, “He said that I was not to let anyone in,” she whispered. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll just walk in, greet him and have a word of prayer.” She opened the door a bit wider and I stepped into the room followed by Grady. “Hi Brother Clyde^[5], I stopped by to see how you folks are, but your wife tells me that you are not feeling well today,” I said as I stepped through the bedroom doorway. I immediately noticed the shotgun lying on the bed beside him, but continued as if nothing was amiss, “I’m sorry that you are ill, I would like to read the Bible with you and pray, if that’s OK,” I quietly stated. Then without waiting for an answer, I opened the Bible to the Twenty Third Psalm and began to read:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

He leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me:

Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

Thou annointest my head with oil: my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

and

…”For I am the Lord that healeth thee. Exodus 15:26.

and

“Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless His holy name.

Bless the Lord, O my soul and forget not all His benefits:

Who forgiveth all thine iniquities: who healeth all thy diseases;

Who redeemeth thy life from destruction;

Who crowneth thee with loving kindness and tender mercies;

Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things;

So that thy youth is renewed like the eagles.”   Psalms 103:1-5

and others.

Tears began to trickle down Clyde’s face, when I said, “Let us pray.” Soon he was praying too, and thanking God for freeing him from this depression and bondage. The girls^[6] came into the bedroom from the kitchen, first weeping, then hugging their adoptive father. After a time he said, “I would like to get cleaned up and dressed as soon as I get rid of this thing, (the gun). We left the room and soon he joined us at the dining room table for soup, sandwiches and coffee while thanking us profusely for coming over. Mr. Blitzen was cured, he was healed by the power of God, in fact he soon became the same happy Clyde that I had previously known and to my knowledge he never had another attack of this depression. When Grady and I left, his first words to me were, “I am going to be a preacher, this is great!”

 

While pastoring the Country Center Church, I also applied for and got a job in the Postal Service as a letter carrier. As usual the incoming funds were not sufficient to support the pastor and his family. Church bills are paid something like this: first, mortgage payment; second, building fund; third, utilities; fourth, study materials for Church and Sunday School; fifth, payments on musical instrument (organ, piano and sound system); and finally pastor’s salary, if any money is left! So, through sleet and snow… this faithful carrier kept to his appointed rounds.

I enjoyed this work as it gave me considerable exercise, part of that was keeping ahead of dogs who desired a taste of postal flesh. I carried mail in downtown Sacramento, in the Fruitridge area, Powerline area, Mather Air base, etc. The job paid well and for the first time we had medical insurance, now we could get Dwight’s hearing fixed. Dwight had poor hearing, even when the teacher had him on the front row, he still missed most of what she was saying, she told us that she was tired of standing over him and shouting. Since we had so little income, no clinic wanted to help us, as it would involve an operation and hospital stay. The teacher said the ________ helped out in cases such as this. When I talked to the lady at _______ about this, she said, “You are a minister, if you need money, don’t come to us looking for it, pass the offering plate and get it from your congregation!” That was a crushing blow to us, but we still had another place to try as a last resort, the Welfare Dept., however they carefully explained to us that a case such as this was completely out of their field, sorry.   Now we were back to square one, doing our best to keep Dwight in class^[7] until we were able to have his hearing brought into a normal range.   I really thank God for that Postal Service job, since the medical insurance paid for his operation and all testing conducted on him, etc. As to the success of the operation, I think that he could hear a fly fall to the floor today.

 

While in Sacramento, we found many interesting, but economical things to do. William Land Park was a favorite place to relax and we spent many hours doing just that.   The State Capital Building was also available for hours of sight seeing and learning of California’s history. The grounds of the Capital were especially memorable with many exotic plants along with the ever present gray squirrels. I hope that Sutter’s Fort is as well groomed today as it was in the sixties while we were there. It was so interesting to see the tools and equipment in place with the mannequins crafting barrels, farm implements, furniture, saddles, wagons and nearly everything needed to sustain a community in that day.

 

In the outlying areas we drove to Sutter’s Mill, the place where gold was first discovered in California setting off the gold rush of 1849.   We also drove to Mark Twain’s Cabin in the heart of the mother lode, Mercer’s Cavern’s, a near vertical cave with stalagmites and many other unique formations. On a two day holiday our family hiked into Pyramid Lake located on the backbone of the Sierra’s at over 8000 feet elevation, what a hike, what a view!   Mark and Dwight were invited to join Bethel Temple’s^[8] youth on a snow trip to Soda Springs in the Sierra’s, Jan and I went along and we all had a great time. There were many trips to Lake Tahoe (summer and winter), trips to San Francisco, Yosemite Park, Reno, Nevada, etc.

 

Shortly after arriving in Sacramento, I had the finishing touches put on the telescope that I was building. The mirror had been ground and polished in Port Orford, the mount had also been completed there, all that was lacking was the final figuring and aluminizing. A member of the local astronomy club assisted me in the parabolizing of the mirror and off it went to Mr. Clausing to have a beryl coating (similar to aluminizing) applied. Finally, I too could gaze in wonder at the rings of Saturn and watch the moons of Jupiter play hide and seek with the mother planet as they orbited her. I was fascinated with our natural satellite (the moon) and spent many an hour studying craters, fissures, mountain peaks, cliffs and valleys. My telescope placed me about 300 to 400 miles above the surface!

 

Now it was time to acquire a camera, my job in the postal department provided us with enough income that one could be purchased^[9]. Having never owned a a real camera,^[10] I needed some good advice on the subject. I had previously read several different magazines about cameras, looked at them through glassed in counters and talked to everyone that I knew who owned one, but my best guide was a clerk in the camera department of the CBSS discount department store. He was a walking encyclopedia of camera knowledge, just looking for someone to share it with. I was that person! At the close of each day’s work, I dropped in on my way home and got another lesson on that magnificent instrument, The Camera. He persuaded me that I needed a 35 mm, single lens reflex camera with ‘through the lens’ metering, then after discovering my budgeted amount, placed a beautiful machine in my trembling hands, it was a Mamiya Sekor TL 500^[11]. I have owned several more expensive cameras since that time, but none took better photos! Now I could photograph through my telescope, photograph family, friends, church affairs, scenic sites, etc. That camera never left my side, I was dangerous! I became a fanatic on a quest with a camera.

Now at long last we were again back on our feet financially, but I would like to make one small comment (not to be taken as a complaint) about, “rich preachers.” The ministers of my acquaintance were highly educated, but simple people who gave up their normal life, to minister to the needs of distant congregations. These ministers and their families lived in parsonages filled with mismatched, cast off furniture and were at the complete mercy of the church board for their income (which was inevitably low^[12]). This, of course, varied from church to church, but if the minister wanted his children to attend college, they had better get grades good enough for a scholarship! Of course the opposite is also true, many ministers abused their position pushing the church into deep debt.

 

While pastoring in Sacramento, we saw many people come to the services and accept Jesus as their personal Savior. Others who had strayed from the fold and were living in the world, now came back and rededicated their life to God. One lady with a malignant breast tumor, who was scheduled for surgery the following Tuesday was healed of that condition while partaking of Communion on Sunday morning. Her testimony was as follows, “I was ready to accept the Communion emblems, when you said that by His (Jesus’) stripes we are healed. At that moment, I felt a hot pressure point on my breast like a little stab and I immediately realized that God had healed me.” This lady went to the hospital on Tuesday, insisting that God had healed her and when the Doctor checked the X-rays, he agreed that she was indeed free of the tumor. Other tests were conducted, but all returned negative, Praise God!

 

It was at about this time that a young boy about 13 years of age suddenly began having convulsions, his mother called a clinic and was told to place him in a bathtub of warm water. Mrs. Miranda then called Jan and I to pray for Johnny. We drove directly to the home, but by this time his eyes had rolled up nearly out of sight and his body was becoming rigid. We prayed, but felt no confirmation of deliverance, so I said to his mother, “ where is the clinic?” She quickly gave me directions as we dried the water from Johnny, wrapped him in a blanket and I carried him to the car. We rapidly sped to the clinic with Johnny’s mother following in her car close behind, but the clinic would not accept Johnny because they were not equipped to handle cases such as this, however they did send us to one of the large hospitals in Sacramento. When Johnny was taken from my arms and immediately sent to the emergency room where a Doctor was waiting for him. This Doctor worked with Johnny then had him taken to a room in ICU where he and several nurses continued treatment.

 

At last Dr. Williams^[13] came out into the hallway and said, “Johnny’s going to be OK now, by the way, how did you know that I would be here today?”

 

I replied, “ I didn’t, we just drove here on the recommendation of the clinic.”

 

Doctor Williams stated, “This is indeed a miracle, since there are but one or two Doctors in this city beside myself that have had experience with this condition, and I come to this hospital but once a week. Ten minutes later and he would not have recovered!”

 

Johnny fully recovered with apparently no adverse effects from this episode; for which we thank God.

 

One odd thing that occurred as we were rushing Johnny to the Hospital, he slurred, “Sister Warner, I have to see you.” This was a very awkward thing to do since his eyes were rolled so far up, but Jan changed her position and put her face directly in front of his, so that he had a measure of security from this visual contact. This continued until we reached the hospital and I might add, praying all the way!

 

I will relate one more incident while ministering in Sacramento (Country Center A/G). While pastoring, we always visited the members of our congregation and on this particular day after leaving one home, Jan said, “why don’t we visit the Johnson’s.^[14] “good idea, I replied I was just thinking of them.” I made a few turns then guided the car into their driveway.   What a scene of chaos met us as the door was opened. Mr. And Mrs. Johnson threw open the door and shouted, “Come in, come in, God sent you to us!” Once inside they both were speaking at the same time, very agitated and frightened.

“The devil is in our house they shouted,” and indeed it appeared that this was the case, for pots and pans had fallen from the cupboards and were scattered about on the kitchen floor. “There are voices talking in here, mocking us and threatening us,” cried Mrs. Johnson, “and we don’t know what to do.”

I replied, “God has given us power over all the power of Satan, and if we resist him, he will flee from us, this is on the authority of God’s Word.” We then went to prayer, rebuking the devel and asking the Lord Jesus to intervene here. We prayed in every room casting out every demon and evil spirit present. After about 45 minutes we sensed the victory with the peace of God settling down upon us. We asked them if they sensed the presence of God?

“Yes we do,” they replied, “thank you so much for coming by today, at just the right time!”

 

What faithful Christians they became, a real testimonial to the Grace and Power of God.

 

I relate these incidents only to show the power of God that is provided for His children. “Jesus Christ the same yesterday and today and forever.” “And these signs shall follow them that believe; in My name they shall cast out demons, they shall speak with new tongues, they shall take up serpents, and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. Mark 16:17. 18.

 

It was inevitable… we were notified of a church in Willows, California that needed a pastor, would we consider moving to that community? After praying about the matter, Jan, the boys and I piled into the Plymouth and drove to Willows to check on this small town^[15] church in the Sacramento valley, in the center of the rice fields.

 

 

 

 

^[1] Pastor Duane had called me while I was pastoring in Port Orford and asked me to come to West Sacramento as an associate pastor and eventually the pastor, since he was planning to move away from the area. Duane and I were from the same rural community in Oregon.

^[2] Grady Redmon, about seventeen years old.

^[3] His wife and two adopted daughters.

^[4] Not the real name.

^[5] Not his real name.

^[6] About three and five years of age.

^[7] The teacher wanted to put him in a hearing impaired class.

^[8] A large church in Sacramento, pastored by Rev. Clyde Henson.

^[9] Jan also found a job, working for the State of California in the Department of Harbors and Water craft, Mark and Dwight went into the tomato fields of the Sacramento Valley and made their own spending money.

^[10] I had a Kodak Brownie at one time with no settings to change.

^[11] It cost a little over $100.00 dollars.

^[12] A deacon once told me that if we needed more money, we were just going to have to trust God for it.

^[13] Not his real name; I don’t remember his name now. This was about 40 years ago.

^[14] Again, I can’t recall the real name of this middle aged couple, who had just begun attending the church.

^[15] Willows was the county seat of Glenn County in Northern California on Interstate 5, population c.5000.