Sixth Boyhood: Chapters 1, 2
By Joegillon
- 341 reads
1. Navy Days
To hear Pop tell it, he didn't notice girls until one evening in his 16th year he was thunderstruck by a brown-haired, brown-eyed 14 year-old who looked disturbingly like Judy Garland. For the record it was 1940, a year after "The Wizard of Oz". In Europe, France fell and the Brits and Germans were holding a little shindig they called the Battle of Britain. The Japanese were bumping off Chinese right and left but there always seemed to be plenty more where those came from, while back home FDR was telling Pop and others he'd keep them out of it. The year Mom and Pop got their operation going wasn't just any year.
Come the day that lives in infamy Pop was 17, Mom 15. Pop turned 18 in April, 1942, and went down to the sea in ships to work 'pon the great water. He joined the Navy. As it happened, however, there were no ships for him. He was assigned to the Navy Air Corps. He came home on leave in 1943 a trained radio operator on the PBY Catalina seaplane and next thing you know Mom was gonna be a mom. Folks their age in those days were tremendously naive, but not so they couldn't figure out what goes where. There was, of course, a lovely wedding - we have pictures to prove it. Then he was off to Jacksonville while she settled down in Philly to await yours truly. This blessed event came on Saturday, January 15, 1944, at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. It was Mom's 18th birthday. Later that day, in that same hospital, my Aunt Lovey brought forth into this vale of tears my cousin Herbie, and years later my cousin Margie married a guy with the same birthday. You wouldn't want to be downwind when we blew out the candles.
Some time later Mom and I hopped a train for Jacksonville and... No, that won't do. Mom hopped the train with me in her arms. Imagine an 18 year old girl with an infant taking a train from Philadelphia to Jacksonville. That's in Florida. That's about 850 miles. On a train. In 1944. At age 18 I could make myself a bowl of cereal, as long as it was pre-sweetened. And yet, I heard not a word about this trip from either of my parents. Ever. Must have been a breeze.
Once there, we established residence in a tiny trailer. It had electricity and running water but certain basic functions were accomplished in separate buildings. Life down south was different, took some getting used to. Of course, Pop already knew the ropes but it was all new to Mom. Why, they even had these quaint foot baths in the ladies' facility, for all the folks down there who ran around barefoot. Pop was jealous. The men's facility had no foot baths. Mom described them: about 4 feet high with a drain at the bottom; you stuck your foot in and pulled a handle at the top; cool water rushed down over your toes. Delightful. Pop asked which outbuilding Mom thought was the women's. Turned out they'd been using the same facility and Pop too could wash his tootsies in a urinal.
The south lost some of its charm after that but Mom and Pop were having the time of their lives: out in the world, on their own, living the life. Pop was no longer a kid subject to parental whim. He was a sailor man now, an honest-to-god u-boat killer should any u-boats dare to show themselves anywhere near Jacksonville, Florida. Mom was all grown up too, a wife and mother. Life was good. When she wasn't engaged in foot care she was hanging diapers in the bright Florida sunshine while overhead Pop's PBY waggled its wings.
It was at Jax that Pop undertook Operation Hoagie. Going undercover he worked his way onto a flight headed for the Philadelphia Navy Yard. Once there, he passed himself off as a local, coolly exiting the main gate and hopping a trolley that took him straight to a hoagie shop in West Philly owned by an indigenous contact. Uncle Pete had been a Christian Brother until he met Aunt Rose and discovered his true calling. With the barest of nods and a quick howdydo Pop stepped behind the counter and assembled two hoagies. Time was of the essence and he arrived back at his PBY just before takeoff. It had been a close-run thing but Pop was not one to shy away from risk.
The panache with which Pop carried out this mission, coupled with the state of World War II, convinced the Navy that Pop's services were required at Puget Sound. That's in Washington state, which, for the geographically challenged, happens to be clear across the country from Jacksonville, Florida. That's how important Pop was. The radios in the PBYs in Washington needed operating and the Navy knew just the guy for the job. It was true he was about as far away as you could get and still be in the good old US of A, but, times being what they were, the Navy spared no expense.
So back we went to Philly whence Pop entrained for Chicago and points west. After a while, Mom asked herself why Pop should have all the fun and once again she and I were riding the rails. This trip in excess of thrice the distance of the last one, by a now nineteen year old with babe in arms, was apparently every bit the cakewalk as the prior since, again, no mention was ever made of it.
Alas, whatever plans CINCPAC had for Pop had to be canceled when he broke his leg in an accident in which he flew through the roof of the car and landed on a rock by the side of the road. Back then, as sturdy and steely as most of a car was, they made the roofs out of canvas and wood, so flying through one wasn't as dramatic as it sounds, though still not recommended. There was nothing left but for Pop to pass his copious knowledge of PBY radio lore to the next generation of swabbies and pretty soon he was a Second Class Petty Officer and the Japanese had seen all they needed to of that. They surrendered, as who can blame them, and Pop's military career came to an end. Almost. It wasn't a clean break, I'm sorry to say. We all know how these things go. One party wants out while the other clings tragically to what might have been. In the end, however, the Navy had to face facts. They gave Pop $300 and kissed him goodbye.
2. O, Pioneer!
Our grizzled veteran was now faced with the problem of how to get his wife and son back to Philadelphia. The travel options in November of 1946 of course included buses and trains but where's the thrill in that? Pop joined the Navy to bash the bad guys and see the world. Well, the bad guys had been bashed but the only world he'd seen was out a train window. Now he wanted to tour the grateful nation he'd helped save. So ixnay on the public transport. The Gillons were headed east by car.
Of course, to modern ears that seems quite sensible, more so in fact than bus or train but oh how times have changed. Back then they'd only been building (and paving) roads systematically for a bit over 20 years. In fact, Pop and the numbered road system were the same age. Before that folks named roads whatever the heck they wanted and many an over-zealous chamber of commerce re-routed what we today would laughingly refer to as the nearby highway, by which I mean they redirected the road signs, to go through their town in hopes a few bucks might fall by the wayside. This played havoc with the maps of the day, which, to begin with, dated from Christopher Columbus's second voyage. And, as if the roads and maps weren't bad enough, there was the antediluvian vehicle itself.
Mom and Pop had hooked up with another ex-Navy couple, the Brookses, and, in order to share expenses but mostly just for the hell of it, they decided to team up. George Brooks provided the car, a 1935 Hupmobile. Yes, you heard me. You thought "antediluvian" was hyperbole, didn't you? George had bought it used, off a certain Mr. Methuselah. The engine was such that when George drove his darling around the park the trailers would quake and tremble. Men would hide their wives and daughters, wives and daughters would hide their pets. The brakes were such that halting forward momentum was problematic without the assistance of some obstacle like a pole, tree or curb. The Hupp Motor Company had gone belly up back in 1940 but their offspring soldiered on. They built things to last in those days but that is not always the best idea.
The roads, maps and vehicle, however, still do not complete the list of things that made this trip historic. Pop did not yet have full use of his broken right leg. That would be the leg attached to the foot that in normal usage manipulates the gas and brake pedals. That leg was shoved to the side while the left one worked the clutch and the brake. Pop regulated the gas by pulling out or pushing in the throttle, a knob on the dashboard. Is this not the greatest generation?
They started gloriously, all jammed in, two men, two women, two two-year-olds and assorted luggage. Pop yanked out the throttle and they bolted out of the park straight across the road through a flimsy wooden fence into the adjoining cow pasture. That makes for a bumpy ride but you're fine so long as the cows are sufficiently agile, which these cows were. The problem was the bull. A mature, fully grown 1935 Hupmobile weighed around 2500 lbs. A mature, fully grown 1935 bull could weigh upwards of 3300 lbs. The Hupmobile headed straight for the bull, going between 10 and 15 MPH. The bull headed straight for the Hupmobile, going between 15 and 20 MPH. The Hupmobile that had obliterated the wooden fence now exercised discretion regarding the bull. The Hup swerved, the bull swerved. One thing Pop didn't need to think about at a time like this was the brake pedal. He jammed his left foot on the gas and the Hupmobile leapt and jounced its way back out of the pasture, the bull in hot pursuit. By the time the Hupmobile reached the road its passengers were every which way. The bull chased the car down the road a bit before it snorted in derision and strutted back to its harem. Pop pushed in the throttle and got his left foot back on the brake. After a brief respite to untangle and assume duty stations our intrepid pioneers puttered off undaunted. Eastward ho the wagons!
To economize they had the bright idea of driving without stopping. Let's see now. Those western states are a mite hilly. By the time the Hup got to the top of some of those hills, assuming it even could minus the incentive of a raging bull, it would be going a speed wholly unworthy of the word. Once at the top, however, there's no telling how fast it would hair raisingly descend the other side. On a straightaway the Hup's top speed might exceed 50 MPH but even there, considering the brakes, none but the most reckless would actually try it. What's more, even the flatish roads weren't wide enough or properly graded and they were in the minority. Most of the roads wriggled and squirmed and offered stupendous vistas unobstructed by such amenities as guard rails. Add the fact there were no bypasses, that when you came to a town you drove right smack through the middle of it, and you might with luck achieve an average of 30 MPH. So then, 3000 miles at 30 MPH, if I remember my math, comes out, more or less, to the rest of your natural born days. Hardy folk, they lasted until Billings, Montana where they found some roadside cabins. Still thinking frugally they rented just one. When they asked about a bath they were directed to the outdoor facilities. In Montana, in December. The shower area was modestly encircled by a wall that almost reached the ground but had no roof. Deciding they didn't smell that bad after all they crawled into bed. All of them, into one bed. It wasn't long though before Mom abandoned ship. The stove had gone cold so she stayed up all night to feed it. Okay, so it wasn't a covered wagon, they weren't sleeping in the great outdoors or being attacked by the local land owners, but it still impresses people like me who make the trip in a few hours at 30,000 feet whining the entire time about the cramped seat or the lady a couple rows back who's talking too loudly. It's all relative.
The next stop was Helena, which ain't that far from Billings but had a place with indoor facilities and they were pooped. Frazzled and bedraggled our heros this time splurged on separate quarters. Everything went smoothly until checkout time when it transpired that Mr and Mrs Brooks had to pay an extra $5 to repair the bed they'd broken. The recently married are never too pooped to pop. Our crew had arrived in Helena thinking they might just ditch the Hup and hop a train but the broken bed gave them new life. Now Mom and Pop had something with which to chide the Brookses and the Brookses could act abashed all the while grinning proudly. There's nothing quite like a job well done.
This spirit of bonhomie lasted the remainder of the trip, even if Pop and George had to push the Hup damn near from Denver to Keokuk, Illinois. Eventually they bounced it off the front stoop of Pop's ancestral estate in West Philly just as the brakes, which had been threatening to go AWOL since Pittsburg, gave up the ghost.
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