Contact us at: whispernthunder1@gmail.comHistorically Speaking
~ Orannhawk
I began elementary school at six years old. Reading came easily, and by the third grade, I was riding my bicycle to the public library in town to check out as many books as I could fit in the large basket on my bike. I wrote my first short story in fourth grade and by fifth grade, my reading levels expanded. I was eleven when my dad presented me with his copy of the Blue Jackets Manual. The Blue Jackets Manual was and continues to be a
comprehensive manual for all things related to the United States Navy.
He was issued the 1943 edition upon enlistment, and as he gave it to me, stated that I needed to “read it and learn something.” Yes, those were his exact words. And I devoured it, studying every section. In the words of most Navy veterans I’ve met over the years, the Blue Jackets Manual is the bible of the Navy. I read, and asked questions. I tied a lot of knots, including some on his shoes that had to be cut, because I was a little extreme. My mother was not thrilled when I walked in one day and asked what VD was. My dad
laughed and informed me I could skip that part until I was older. He enjoyed sharing that story a little too often.
He served in the Pacific in WWII on a PC Submarine Chaser. Several of his close cousins were fighting in Europe, and another at Guadalcanal. They were all proud men, proud to defend and protect our rights and freedom. He was equally proud to be a member of the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars.
I watched countless movies with him, especially those depicting the war in the Pacific, and yes, sometimes he would quiz me on the ships and aircraft shown in the films. My personal library increased yearly, including a wide scope of Indigenous books (Vine Deloria Jr. remains one of my favorite authors) books on WWII covering both the Pacific and European theaters, and Vietnam; and we would often discuss them. My bookshelves
continue to overflow even now.
A few years after I returned to the same small town as a single mother to a three-month-old, my dad began talking to me about joining the VFW Auxiliary, under his eligibility as a WWII veteran. My mother was the Treasurer when I joined, and I began to actively participate, rarely missing a meeting. Over the years, I held the offices of Secretary, Vice President and President averaging three years in each office. The membership at that time included veterans from WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. The camaraderie of the veterans
was profound, and I remain deeply honored for their sacrifices. Sometime later, the members gifted me with a full-size POW/MIA flag in thanks for my dedication to our Post.
A few years later, my parents flew to Hawaii, along with the cousin who was wounded at Guadalcanal, and his wife. They stood looking out over the water at the Arizona Memorial, and my dad recounted how it looked when his PC would escort other ships in and around Pearl Harbor and the other islands later in the war. The PCs were built and used as submarine chasers, and escorts around the islands in the Pacific. According to my dad, they were essentially bait to entice the submarines into deeper waters for the fleet.
Another important and poignant visit was to the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, also known as the Punchbowl. Our cousin gave his respect to a few of his fellow soldiers lost during the battle at Guadalcanal, and as per my request, my mother photographed the gravesite of Pulitzer Prize winner Ernie Pyle. Ernie Pyle was a war correspondent and journalist who was killed by Japanese sniper fire in 1945. Ernie Pyle’s remains were disinterred from another burial site and became the first to be buried the day the Punchbowl opened in 1949.
I saw something shift in my dad after they returned from this trip, as if he needed to reconnect with his crew mates. I found a publication specific to PC’s and ordered a magazine subscription for him, along with other items, including a cap that he wore proudly. It had been years since any reunions were held. After a lot of research and calls, I found Art, one of his shipmates, and they talked often, renewing their wartime friendship. They exchanged letters and emails until my dad’s passing. Art and his family sent a long letter to us, as well as a message he asked to have read during the service. He stated that my dad “was the strongest man he had ever known, one he could always count on, and a man he was proud to serve with.” It meant a lot to all of us.A shadow box displaying my dad’s medals and ribbons, his tag, and an engraved ID style bracelet sits on a shelf in my office space. I have acid free boxes and albums filled with photographs from his time in the Pacific, and countless letters and memorabilia that he sent home to his parents, and others. Another frame hangs in the hallway, with a two-dollar bill pressed between glass. His father (Papaw) gave him the bill, a series 1917 red
dot, when he enlisted in the Navy, and my dad carried it in his wallet until his return after the war. Another of my prized possessions is worn, tattered and over eighty years old. Faded from the sun in the Pacific, the red, white, and blue American flag was one of many flown with pride on PC817.
The Blue Jackets Manual sits on my bookshelf, with his “Dixie Cup” cover atop, his stenciled name still clearly visible. I’ve worn his deck jacket for years, again, with the faded stencil of his name and rank proudly displayed. I’ve spent countless hours enhancing and enlarging the small black and white photos taken onboard the PC that they developed in the engine room while at sea; to return the images to the original sharpness. Images taken by the men who were there, with stories in those moments are my favorites.
However, one photograph continues to haunt me; an image that shadowed my dad’s face when I showed him the enlargement. Taken on the deck of the PC, the image of the painted sun on the Japanese Zero barreling down at the ship was quite clear. When I asked him if the plane was shot down, and he simply replied “yes” before walking outside. We never spoke of that photograph again.
He taught me many things over the years, from hunting and tracking, to processing wild game. He never bought into the patriarchal ideas that some things were meant only for men to do. We hunted and fished together. He taught me how to dig post holes, set fence, how to do simple maintenance on a car, although he was obviously disappointed that I was not meant to be a mechanic. I learned to weld and solder, and how to set rebar for the concrete slab for the carport I helped him build. To my mother’s dismay, I also learned to cuss like a sailor, just like my daddy. I learned by example, things like taking food to our elders and seeing to their needs first. I saw the respect he gave to total strangers in need, regardless of who they were. He had his faults, and no doubt dark memories of what he experienced, but that is common for many. There were times it irritated him that I was always reading, even as we watched television; until he realized that I could do both at the same time, with full details of each.
When I lived in New Mexico, he would often call me just to tell me that he heard the rain crow singing. Rain would set in, commonly within three days. The rain crow never failed him. One night he called to tell me about the batch of venison jerky he made, teasing me that it would be gone before I got back home to see him. A day and a half later, FEDEX delivered a large box, yes, filled with his homemade jerky.
My dad was very protective of me; however, he also taught me to be independent. I was driving a stick shift at nine, opened my first checking account at fourteen and graduated high school at seventeen. He didn’t see things in the same perspective as many men, and I took note of the multiple times he stood up in defense of women, and of those who were ignored or berated for their race, or color, or where they originated from. I know he would be horrified at the ‘climate’, if you will, as it stands now, because he fought for us, alongside others who did not make it home. As a veteran, he did his job to protect our freedom and our democracy. As his daughter, I will do my best to make him proud of my efforts.
The hawks sang me home when he was close to leaving, and I had three days with him before his final breath in this world. I did ceremony soon after, knowing he was already among the Old Ones.
When he went home to be with the Ancestors, he had lost a considerable amount of weight from battling non-Hodgkins’s lymphoma; something even his oncologist suspected came from the prolonged exposure to the asbestos in the engine room of the PC. Months before he left, he asked to be in his ‘dress blues’ when his time came. Lean and muscled in the Navy, when he returned to the Old Ones, his uniform fit, but he was simply lean.
I located an individual in our area, who supplied us with duplicate ribbons, medals, and buttons from WWII, to match the ones he earned, so his uniform was complete. His gravestone includes a carving of a US Navy anchor, and the Navy provided a footstone with his name and rank. My daddy was buried with military honors, and I have no doubt that he was smiling, knowing the flag he fought for was folded and carried by two Naval officers, who just happened to be women.
He would have loved that.