Joy Neal Kidney's Blog, page 77

December 7, 1941

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In a gold waitress uniform, Doris Wilson served Sunday dinner to the after-church crowd at McDonald’s Drug store in Perry, Iowa. A hint of Evening in Paris perfume was always in the store. They sold a lot of it. She also worked at the soda fountain, but the restaurant section was always especially busy after church on Sundays.

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Sammy Kaye’s Sunday Serenade provided background music over WHO Radio. A news bulletin interrupted the music: The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.

“The Japs? Why would they bomb Pearl Harbor?” someone asked.

“Does this mean we’re at war?”

“Where is Pearl Harbor anyway?” asked another.

“Hawaii,” Doris said. “I’m afraid this does mean war. And my brothers are all the wrong ages.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Five. Donald is already in the Navy. His ship was stationed in Pearl Harbor a few months ago. He said we shouldn’t trust the Japs, and he was right.”

Thank God Donald had jumped ship a couple of weeks earlier to return to the Minburn farm to see the family. With war breaking out for real, who knew when they’d all be together again?

And thank God Danny was too young to be drafted, and Junior was still in high school at Washington Township School. But Delbert would probably be recalled by the Navy, and Dale had already registered for the draft. Donald wasn’t safe in the Atlantic either. Doris feared for all five brothers.

President Roosevelt had made a prophesy back in 1936, “There is a mysterious cycle in human events. To some generations much is given. Of other generations much is expected. This generation of Americans has a rendezvous with destiny.”

He was right. And Doris was right.

One by one her brothers volunteered until all five had left the Minburn farm were in military service. That generation of the Wilsons, having endured poverty during the worldwide Depression, was destined to suffer the anguish of losing three brothers during a world war.  

The family’s WWII story is told in Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II. It’s the story behind the five brothers featured on the new Dallas County Freedom Rock at Minburn, Iowa.

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The Mustard Seed

I don’t know where she got it, whether she bought it herself, or maybe it was a gift.

Leora’s mustard seed pendant.

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She read her King James Bible and had been baptized, as an adult, at the Methodist Church in Dexter. I vaguely remember her wearing the mustard seed charm on a chain as a necklace.

It’s not very attractive. The metal crown has tarnished and the bauble itself is murky. But the little seed is unmistakable.

Why was this small novelty important to her?

Perhaps because of Mark 4: 30-32: “And He said, ‘How shall we picture the kingdom of God, or by what parable shall we present it? ‘It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the soil, though it is smaller than all the seeds that are upon the soil, yet when it is sown, it grows up and becomes larger than all the garden plants and forms large branches; so that the bird of the air can nest under its shade.'”

In other verses, Christ likens a mustard seed to the size of a person’s faith.

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I wish I’d asked Grandma about her mustard seed. It just might represent the faith she had that she would see her sons again, the ones lost during WWII, and her husband one day in heaven. It may have helped her find enough faith in God to face other day.

Grandma was a delightful, cheerful woman all the decades I got to share with her. The little mustard seed reminds me of that and that I’ll get to see her against someday.

It has become a treasured memento on our Christmas tree.

The only thing better than an heirloom is an heirloom with a story. – Joy Neal Kidney

 

 

Danny Wilson’s Wrecked P-38 Lightning

A couple of decades ago I wrote the Bergermeister of the Schwanberg, Austria, where Danny Wilson lost his life in 1945.

Dir. Alois Ircher answered my letter and, when he learned how I was related to the only American buried in their cemetery during World War II, he sent me a copy of a history of Schwanberg. It’s in German.

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The book doesn’t have a copyright date, but the short sketch goes through 1981.

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Danny Wilson’s wrecked Lightning is pictured on page 41. The date is wrong, as the crash occurred on February 19.  I cringe to look at it. I never showed it to Mom or Aunt Darlene. In fact, this is the first time I’ve published this photo.

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Dan Wilson was not shot down, as we took for granted. Dr. Ircher said his plane was so low that it hit a telephone or light pole. He said that where the plane fell is now a “sportplatz.” He doesn’t know what the German occupiers did with the remains of the plane.

The main mission of the 37th Fighter Squadron, 14th Fighter Group, 15th Air Force that day was was to escort B-24s of the 55th Wing at Bruck, Austria. On their way back to their base at Triolo, Italy, the P-38s were strafing (and an experimental skip-bombing) in the Graz area of Italy.

Soldiers’ Stories: A Collection of WWII Memoirs, Volume II compiled by The Miller Family

The Book

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For over five years the Miller Family, Myra Miller, PhD, Ken Miller, Del Miller, Marshall Miller, and Lynette Miller Ballard, have zealously gathered memoirs of World War II servicemen and servicewomen. In 2016 they published Soldiers’ Stories: A Collection of WW II Memoirs. Now, on the 75th anniversary of the end of the war, they have given us a second volume.

Were it not for the Miller Family, most of these stories would not have seen the light of day. Tom Brokaw popularized the phrase “The Greatest Generation.” Read the stories and you will see why the title is deserved by all 16 million men and women who served so proudly.

Here are the mysteries of courage, the terrors of violence, and the cruelties and coincidences of war. Here, also, are reminders of the humorous events and day-to-day life of those war years. Our first book collected stories our father told us and accounts of other WWII veterans. More narratives demanded a second volume.

History is alive. As any veteran will tell you, our future depends on the choices we make now, choices based on our understanding of the past and the meaning of war. Each person’s story speaks of the precious gift of life and our common humanity beyond national borders.

The Authors

As the proud children of Myron H. Miller, S/Sgt, 83rd Infantry Division, K/331st, pooled their talents and skills to create this second beautiful volume of memoirs: with Myra Miller, PhD; Ken Miller, illustrator; Del Miller, Marshall Miller, and Lynette Miller Ballard as writers and editors.

My Thoughts

I was so taken by the first handsome volume of soldiers stories that I submitted stories for this one. The Wilson family story is laid out so well across eleven pages of this treasure. Five brothers served. Only two came home.

There are stories of men and women from every branch of the service, some who survived, some who did not. The memoirs are written by the veterans themselves, by family members, or interested friends. There are stories about the Manhattan Project, Red Cross workers, Rosie the Riveter, men who have adopted the overseas graves of American fallen, even one who found dog tags in Belgium and did the research to find family members. One veteran is honored by his 12-year-old grandson. Michelle Obama’s grandfather’s service is also documented.

As a follower of G. P. Cox’s Pacific Paratrooper website, I was delighted to find four pages dedicated to WWII stories of his father.

This superbly crafted oversized volume of personal histories would be a fine gift for any history or World War II enthusiast.

Leora Wilson’s Decision to Have Danny Wilson Buried Overseas

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The survivors, October 1946: Delbert Wilson, Darlene (Wilson) Scar, Doris (Wilson) Neal, Donald Wilson (still in the Navy). Rural Perry, Iowa.

Newspaper clipping, probably from The Des Moines Register or Tribune.

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Decision of Returning War Dead Put Up to Relatives

Given Time For Thought

WASHINGTON, D. C. (AP)–Should the remains of Americans who died abroad in World War II be brought home for burial?

Their families are not making a snap decision on this, but three-fourths of those the government has heard from say yes.

Congress has authorized bringing the bodies back to this country at government expense if the relatives desire.

Letters.

The war department quartermaster corps sent out its first 20,000 letters of inquiry to the next of kin of soldiers, sailors and marines early in March.

So far it has had fewer than 1,000 replies. But more than 75 per cent of these want the dead to lie in U. S. ground.

Maj. Gen. Thomas B. Larkin, the quartermaster general, is charged with the responsibility of carrying out the program. He had hoped to see it begin in August. But now it is believed it will be September or October before it starts.

Indecision.

This is because of difficulty in getting coffins, locating the next of kin–many of whom have moved–and the seeming indecision of the living.

That families take their time to decide–talk it over with relatives and the clergy, if desired–is approved by the war department. It is seen as a question not to be answered quickly or without thought.

America’s overseas dead in World War I totaled about 51,000, of whom nearly 60 per cent were brought home for burial.

Toll.

In World War II the toll was 385,000. About 24,000 bodies have not been recovered.

The war department estimated that 80 per cent of the relatives would want remains returned. It is possible this estimate may be revised downward.

Within the next 10 days, the war department plans to release a list of those buried in Hawaii; St. Laurent, France; Henri Chapelle, Belgium; Cambridge, England; Nettuno, Italy; Gela, Sicily; and at Casablanca, Gafsa and Tunis, North Africa.

The first bodies will be brought back from these areas.

The present intention is to return first the bodies of those buried in Hawaii, the target of the first bombs to fall on American territory in the last war. A few days later shiploads will be coming from Europe.

Cemeteries.

America’s war dead have ben buried in 209 temporary cemeteries. some of these will be made into permanent resting places for those whose relatives decide against bringing them back to this country.

In this decision the war department is neutral. But a new army movie short, “Decision,” which shows a family going through the return of a loved one, seeks to warn what the strain will be.

Mrs. George Patton does not intend to disturb the grave of the colorful third army commander, who died in an automobile accident in Germany and was buried at Hamm, Luxembourg.

In a “letter to the American people” published in the Congressional Record she said, “What will come home to you isn’t what you remember and love.”

Leora had also found a clipping that stated that soldiers, if given a choice, would prefer to be buried where they fell. She’d endured two recent funerals, for Junior and for Clabe. It looked like Dale might never be found. So, talking it over with family members, she decided not to bring Danny home.

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It would be decades before anyone in the family made the trip to St. Avold, France, to see his grave. (Story scheduled for December 11.)

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Leora Wilson, counting some of her blessings. Grandchildren Robert Scar, Joy Neal, Donna Wilson, Leora Darlene Wilson, Richard Scar. October 1946, rural Perry.

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Back: Delbert and Evelyn Wilson, Warren Neal, Grandmother Laura Goff. Front: Joy Neal, Donna and Leora Darlene Wilson, Doris Neal with Gloria. Probably spring 1947, rural Perry.

Delbert and Evelyn Wilson would later have a son, and Darlene and Sam Scar would have two more sons. Of the nine grandchildren of Leora Wilson, five are still living: Richard and Robert, Leora Darlene, Joy and Gloria.

I Didn’t Tell My Mother (poem)

I Didn’t Tell My Mother

. . . about my ride in this old plane,
like the bomber in which
her brother Dale lost his life
six decades earlier.

The B-25 rushes and roars down
much of the Des Moines runway, then lifts.
I tried to imagine Dale Wilson
in the cockpit, age 22, the copilot. . .

Aloft, engines clatter in the wind.

. . . his last mission, his thirteenth, over
the jagged Owen Stanley Mountains,
the jungles of New Guinea,
and the antiaircraft guns of Wewak,
the town named on the telegram
that would echo down long decades. . . .

The Mitchell bomber turns, growling
over Madison County farms and fields.
Too soon wheels grind down,
engines grumble lower.

. . . for the families of six young men
whose timelines on this earth
were severed when Bomber #4889
became their underwater coffin.

Tires scrunch and screech
against the tarmac,
spewing rubbery smoke
through empty windows.


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This is the anniversary of the loss of Dale Wilson and five others on a mission in 1943.

Thanksgiving Menus from the USS Yorktown (CV-5)

Donald Wilson served on the USS Yorktown (CV-5) “her whole life,” having joined the crew before commissioning. Here are a couple of Thanksgiving menus he mailed home to his folks, Clabe and Leora Wilson, who were tenant farmers at Minburn, Iowa.

1939

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1940

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I wish the menus showed up better. They are quite similar, except for the location of the aircraft carrier.

Ancestry Line to The Mayflower

Elizabeth Tilley, born in England in 1607, came to the New World on the Mayflower in 1620 with her parents, John and Elizabeth Tilley. She was orphaned that first winter at Plymouth, Massachusetts, when her parents died. Gov. and Mrs. John Carver took her in.

She married John Howland, who’d been washed overboard when the Mayflower encountered a storm, but was caught in the halyards and rescued. He was the bond servant of Gov. Carver, signed the Mayflower Compact, earned his freedom, and was a well-respected citizen.

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Their daughter Desire married John Gorham, who was killed in King Phillip’s war, even though he wasn’t a soldier.

Nantucket

Son Shubael Gorham married Puella Hussey in 1695 on the island of Nantucket. Their daughter Lydia married Joseph Worth of Nantucket.

North Carolina

Joseph and Lydia Worth’s son Daniel married Eunice Hussey. Son David Worth was the ancestor of C. E. Charles. Another son, Job Worth, married Rhoda Macy in Guilford County, North Carolina.

Indiana

After their daughter Rhoda married Sylvanus Swain, they moved to Wayne County, Indiana. Daughter Cynthia married Thomas Marshall. Thomas Marshall didn’t move to Dallas County, Iowa, with the exodus from Wayne County, although his father, Miles Marshall, brothers, and a son and daughter did.

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Thomas Marshall. His house still stands near Economy, Wayne County, Indiana.

Iowa

Thomas’s daughter Rhoda married John Neal, who’d fought for the Confederacy, deserted, then joined the Union. They moved to Dexter, Iowa, after the Civil War.

John and Rhoda Neal had six children, five daughter, then a son, Orlando Swain Neal.

[image error]Seated: Rhoda, Orlando Swain, and John Neal

O. S. Neal married Nellie Keith. They were my father’s grandparents, but my stories about them came from my mother, whose family lived in Dexter near by during the scarcity years of the Great Depression.

O. S. and Nellie Neal had three sons and one daughter. My grandfather Kenneth was the middle son, but anyone who descends from any of these folks, had ancestors who came over on the Mayflower.

[image error]Neals: O. S., Marjorie, Kenneth, Nellie, Keith, and Maurice (Marjorie’s twin)

Kenneth Neal married Ruby Blohm at Dexter, and my father, Warren Neal, was their oldest child.

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This is just a sketch of my connection to the Mayflower.

Sources: Nantucket Vital Records, Mayflower Society, Civil War records

The Year Adis Helped Cook for Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving dinner was at Dzenaela’s Aunt Jorja’s. Jorja is an Iowa girl who married Dzenaela’s uncle Almir. In fact, Almir’s parents–who are about my age–were visiting that year from Bosnia. 

So, Aunt Jorja was in charge of the turkey, potatoes, and a dessert. Since Dzenaela loved fixing the turkey, she helped at Jorja’s house. 

I invited her younger brother Adis to help make pumpkin pie and other side dishes. He was born in Iowa when his parents had been here just over a year. They asked if I’d accompany Zlatka through labor and delivery, to help with English, so I did. His birth was the first I’d ever witnessed.

After Adis started school, I sorta became his Cub Scouts grandma. We’d made cakes together for fund-raisers–a lady bug, one that looked like a cheeseburger, and even a prize winning alligator. We’d always decorated them at his condo. So this was the first time we’d cook at my place. 

[image error]Believe it or not, this is all cake, frosting, and candy for “cheese, tomato, and lettuce.”

I had him crack four eggs into a large bowl and started to hand him a whisk to beat them. Then, remembering my son at that age years ago, decided that an old-fashioned egg beater would be more fun for a ten-year-old boy. 

It was, especially when he was still cranking away to flick off the dribbles, flipping egg all over the counter. Good thing our clean-up rag was at the ready.

Then he measured the sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves–after sniffing each one, just like my son used to. Adis liked the cinnamon. Next came stirring while I opened cans of pumpkin and evaporated milk. He scraped the pumpkin into the eggs. I poured in the first can of milk, but he wanted to do the second one himself.

When all was mixed, he ladled it into two pie shells, while I explained what custard is, and that pumpkin pie is one kind of custard. I carried the filled pie shells on a cookie sheet to the stove.

The oven wasn’t quite hot enough so I parked the pies and turned around to do some counter clean up.

There sat the bowl of nicely-combined sugar and spices.

I laughed. “Oh dear, we forgot the spices. Now what?”

“Just stir it into the pies,” Adis suggested.

I ended up pouring the pumpkin mix back into the large bowl, leaving a sloppy edge on both pie shells. While Adis stirred in the spiced sugar, I wiped off what I could from the edges of the dough with a paper towel.

Ladling had been too slow, I guess. This time Adis just hefted the big bowl and poured the filling into the pie shells. By then the oven was ready. He carefully carried the cookie sheet with the pies to the stove, but had me lift it into the hot oven.

“Our pies are going to look kinda ugly,” I said.

“Oh, they’ll taste good anyway.” Those brown eyes twinkled.

That was nice of him, especially since Bosnians hadn’t gotten used to the taste of pumpkin pie. I knew he wouldn’t eat any. 

“And we’ll have a fun story to tell,” I added.

One hour to bake, a couple of hours to cool. We still had scalloped corn, stuffing, and green bean casserole to make. 

Adis crushed crackers for the corn. “I like my corn plain,” he admitted. While sauteing onions and celery for stuffing, he remarked that he probably wouldn’t eat any of that either.

As he opened the mushroom soup for the green bean casserole, he noted that he wasn’t a fan of mushrooms. Oh well, he’d at least enjoy Aunt Jorja’s mashed potatoes and gravy.

I showed him the checklist of what all we were having for the feast, and which relative was bringing what food–such as his mother’s Bosnian bread. He’d eat that!

“Is anyone bringing chips?” 

We laughed, but he was serious.

Indeed, Adis didn’t eat one single thing he’d helped make for the festivities. And his Bosnian grandmother couldn’t quite make herself taste the turkey or the pumpkin pie. Jorja had a roast beef in the slow cooker, just in case. But his grandfather ate some of everything and went back for seconds.

It was an interesting day, with a mix of immigrants, Iowans, and descendants of Mayflower Pilgrims, sharing an American Thanksgiving.

When I got home, I jotted potato chips on the next year’s Thanksgiving checklist. 

And added the “bringer’s” name right next to it. Adis. 

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I also became Adis’s flag football and basketball grandma, baseball grandma one summer, but mostly his soccer grandma–making sure he got to practices and home games.

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I asked him recently if he’d learned to like pumpkin pie. He replied that he’d rather have apple pie with ice cream, and brisket instead of turkey.

He was awarded a soccer scholarship to attend Iowa Central Community College, where he graduated, and wants to go on to more college. 

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He’ll spend Thanksgiving this year in tech school, as a new member of the Iowa Air National Guard. 

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Published in The Des Moines Register November 28, 2019.

The story of Dzenaela’s first turkey.

 

Danny Wilson: Request for Disposition of Remains, November 1947

Leora Wilson signed the official paperwork to have her son Danny buried permanently at the Lorraine American Cemetery at St. Avold, France. It also had to be notarized.

She just couldn’t go through another funeral, and didn’t believe they’d ever find her son Dale.

REQUEST FOR DISPOSITION OF REMAINS

I, Leora F. Wilson, Mother, having familiarized myself with the options which have been made available to me with respect to the final resting place of the deceased designated above [2/Lt. Daniel S. Wilson], now do declare that it is my desire that the remains:

X  Be interred in a permanent American Military Cemetery Overseas.

As explained in the pamphlet, “Disposition of World War II Armed Forces Dead” I am the next of kin and the individual authorized to direct the disposition of the said remains.

I, the undersigned, DO SOLEMNLY SWEAR (OR AFFIRM) that the statements made by me in the foregoing document are full and true to the best of my knowledge and believe.

Signed: Leora F. Wilson, Route #2, Perry, Iowa

Subscribed and duly sworn to before me according to law by the above-named applicant this 18th day of November 1947, at city (or town) of Adel, county of Dallas, and State (or Territory or District) of Iowa.

Signed: Georgia W. Clark, Deputy Clerk District Court in and for Dallas County, Iowa.

This photo was taken in Omaha two months later by her nephew Merrill Goff, who grew up in the neighborhood when they lived in Dexter. He’d served in the Marines during WWII and became a photographer, having his own studio in Omaha.

[image error]Leora (Goff) Wilson and her mother, Laura (Jordan) Goff. Omaha, January 1948