BY TODD BLOMERTH

   I have had the privilege of knowing J. Frederic Bell since I

came to Caldwell County in 1981. He will turn 86 on March 4, but carries himself as a man much younger. His youth spent breaking horses, plowing fields, and ranching has served him well. He still insists that he can carry the load of a man half his age. If you watch him building ramps for the disabled with the Lockhart Kiwanis Club, his determination and toughness leave little doubt that he is right.

Fred came into this world in North Dakota in 1931. It was one of the toughest of times – the northern plains were in the midst of unremitting drought and the Depression. He was the fifth child, and third son of John L. Bell and Thelma German Bell. John Bell was a sodbuster. Thelma, of a ranching family, taught school in a one room school. John met Thelma, the schoolteacher, when she boarded at John’s brother’s home. They were eleven years apart. John and Thelma farmed and ranched in Stark County, seventeen miles from Belfield, the nearest settlement. They were far from electrical lines, paved roads, running water, and – until ranchers provided poles for lines in 1934 – telephones.

 Thelma’s first child was born in 1924 with cyanotic heart disease, referred to then as a ‘blue baby.’ He died shortly after birth. The country doctor told Thelma not to have any more children – they would all turn out the same. She proved him wrong. Between 1926 and 1945, she and John were the parents of fifteen more children, including four sets of twins. After a sister and twin brothers, Fred was delivered at home by his paternal grandmother.

Stark County’s population was Scotch-Irish, Russian German, and Norwegian. They were tough. They had to be, as ranch and farm life in the Dakotas was unforgiving. Winters were long, and often vicious. The Bell farmhouse was near a cottonwood tree. It was the only living thing higher than row crops and prairie grass as far as the eye could see. John Bell had homesteaded 160 acres in 1913. As Fred recalls, money was ‘’invisible,” cementing John’s belief in land as a valuable commodity. Farm prices plummeted in the 20s, and by hard work, savvy business acumen, and much good fortune, by 1943 had accumulated seven sections (4480 acres) of land.

 Cattle in western North Dakota were a mix of longhorns, Herefords, shorthorns, and Angus. By the time he was old enough for long pants, Fred’s job at the area roundups was tending the branding fire, and handing cowboys the iron, wrapped in a wet gunny sack, that corresponded to the right rancher as the calves were branded. By ten, he was breaking horses.

The one-room school in Stark County went to the eighth grade. Fred’s older sister took high school courses by correspondence. Fred and his twin older brothers heard the same courses being taught six or seven times in that tiny school, and essentially skipped a grade. By the age of twelve, Fred had earned the state’s eight grade certificate. John Bell wanted a better chance at education for his family. In 1943, the seven sections were sold, and the family moved to Dickey County, on the other side of the state. The family continued to farm and ranch, but John and Thelma also bought a home in town.

Ellendale, the county seat, was home to a tiny teachers’ college – North Dakota State Normal and Industrial School. The college also provided high school courses. The college enrollment was tiny, and at fourteen, he was recruited to fill out the college football squad. “But I’m fourteen,” the tenth grader told the coach. “No, you are sixteen,” the coach replied. In the middle of the war, football conferences and of-age players had disappeared. The small team traveled to nearby colleges in two station wagons.

At thirteen, Fred witnessed Dick, his beloved older brother, die when the John Deere tractor Dick was driving flipped over on him. “As I walked the half-mile to the house to tell my mother, I knew I had to assume a bigger leadership role.” And he did.

John Bell bought a lumber supply business in Ellendale in 1947, the year Fred graduated from high school. Fred received a Bachelor of Science degree in 1951 from the small college. He then enrolled at the University of Wyoming.  While working on a Master’s degree, Fred met an Air Force recruiter. The Air Force was expanding its electronic warfare program. It sounded interesting, so he signed up. He was commissioned as a 2^nd lieutenant in 1952. While stationed at Ellington Air Force Base, outside of Houston, he met his future wife, Florence “Flo” Helen Van Dyke at a jazz jam session. They will celebrate sixty-four years of marriage on September 19^th. They have four living children, seven grandchildren, and three great grandchildren.

Fred’s Air Force career led him and his growing family to several assignments. He spent five years with a reconnaissance squadron at Ellsworth AFB near Rapid City. Its B-36 “Peacemaker,” was the world’s largest mass produced piston aircraft. The plane was huge, and could carry ten times the bomb-load of a B-17. The Cold War was raging, and the aircraft was one of the Strategic Air Command’s (SAC) responses to fears of a war with the Soviet Union. Many carried nuclear weapons. Others, as in Fred’s squadron, flew reconnaissance missions. With a range of nearly 10,000 miles, and a service ceiling of 50,000 feet, the recon aircraft could and often did probe (and penetrate) Soviet borders. The B-36s, with their fifteen to twenty-three man crews were placed in the far northern states for Arctic overflights. The B-36 was too slow, too complicated, and too expensive to maintain, and was soon obsolete. SAC transitioned to the jet powered B-52, which is still flying today.

Fred’s next assignment was with a combat evaluation group at Barksdale AFB, near Bossier City, Louisiana. Then it was back north, to Grand Forks AFB, where Fred flew as an electronics warfare officer on the B-52H and logged over 2000 hours. There was a brief stint at Command and Staff College in Alabama. Stability for the Bell family seemed at hand, as he was recently promoted to a major and given a staff position at Seymour Johnson AFB in Goldsboro, NC. Fred and Flo bought a house, and settled the family into what was hoped to be a long assignment. The military had other plans.

By 1965 the American commitment in Southeast Asia had grown from anti-insurgency aid to South Vietnam, into a full born war. Fifteen months after arriving at Seymour Johnson AFB, Major Bell received his new orders – he was assigned as an electronic warfare officer on an F-105 “Wild Weasel”. With a short training stop at Nellis AFB, Nevada, he was soon bound for Korat Royal Thai Air Force Base in northeast Thailand and assigned to the 13^th Tactical Fighter Squadron “Panther Pack.” The eight months there would prove the most dangerous and deadly period in his life.

As the Vietnam Conflict grew into what many thought was a test of the United States’ theory of ‘containment’ of communism, the Soviet Union and communist China poured more and more resources into communist North Vietnam. The supplies flowed south, nourishing warfare in South Vietnam. There is no possible way in this biography, to discuss the efficacy of US strategy in Southeast Asia, nor try to address all nuances of the politics of the era. Suffice it to say, from a tactical point of view, US planners viewed choking off supplies to the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) and insurgent Viet Cong (VC), as an absolute necessity to maintaining South Vietnam as a separate country. There would later be a sense of the futility of the effort, given country borders that existed only on paper, jungles, and the full-scale commitment of North Vietnam and its allies to achieve conquest, as well as the many moral and political questions of the US’s role in the area.

            During his first years in the Air Force, Fred had taken civilian flying lessons and received his pilot’s license. The license did not endow him with the skill needed to fly a jet, but the rudiments of flying proved invaluable in the days to come.

            Fred’s arrival in Thailand coincided with increasing American commitment to stopping the North Vietnamese from conquering the south. Air operations became larger and more complex.

The overall air campaign above the Demilitarized Zone was dubbed Operation Rolling Thunder. It was conceived as a way to hammer North Vietnam into submission. Political considerations devolved, some would say, into a ‘gradualism’ approach toward air warfare. North Vietnam’s capital, Hanoi, was off limits during 1965-1968, as were certain port facilities. American air power was countered by Russian and Chinese anti-aircraft artillery, and increasingly sophisticated surface to air missiles (SAMs). In 1965, the “wild weasel” concept came into being, with USAF F-100 Super Sabres playing “flashlight tag” with NVA radar and SAM sites. The plan was for Wild Weasel aircraft to lead bombing missions, and bait the NVA into turning on attack radar, and, using radar-seeking missiles, take them out before harm could come to the follow-on bombers.

F-100s weren’t up to the task, taking large casualties in a very short time. Fred says about that period, “We learned by getting shot down.” The task was then assigned to a two-seater variant of the F-105 Thunderchief, or “Thud.” Typically, four Wild Weasels would fly ahead of a bombing mission of other F-105s, with F4 Phantoms flying top cover. Hopefully, SAM and radar sites would illuminate, and the Wild Weasel aircraft could take them out with missiles before harm came to the bombing formation. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. As the electronic warfare officer, Fred was the ‘backseater” on the F-105, watching a radar screen, detecting radar and SAM launch F-105 with full combat load over North Vietnam tones, listening to radio communications, and giving instructions to his pilot and three other Wild Weasels in his flight. He was fortunate to be teamed up with Major Howard “HK” White. The two became a fearsome duo. White was an excellent pilot. Fred knew his electronic counter-measures. He also knew enough about aircraft systems that he could assist as a pilot backup           when needed. In Wild Weasel missions, attacks on military installations meant coming in very fast, and often very low. Two sets of eyes were crucial to survival. This was especially true as the NVA became familiar with the bombing routes. “Route Pack Six” was the main flight route from Thailand into the Hanoi/Haiphong area. “We were as predictable as the sun rising in the east,” said Fred.

The Americans’ predictability allowed the enemy to plant his 37mm, 57mm and 85 mm anti-aircraft batteries along known air routes. SAM missiles became more sophisticated. The North Vietnamese fighters, often flown by Chinese, also exacted a toll. Using heat seeking missiles, they would follow a fighter-bomber down, and at the vulnerable point of weapon release, shoot a heat-seeker, and then leave. The only way to avoid these missiles was by violent evasive tactics.

It was a high stakes cat and mouse game. Success for the Americans was a combat mission with no lost planes or pilots. Success for the North was disrupted bomb runs and destroyed aircraft. Both sides grew smarter the longer they dueled. USAF attacks required refueling, both inbound, and outbound. The Wild Weasel’s motto was “First In – Last Out.” Providing protection for bombing missions meant lingering over planned targets. It also meant very low fuel reserves on the return to friendly territory. KC-135 tanker aircraft weren’t supposed to enter North Vietnamese airspace. But, when necessary, they did.

Route Pack Six was considered the most dangerous airspace in the world. It covered both Hanoi and Haiphong, and therefore covered the vast majority of strategic targets in the country. As noted by one commentator:

 When the air war started, the entire North Vietnamese air defense system contained twenty-two early warning radars, four fire-control radars, and 700 anti-aircraft guns. By 1967, North Vietnam was firing 25,000 tons of anti-aircraft ammunition a month. When President Johnson halted Rolling Thunder on 1 November 1968, this had grown to 400 radar sites, 8,050 anti-aircraft guns, 150 fighters (including reserves based in China), and 40 SA-2 Guideline missile sites.

            You got to got home after 100 missions, or one year – whichever came first. Fred arrived in Thailand on December 1, 1966. His first mission was on December 7, 1966. He flew his one hundredth mission on July 4, 1967.  At the beginning of his tour, when there was a shortage of electronic warfare officers and Wild Weasel pilots, he flew sixty combat missions in forty-seven days.

            Route Pack Six fighters entered North Vietnam over the Red River. To cover their approach, Wild Weasels would often use the radar-blocking range of mountains dubbed “Thud Ridge.” Popping up, they would then begin suppression missions. If a missile took out a radar or SAM site, the Wild Weasels would follow up with low level cluster bombs. Fred received a Silver Star for his actions in one Wild Weasel action. That day, three radar sites painted the four aircraft formation. There was a launch of two SAMs from one launch site. Then a launch from another site of two more. Then a launch from a third site of two more. “You couldn’t outrun a SAM,” he said. “But it would go 2000 miles an hour. We flew at around 600 miles an hour. We had a smaller turning radius. If you knew what you were doing, you could outsmart one.” As the EW officer, Major Bell gave instructions to the four Wild Weasel F-105s which allowed them to evade the deadly missiles. As Fred says, “It was a good day.”

            There were other “good days.” Once, he spotted a new airfield being constructed enroute to another target. When the powers that be finally allowed it, the Thuds came in at low level, destroying the field with its aircraft and supporting structures. Another time, there was a confirmed destruction of a SAM battery.

            Often, upon exiting North Vietnam, Fred would see smaller caliber anti-aircraft bursts just below the F105’s flight levels. “The flak bursts were as dense as any picture I’ve seen of World War II missions over Germany,” he says.

            Fred makes light of the dangers he and his compatriots faced. Ed Rasimus, who flew the F-105D, wrote a memoir called When Thunder Rolled.  He writes:

            Over six months that it took to fly my 100 missions my roommate kept a diary that listed each time we lost someone. During the tour we lost 110% of the aircraft assigned and 60% of the pilots who started the 100 mission tour didn’t finish.

Fred’s one-hundredth mission was a rare night one. “We arrived back at two a.m. Our fellow pilots and crews kept the officer’s club open for us,” he tells me. After the ritual dunking in the officers club pool, he and White rang the 100 mission bell. They were going home.

Fred’s next assignments were interesting and far safer. While at Strike Command, he traveled to Liberia, Congo, and Ethiopia, inspecting American supported missions there. He commanded an electronic warfare training squadron. He finished his military career as an Air Force liaison officer to the Nationalist Chinese on Taiwan.

            Retirement eventually brought the Bell family to Caldwell County. Fred was executive manager for the Plum Creek Conservation District for thirty years.

            Never afraid of hard work, Fred has donated thousands of hours to his church and community. He has served in many capacities with the Kiwanis Club, both locally and regionally. He directed and acted in Lockhart Community Theater plays for over twenty-six years.

            If you are lucky enough to catch him, thank him for his service to our country.

JOHNNY SIEMERING

“WE BUILD – WE FIGHT” – A SEABEE ON SAIPAN

By Todd Blomerth

Johnny Siemering is 93 years young. Until his knees started giving him fits, you would not find him at home on Friday or Saturday nights – he would be dancing at a Hermann Sons function, or at a Community Center somewhere in the area. As it is, he is sharper than folks half his age. His love of life is infectious – spend a few minutes with him and you find yourself smiling with one of the most delightful persons in Caldwell County – of any age.

,Johnny was born in Maxwell, Texas in 1921. His parents, John August Siemering and Henrietta (Wink) Siemering were of German heritage. John August farmed with mules on 112 acres, and Henrietta taught school. Johnny was the oldest of five children. His sisters were Doris (Colgin) and Helen (Schmidt). His brothers were James or Jimmy, and Robert. Helen and Jimmy live in Creedmoor and Uhland, respectively. Doris and Robert have passed away.

Johnny attended school in Maxwell, and graduated from high school in the 11^th grade, which is as far as secondary school went in the late 1930s. The Siemering family rarely made it into town. There was too much work to be done, and there was very little money. He, Ellis Clark and other friends would on Sunday head to the Blanco River to swim, and then roast ears of corn. It was a simpler time.

         After graduation, Johnny attended a six week farming program at Southwest Texas Teachers College, and then went to work at the Luling Foundation Farm. He has fond memories of his three years working there. Walter Cardwell Sr. was the Farm’s general manager. There were four departments – poultry, beef, farm and dairy – and he worked in all of them during his tenure. He lived in one of the bunkhouses. “We weren’t paid much, I think it started at $21 a month along with room and board, but the food was great.” Edgar B. Davis even roomed in one of the bunkhouses during one of his periods of financial difficulty. The learning experience under supervisors Mr. Prove, Mr. Tilley, and the veterinarian Dr. Redmond proved invaluable. He has fond memories of working with the Jersey cows, and the special treat of drinking the Foundation Farm’s delicious chocolate milk!!!!

Johnny was working for the Luling Foundation Farm when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. He first tried to enlist in the Army Air Corps to become an aviator, but slight color blindness prevented that. So he volunteered for the newly created Naval Construction Battalions (“Seabees”). Initially, the average age of a Seabee was 37 years, because of the emphasis on men experienced in construction trades. Although much younger than the average, Johnny had substantial training and experience that made him a perfect fit for his new role as a Seabee. The U.S. Navy’s succinct description of the Seabees’ contribution to the defeat of the Axis powers doesn’t begin to reflect the admiration of the Marines who served with them in the Pacific:

More than 325,000 men served with the Seabees in World War II, fighting and building on six continents and more than 300 islands. In the Pacific, where most of the construction work was needed, the Seabees landed soon after the Marines and built major airstrips, bridges, roads, warehouses, hospitals, gasoline storage tanks and housing.

The Seabee Construction Battalion, usually comprising around 1100 men, was made up of four companies, along with a headquarters section with support personnel such as storekeepers, cooks, and medical staff. Reporting for training in December, 1942, Johnny was assigned to the 39^th Construction Battalion. He did his basic training at Norfolk, Virginia. The Virginia winter weather was bitter, and he recalled the mostly southern trainees huddling under insufficient blankets as they tried futilely to get warm in the camp’s tents at night! The 39^th moved to the new Seabee base at Port Hueneme, California, and then was shipped to Hawaii. The unit arrived at Maui on September 23, 1943 and for the next 10 months constructed airfields at Kahului. The rocky terrain proved a test of the Seabees’ abilities. Johnny remembers 100 train car-loads of dynamite needed to blast out the airfields. Johnny wanted to be a part of the construction but was assigned as a guard, which he hated. Happily, he was re-assigned as a truck driver hauling grease and lubrication to construction equipment at construction sites.

As 1944 wore on, the Battalion’s men knew inevitably that it would be re-assigned to a combat area. However rumors flew that, no, they were going to be sent back to the mainland. Then reality reared its head. In July the Battalion got word it was going to be shipped out to some Pacific island. The Battalion moved to Pearl Harbor on Oahu in late August, and underwent some grueling but thankfully shortened Marine training. Originally scheduled for Guam, the 39th was re-assigned to Saipan. The Battalion’s men spent miserable shipboard time sailing to Saipan. Too hot to sleep below decks, Johnny and others would drag mattresses onto ship decks to try to get some rest. He vividly remembers seeing the devastation of several of the Marshall Islands resulting from the U.S. invasions of those Japanese-held islands.

 The U.S. Marines landed on Saipan beginning on June 15, 1944. Met with fierce resistance, the island was not declared “secured” until July 9, 1944. Declaring an island secure did not ensure that there were no longer enemy on the island – rather, that ‘organized resistance’ had ended. The 39^th Construction Battalion began embarking on September 7, 1944 at Pearl Harbor, and it arrived at Saipan on September 30, 1944.

Several other Battalions were already there, some having gone ashore with the Marines on June 15^th. In the words of CMD David Moore (Ret), a Seabee who was in that early group, “The Seabees gained the respect of the Marines with their ‘can do’ attitude. They built whatever the Marines needed – roads, water supplies, barracks, fuel storage, piers, airfields and many more. “

      While missing the horrors of the landing, the 39^th’s men still were witness to the physical and human devastation visited upon the island and its people. The 39^th Construction Battalion would remain on Saipan for the remainder of the War.

Given the dicey situation with hidden Japanese defenders still holding out, the Seabees were required to carry M-1 carbines. Saipan (along with Tinian and Guam) provided the US Army Air Forces with the bases within the range for the massive airstrikes  against the Japanese home islands needed to subjugate the Japanese Empire with the new B-29 Superfortress. With its huge bomb load and fuel load, it needed long runways to reach the speeds necessary to lift off for the nearly 3000 mile round trip bomb run to Japan. Five large runways were constructed on the three islands.  The Americans also constructed a large radar station on Saipan’s highest point. Johnny’s time on Saipan stirs both good and bad memories. His best memories were of helping his fellow Seabees and the marines and soldiers on the island. The construction battalions were instrumental in creating fresh water showers. Until that time, troops had to endure the misery of tropical heat and bathing in sea water. Johnny, by now a Machinist Mate 3^rd Class, was instrumental in building an ice machine. He drove a truck providing supplies to construction crews on the island. He became legendary for his hauling ice to the heat prostrated work crews, particularly at the radar station.

Johnny’ service as a Seabee contributed to a proud tradition. Again, quoting from the Navy’s history:

Although Seabees were only supposed to fight to defend what they built, such acts of heroism were numerous. In all, Seabees earned 33 Silver Stars and 5 Navy Crosses during World War II. But they also paid a price: 272 enlisted men and 18 officers killed in action. In addition to deaths sustained as a result of enemy action, more than 500 Seabees died in accidents, for construction is essentially a hazardous business.

The 39th Construction Battalion was inactivated on September 28, 1945, and Johnny came home that November. In 1946, Johnny married the love of his life, Olice Dale Bible, whose brother George, a Marine, had died on Guam. Olice had first met Johnny when she was 13 and he had come to her family’s house in Martindale on a double date. Spotting him in the living room, she immediately fell in love with him, but would have to wait until after the war to begin dating her husband-to-be. They had 61 wonderful years together. Olice died in 2007. The couple was blessed with three daughters, Ginger (Hughes), Cathy (Gideon), and Peggy (Germer). Cathy passed away in 2000. They were also blessed with many grandchildren. And friends? There are too many to count.

Initially working for the Harry Schawe gin, he then went to work for Lockhart’s Goodyear dealership after the war. He narrowly missed being killed in 1965 when a truck tire rim blew off, crushing his left leg. Dr. Tom Connolly rigged up a traction apparatus at the Lockhart Hospital and for six weeks Johnny lay in traction as weights were adjusted over his tractioned leg. Miraculously, his leg was saved. Even more miraculously, he walks without a limp even today.

Johnny went into full time farming after recovering from the explosion. He farmed milo, cotton and corn, and raised cattle until retiring. Retirement did not in any way mean that he retired from life. Johnny’s life is filled with family and friends. He was raised in Ebenezer Lutheran Church in Maxwell, and continues as an active member.

 Tell him thanks for his service, next time you see him. That is, if you can catch up with him.

Clark Elwell’s School Project Proudly Telling of His Hero’s War Service

(Thanks to John Moore, son of CMD David Moore  (deceased)  for his kind permission to use quotes from his father’s story of the Seabees on Saipan)

LIEUTENANT (j.g.) PHILIP WALES, USNR CIRCA 1943

I want to tell you a story about someone many of us have the privilege of knowing. Fresh out of medical school, in 1944 he was sent as a young military officer to the Pacific Theater. His wartime service as a Navy physician exposed him to some of the most interesting experiences of his life – and some of the most tragic. He carries those memories with him today, at the age of 95. A venerable patriarch, well loved and deeply admired, he served our country in World War II. Not as warrior, but as a healer.

            I had the privilege of visiting with the Dr. Philip Wales in his home last month. He was kind enough to share with me some stories of life in the military. His memory is flawless. Hopefully, my historical research adequately complements it.

Philip Wales was born in Florence, Williamson County, Texas on June 19, 1919 to Prosper and Ruth Wales. His sister Lois would come along a few years later. His father was the president of Florence’s Union State Bank. Times were tough in rural Texas. Being financially ‘well off’ in rural Texas in the 1920s and 1930s was a relative term. He is very proud of his father’s legacy as a man who understood the struggles to survive during the Depression and who was willing to lend money to farmers for crops and seed. In 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt ordered all banks closed for several days to prevent a run on their cash assets in what was called the Bank Holiday. It staved off what would have been a national disaster. He still remembers those times and how, because of Prosper’s stewardship, the Union State Bank survived

After graduating from high school at the age of sixteen, Dr. Wales enrolled in Abilene Christian College, intent on becoming a doctor. Upon graduation, he applied to the University of Texas School of Medicine in Galveston (UTMB). Despite excellent grades, acceptance to medical school was not guaranteed. There were only two medical schools in Texas in those days – UTMB and Baylor – and each took classes of only 100 students. With America’s entry into World War II almost assured, there were many eager to attend medical school, and undergraduates had to compete with graduate students and others with advanced training for the few spaces available. UTMB received over 1500 applications. Dr. Wales’ was one of the 100 chosen

Wanting to serve in the United States Naval Reserve, Dr. Wales enlisted while at Abilene Christian and applied for an appointment as an officer. During medical school, he carried the rank of an ensign. Upon graduation from medical school in 1943 (in an accelerated three year program) he was promoted to Lieutenant (JG) in a ceremony at Corpus Christ Naval Air Station. He excelled in school, and was a member of two fraternities, Phi Chi and Theta Kappa Psi. He also received additional training in anesthesiology.

Dr. Wales was sent to San Diego for a modified basic training for medical officers. Bachelor officers’ quarters were scarce so the government requisitioned the famous Hotel Del Coronado. One half of it provided housing for naval officers in training or awaiting transfer to other assignments. The other half was reserved as temporary quarters for families of naval personnel already shipped out. From San Diego, Dr. Wales was ordered to Point Hueneme, near Oxnard, California. Soon he was enroute to Hawaii on a convoy of troopships escorted by a cruiser and half a dozen destroyers. He remembers that the scars of the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor were still very apparent as they sailed into port. Salvage operations were still ongoing. The USS Arizona entombed the bodies of 1100 sailors. It was a solemn introduction to the realities of war.

Although eventually to be based at the Navy’s huge anchorage at Ulithi, Dr. Wales and other medical personnel were temporarily assigned to medical facilities on the island of Guam. An American possession until taken by the Japanese in 1941, it had been retaken by the Marines in July and August of 1944. Although technically ‘secured,’ fighting was still going on in the hills when he arrived. Doctor Wales gives much credit to the Seabees – construction units – that were unafraid to go anywhere to build runways and facilities. They and Army engineers proved their worth in Guam. After the retaking of Guam, hospital construction began in September of 1944. There were occasional light moments. Dr. Wales tells of starving Japanese who would sneak down from the hills in stolen American uniforms and attempt to line up for chow. They would be quickly nabbed and put in the stockade – and then fed.

By February of 1945, about 9000 beds were in service at three Navy hospital and two Army hospitals. They would be needed. Dr. Wales (who was, as one might expect, nicknamed “Tex”) became part of the huge contingency of medical personnel preparing to treat those wounded in the expected attack on the Japanese island of Iwo Jima. After the bloody horrors of Saipan, Tinian, Guam, Tarawa and most recently, Peleliu, planners knew very well what to expect. Medical support was better than at any time in the past.

The island of Iwo Jima was honeycombed with miles of tunnels and thousands of hidden gun emplacements and covered with interlocking fields of fire. Japan had demonstrated repeatedly its contempt for the conventional understanding of warfare – in China, Manchuria, Indo-China, Philippines, and on Pacific Islands. Japan’s warriors had no intention of surrendering. There was absolutely no way to root out concealed killers moving back and forth from hidden bunker to hidden bunker. Ultimately, there were more total casualties to Marines and Navy at Iwo than to the Japanese. Almost to a man, the subjugation of the island required to extermination of the garrison of over 20,000 men. Over 800 corpsmen, stretcher bearers and doctors were killed and wounded by the defenders. There was no understanding of, or agreement with, the accords for ‘humane warfare’ (as if such a thing exists). According to a subsequent analysis by military historian Dr. Norman Cooper, “Nearly seven hundred Americans gave their lives for every square mile. For every plot of ground the size of a football field, an average of more than one American and five Japanese were killed and five Americans wounded.”  Napalm, white phosphorus and flamethrowers were often the only weapons that were effective.

            Huge hospital ships stood offshore at Iwo Jima, filling their wards with the wounded and dying. Physicians stabilized the badly wounded, and the ships, with names like Bountiful, Samaritan, and Solace, made round trips to Guam to offload the damaged men. Hospital ships had surgical suites. Amputations were common. The medical staffs worked overtime to deal with wounds and injuries from mines, bullets and artillery. Americans too were burned – by the enemy’s use of similar weapons, by friendly fire, bombs falling to close, and accidents. The horrors of burn victims were agonizing for everyone witnessing them.

With a specialty in anesthesiology, Dr. Wales’ expertise was an absolute necessity. The wounded that still dwell in Dr. Wales’ mind were the young Marines suffering from burns. They were treated in the ward manned by Dr. Wales and others. He saw many young Marines who were going to die. It was just a matter of when.  Heroic measures were taken to save them. Skin grafts were made when possible.  But it was often not enough. Dr. Wales reports that if there were deep third degree burns covering 30% or more of a man’s body, he would die. If his lungs had been seared, he would die. In those instances, the only care was palliative. All the medical staff could do was hydrate, provide comfort, and give morphine to ease the pain. Less that 50% of the Marines treated in his burn ward survived. “There was nothing we could do,” he said, “except try to ease the suffering.”

Dr. Wales won’t spend too much time on the sadness of seeing young men die and suffer, other than to say that it haunted him. It also gave him experience and training that he could never have duplicated in civilian life. I have no doubt that it made him a much better doctor, and a more empathetic one. How did he handle the tragedy of so many young men dying or forever horribly mutilated? “I didn’t,” he said. He was deeply saddened and depressed, and would return to the wards at night. Like every other American, he was afraid – afraid of what would happen to hundreds of thousands of young American boys when the invasion of the Japanese homelands occurred. Indoctrination of all personnel was given on what to expect – a well armed and fanatic populace where every man, woman and child could be expected to give his or her life for the emperor, and where no quarter was to be given nor expected. In short, a bloodbath of epic proportions. Its looming reality was a very real presence to every other American in uniform in the Pacific (and most of those in Europe who were to be rotated to the Pacific for the invasion).

Most of Dr. Wales’ active duty time was spent at the huge naval facility on Ulithi. The westernmost of the Caroline Islands, the Ulithi Atoll would become one of America’s best kept secret weapons. Its huge and deep waters, surrounded by forty small islands at one time provided anchorage to over 700 ships of all kinds. Deserted by the Japanese in early 1944, it was taken over by the Americans that August. Almost overnight this distant and nearly empty place was transformed – floating dry docks big enough to dry lift battleships, tenders, mess halls, supply depots, and ice cream barges.

 There was much medicine to be practiced, as Ulithi had large medical facilities as well. Nevertheless, there was also time for occasional frivolity and laughter. Being low man on the totem pole so to speak, Dr. Wales was Ulithi’s sanitation and recreation officer along with his medical duties. He still chuckles at the reaction given him when he shut down the Marines’ galley at their airbase. The commanding general got mad, but there was nothing he could do about it, so the Marines cleaned the place up and it got reopened.

            Different islands were fortified. Mogmog became an R&R place where men could drink a few (warm) beers.

            The nearby Yap archipelago had been surrounded and the Japanese force of nearly 6000 isolated. The Americans did run continuous bombing and strafing runs on Yap – and often with dire consequences to the attackers. Many were shot down.

            The islanders living on the scattered islets of Ulithi were moved to Fedraey, one of the atoll’s small islands. The islanders took it stride, and the Americans provided food and tent housing. Dr. Wales and other medical personnel would periodically take a small boat to the island to provide medical care. “They were a handsome and friendly people,” he said. The chief was paralyzed from polio, but had cadged a Japanese motorized ammunition cart which he drove around. Dr. Wales got along with him famously, in part because he brought the chief cartons of American cigarettes. He would sew up gashed heads and fix broken arms. The children enjoyed the strangers, and Dr. Wales often recruited some of the children to help him distribute the vitamins.

            Dr. Wales came back to mainland United States in December of 1945 on an aircraft carrier along with 4000 soldiers, sailors and marines housed in the hangar deck. The ship docked in Seattle. Shivering in the winter cold, he walked into town and bought two pairs of long handled underwear. He eventually took a train to Long Beach, California, and then onto Houston. Back in Texas, Dr. Wales continued as a physician in the United States Navy Reserve, retiring as a captain (naval equivalent of a colonel) after thirty years of service.

Returning from the war, he took a surgical residency in San Antonio, and later in Austin. He met Dr. Riley Ross in Austin. Riley introduced Dr. Wales to his brother, Dr. Abner Ross. As partners, Drs. Dubois, Ross and Dr. Wales opened the Lockhart Medical Center. Struck down by appendicitis in the early 1950s, he was cared for by a beautiful young nurse named Elizabeth Schneider. Wisely, he sought her hand in marriage. They married at First Baptist Church on May 1, 1952. Hundreds of Caldwell County citizens were delivered by Dr. Wales. Hundreds owe their lives to his skills as a physician and obstetrician.

The next time you see Dr. Wales, don’t forget to thank him for the healing and comfort he provided to so many American men grievously wounded in battle.

James Leslie Dilworth’s motto is, emphatically “it is not the years in life that count – it is the life in the years that count.” He certainly has lived his life accordingly. Leslie, as he goes by will be 100 years young on January 27, 2015. His life is a celebration of the endless possibilities for achievement through hard work and determination.

In Texas the Depression didn’t start in 1929. For rural Texans, times were tough long before the stock market crash of 1929. Leslie was a child of those times. His mother, Beulah Hodges, and father, John Marion Dilworth, were from the Belmont area, where John was a rancher and livestock trader. Leslie’s only sibling, his sister Grace Loise, was ten when he was born. His dad moved the family from Belmont to Luling where he also went into the feed and grocery business. Sadly, Leslie’s mother died when he was ten. When Leslie was fourteen he lost his sister. Loise and her husband were visiting in Arkansas when she became gravely ill. John took the train to see his daughter, and then sent a telegram to Luling for Leslie to come as well. Loise, knowing she was dying, wanted to see her baby brother. Leslie’s first trip from home ended abruptly in Northeast Texas when another telegram was received telling him to return home. His sister had died before he could see her.

            Leslie doesn’t remember not working. John Dilworth bought and cottonseed in his small grocery store, which required stirring to avoid spoiling and spontaneous combustion. By the age of ten, Leslie was turning cottonseed after school, and ‘there was tons of it.’ At twelve he became a Western Union messenger using his new bicycle. When school was out for the summer he chopped and picked cotton and hauled hay, many times for an African American gentleman and friend of the family, Henry Hutcheson.

            John Dilworth remarried a couple of years after Beulah’s death. Leslie and his step-mother weren’t very close. Leslie’s step-mother did not drive. Wanting to visit some of her family in Dallas, John solved the problem by assigning Leslie as her chauffeur.  Although never before having driven outside of Caldwell County off he went to Dallas.  He was fourteen. There was a bright side – he got to go the Texas State Fair.

Leslie attended schools in Luling, but did not finish the 9th grade as “the Luling schools felt they could do better without me.” I get the impression that he must have been a handful to deal with! His maternal aunts decided he needed some better supervision than what was being offered in Caldwell County, so off he went to live with one of them in Galveston, where he says he “coasted for a while.” That is hard to believe. Soon, he was back in Luling, and with no school to distract him, was delivering 50 pound blocks of ice. He moved back to Galveston where he worked 72 hours a week in a filling station, then on a dry-dock, and finally at the Buccaneer Hotel as a bellboy, where he often made 5 dollars a day in tips!  This was a princely sum.

                      Buying and Selling Cattle – 1940                               

1974-In Business in Luling

Returning to Caldwell County, he first worked on a pipeline crew and then went into the cattle and hog business with his father. He also got married in 1939 to Lennah Martha Bright. They were life partners until her death in 2001.  Leslie and Lennah moved to San Antonio, where he worked for the Union Livestock Commission, while also taking care of his own cattle in Caldwell County. He and Lennah lived in San Antonio for 49 years, most of the time at 540 Westminister.

In 1940 time came for all young American men to register for the draft. As Leslie was married, he did not receive a call-up notice until 1943. He could have claimed a deferment, but instead answered Uncle Sam’s call on May 18^th, 1943. His initial training was at Republican Flats adjunct to Ft. Riley, Kansas, a Cavalry Replacement Training Center. Once through basic and advance training, he was promoted to corporal, and then to sergeant.  Because of his maturity and an excellent training record, he was assigned as a training sergeant, where he met many interesting men, including fighter Joe Lewis.

After Ft. Riley, he was transferred to Gainesville, Texas for additional training. He applied for airborne training. The Army in its wisdom instead decided to make him an officer and a gentleman in its Armor branch, and sent him to Ft. Knox on November 27, 1944 to in its officer training program. He graduated on May 5, 1945. While at Ft. Knox, Leslie made friends with some Colombians, who would eventually return to their country. He was promised a high-paying position in the Colombian Army, once the war was over. He politely decided against that, a                                       Training Men on Armored Reconnaissance              

                                                        On Convoy Duty

decision he still is relieved to have made. As a freshly minted second lieutenant, he was re-assigned to Ft. Riley. There, he briefly trained soldiers in armored reconnaissance and operation of various types of tanks. As a tank commander perched in the cupola, he would signal the driver-trainee with foot pressure to his back. Left foot in back – turn left. Right foot to the driver’s back – turn right. Stop – both feet to the back. You get the idea. One of his trainees wasn’t paying attention and headed for a precipice. Left foot – nothing. Right foot – nothing. Leslie used both feet to signal stop. Nothing. Then both feet HARD! Nothing. Almost crushing the driver with his feet, the tank continued over the precipice, with the cupola ring bruising Leslie badly. “I’m glad I didn’t see that fellow again.”

By now the war in Europe was over. All eyes turned to the Pacific, where the war with Japan still raged. America and its allies began preparation for invasions of Japan’s home islands. Bloody battles on Iwo Jima and other islands had left thousands of young American boys dead and wounded. On and in the waters around the island of Okinawa, the Americans were locked in the most brutal land and sea battle of the Pacific Theater. In the meantime, 2^nd Lt. Dilworth was shipped to Ft. Ord, California for invasion training. Assigned as a transportation officer, he spent 30 miserable days on a troop transport, landing in the Philippines in late July, 1945. Like every other soldier, sailor and marine in the Pacific he dreaded what was about to occur. Harry Truman is Dilworth’s favorite president. Without question, he believes that President Truman’s decision to drop the atomic bombs on Japan saved his life and those of millions of others. He was at Base

                                   With Bontoc Tribesmen in the Highlands      

                                                 It Wasn’t All Hard Work

                                               Dangers? The Sign Says It All               

              Supervising Japanese Prisoners of War

“M” near Lingayen Bay on Northern Luzon when Japan surrendered. Assigned to a truck platoon of the 869^th Heavy Automotive Maintenance Company, Leslie helped ensure that the neglected and war-battered Philippine transportation system functioned. Huge amounts of equipment were being moved to ships to be returned to the US and convoys had to deal with an often non-existent infrastructure. Leslie recalls when a tractor-trailer rig got stuck trying to make a curve on a mountain road. When efforts to free it failed, the men just jacked one side up and rolled it off the road and down the mountain. It was that kind of time and place. Japanese POWs, awaiting repatriation were used to build and repair roads. The Americans hired Filipinos to work in many capacities. The mountainous areas of Luzon were populated by many different tribal groups, including the Igorot people. Comprised of several sub-groups, including the Bontoc, they were small in stature. These remarkable “mountain people” or Cordillerans, were former headhunters. They worked closely with Americans as guides, porters and laborers. Leslie’s photo scrapbook shows his deep interest it their lives, and the mutual respect this American and his Bontoc friends had for each other.

By 1945, there were several guerilla groups fighting the Japanese, collaborators, and sometimes, each other. One very large group was the predominantly Marxist Hukbalahap (“Huk”) movement. Ray Hunt, an American who led a band of guerillas, had little use for the Huks. He was quoted by William Breuer in The Great Raid: Rescuing the Doomed Ghosts of Bataan and Corregidor:

My experiences with the Huks were always unpleasant. Those I knew were much better assassins than soldiers. Tightly disciplined and led by fanatics, they murdered some Filipino landlords and drove others off to the comparative safety of Manila. They were not above plundering and torturing ordinary Filipinos, and they were treacherous enemies of all other guerrillas (on Luzon).

There were tens of thousands of Japanese in the Luzon mountains on VJ Day. Most surrendered. Some did not. The “Huks,” as they were called, often asked for American weaponry and equipment to assist in hunting down rogue Japanese in the mountains. As the Philippines were to be given its independence in 1946, the Huks rightly feeling they were not going to be given a role to play in the new democracy, also began attacking American convoys. Leslie was in charge of security on some of the convoys, which were moving American supplies back to ports for trans-shipment to the United States. One time, he and other Americans got wind of the location of a possible weapons cache in a village. Filipino houses were built on platforms. As Leslie was about to enter one of the village’s houses, its owner became quite excited and began shouting loudly in Tagalog, the chief Filipino language. Not understanding Tagalog and convinced by the man’s behavior that he was on the scent of contraband, Leslie entered the house, only to fall through it. The man had merely been trying to warn him that his floor was rotten!!!

There was not a day that went by that Leslie did not face Luling, and wish that he was home. Once discharged, Dilworth returned to the profession of cattle buying.  He owned and operating
auction barns and feed lots all over Texas. He partnered in ranches in South Texas, and appraised herds for the Houston Agriculture Credit Corporation. Leslie helped Gus “Pinkey” and John Brown re-open the Luling Auction Barn in 1974.

His work schedule never remotely came close to an eight hour day. Often up at 3 am, he would move cattle, work with auction houses, and care for his own cattle in Caldwell County. The profit margin on cattle is at best a slim one. Leslie transported, bought and sold thousands over the years. He was a savvy businessman who wasn’t afraid to take chance on a new project – as long as it involved cattle. A friend to ranchers all over the state, he has known some quite prominent ones, such as Dolph Briscoe. All the time he was a loving husband to Lennah and father to his only child Virginia (Sofge). Virginia grew up asking, “Why don’t we keep the pretty cows and calves, dad?” His answer was simple – the pretty ones sold better.

Leslie “retired” at the age of 80, and tended to the home place in Caldwell County and its cattle until the age of 95. He would still be working and tending his cows, except that his legs quit cooperating with him a few years back. He has had to pass those duties along to his daughter and her husband. He herds a wheel chair now, and resides at Lockhart’s Parkview Nursing Home. Looking and acting like a man thirty years younger, this proud father, grandfather and great-grandfather will celebrate his 100^th Birthday with a party on the 25^th of January at Parkview. If you get a change, come by and see him some time, and congratulate this remarkable man on a life well lived. And thank him for his service to our country during World War II.

            Austin C. Pittman favored me with two interviews over the last two years, and I finally am putting the wealth of information he provided me to good use.            He is the oldest child of Lenford and Lillie (Harris) Pittman, both from long-time families in the Dale area. Austin had two younger brothers, Lonnie and Charles.  Lenford Pittman had a variety of careers as Austin was growing up. Among other things, he ran a cotton gin and store for John Horner, and later owned and operated a dry goods and grocery store. In the early 1920s, he was a streetcar operator in the state capital. Austin was born there on November 13, 1922. The family lived most of Austin’s early life at 602 S. Commerce in Lockhart. Although raised as a Baptist, he became a member of the First Christian Church in 1939. He and Eleanor attend there today.

            Like everyone else in the Depression, when he wasn’t attending school he was working. After graduating from Lockhart High School in 1941, the first year it went through the 12^th instead of the 11^th grade, he went to work full-time as an assistant manager of the A&P Grocery Store in Lockhart. Knowing he would be subject to the new peacetime military draft, and along with several of his classmates, Austin travelled to San Antonio, hoping to qualify for the Army Air Corps’ pilot training program. The Air Corps’ requirement was that a young man have two years or its equivalence in college to become an officer and pilot. Austin passed the equivalency tests, as well as the physical tests. In late 1941 he became an unpaid reservist in Uncle Sam’s Army Air Corps. Told he had to wait until there were training slots available, he returned to the grocery business. The Luling A&P store lost its manager, and at the ripe old age of 18, Austin became that store’s manager, riding his Cushman motor scooter to and from Lockhart every day.

            Austin received his orders to report for training on January 26, 1943. Another Lockhart man, Newton (“Doc”) Wilson, who would later become President of Lockhart State Bank, also received his orders that day. Reporting to San Antonio, he stood in formation when the commander of the training battalion told each of the new recruits, “Look to your left. Now look toward your right. Only one of you will be left and successfully finish flight training.” Austin was determined to be the one left. Because of the continuous ramping up of the war effort, aviation training was often backlogged. So, after brief (and somewhat brutal) basic training at Wichita Falls, Austin attended “Pre-pre flight training” on the campus of Kansas State Teachers College in Emporia. The local residents opened their homes to the young cadets, and Austin has fond memories of the Kansans’ kindnesses. Then it was off to El Reno, Oklahoma, for Basic Flight Training, then to Enid, Oklahoma for Primary on a Fairchild PT-19 “Cornell,” then to Altus, Oklahoma for Advanced. Austin was an “Altus Ace,” as they dubbed themselves. He received his commission as a 2^nd Lieutenant and his wings in April, 1944. His mom and dad drove to Oklahoma to attend his graduation ceremonies.

 Austin always wanted to fly a P-38 fighter. His second choice was to pilot a Martin B-26 “Marauder.” He got his second choice, and never regretted it. The B-26 was a ‘hot’ aircraft. High wing loading and a tricycle landing gear required faster than normal landing speeds. Early versions of the Marauder were dangerous in the hands of inexperienced pilots, earning it nicknames such as “Flying Coffin,” and “Flying Prostitute” (because it was so fast and had no visible means of support). Structural modifications, stronger engines, and better pilot training reduced training deaths, but it was no aircraft for a novice. Despite bad press, the Marauder was a highly effective mid-altitude bomber, and racked up impressive records in both Europe and the Pacific. Bombing accuracy was far better than the higher flying B-24s and B-17s.

 Austin transitioned into B-26s at Laughlin Army Airfield at Del Rio, Texas.  At Barksdale Army Airfield, Louisiana he met and trained with his new crew. Each of the six men knew that their lives depended on working smoothly and efficiently.

By late 1944, the Army Air Force deemed 2^nd Lieutenant Austin Pittman and his crew ready for combat. The next challenge was getting a B-26 and its crew from the United States to the European Theater, where they had been assigned to the 597^th Bombardment Squadron, 397^th Bombardment Group, Ninth Air Force. It was not an easy process. Austin and his co-pilot flew to Baltimore to pick up a new aircraft, then to Savannah, Georgia and on to Morison Field at Palm Beach, Florida where they picked up a celestial navigator. In the meantime, the remaining four crew members crossed the Atlantic Ocean by ship.

There were two main routes from the U.S. to the European Theater. Both were fraught with danger. The Northern Route, through Greenland and Iceland, had been closed to twin-engine aircraft since late 1942 because of high number of losses (and disappearances) due to bad weather. The Southern Route, through South America, was somewhat safer, but not by much.  Six B-26s were send south on December 13, 1944. While not flying in formation, they were following the same route. First stop: Puerto Rico. Then it was on to British Guiana and then down to Belem, Brazil. Somewhere over Brazil, two of the six aircraft went down in the jungles, and the planes and crews were lost. Austin’s most vivid memory of the flight was the enormity of the Amazon River. After refueling in Natal, Brazil, Austin piloted his aircraft toward a speck of land called Ascension Island, in the middle of the South Atlantic. Finding the three by five mile volcanic island by primitive radio direction finders gave everyone reason for re-affirming their religious beliefs. After successfully landing at “Wideawake Airfield,” it was on to Roberts Field in Monrovia, Liberia. Then up the west coast of Africa to Dakar and Marrakech, Morocco. Winter storms kept them grounded in Morocco for over a week. In the meantime, other aircraft stacked up there awaiting clearance for England. Finally, two days before Christmas 1944, huge numbers of aircraft were released toward England. The result was, to put it gently, was ‘interesting.’ Slower aircraft had been sent out first, with faster planes staggered out later. They all appeared over the socked-in island at the same time. Unable to find the ground, Austin’s B-26 gingerly descended into the clouds, popping out nearly at building level. Because of air traffic, he had to take the plane out to sea and approach again, trying to land. After three tries, and about out of fuel, he dodged church steeples to land safely in England on Christmas Eve, 1944. It had taken the air crew eleven days to fly from the U.S. to England!

The B-26 crewmen who arrived in England by ship were aware that two B-26s had been lost in the jungles of Brazil.  Because of the weather delay in Morocco, the four were not even sure that they would see their pilot and co-pilot again. They were pleasantly relieved with Lieutenants Pittman’s and Twining’s re-appearance.

Almost immediately after settling in, the Pittman crew and their aircraft was moved, along with most of the other 597^th, to forward bases in northern France. He would fly from there and after its capture, from Venlo, Holland.  Over the next four months, Austin flew twenty-two bombing missions against the enemy. Many missions were against rail yards and ammunition dumps. Some were in close support of advancing Allied troops, entangled in combat with Germans defending the Fatherland. German fighter aircraft had all but disappeared, but anti-aircraft flak could and did take a heavy toll, especially since B-26s flew at lower altitudes. Combat formations included on aircraft that discharged ‘chaff’ –aluminum strips – to confuse enemy radar. Some times it worked. Some times it didn’t. The Marauder could take punishment. After one mission, Austin counted 123 holes from anti-aircraft shrapnel in his aircraft! No one was injured, and the plane was patched up and flew again. Austin has vivid memories of two “very good days.” The first was when he was part of a mission tasked with finding and destroying a huge enemy ammunition dump near the Swiss border. Carefully avoiding neutral airspace, he and his crew unloaded their ordnance on what they suspected was the target. All hell broke loose. They had destroyed the target! Elated, he buzzed the mess hall. The Inspector General was present and was not impressed, and Austin received a small fine. A small price to pay for a highly successful mission. Austin was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for this mission.

Another instance was more mundane. His B-26 took off in formation for a mission. Upon the formation’s return the control tower had every aircraft lower its landing gear, as one had left a tire on the runway on takeoff. Sure enough, 1^st Lieutenant Pittman’s plane had a shredded tire. Approaching gingerly, Austin and his co-pilot made a perfect landing, wheels down.

As the Allies advanced into Germany, airfields were quickly constructed. First priority were the runways. Housing was primitive. The men lived in tents, slept on cots, and endured miserable winter weather as best they could. Horrible weather, typical of northern Europe, and required down-time allowed aviators and crews time for some leisure activities. Austin’s sideline was playing bridge for money. And he was good at it. Sending his winnings home, he compiled a nice nest egg.

One of the saddest incidents that Austin endured was the death of two of his crewmen. On April 19, 1945, Austin was not scheduled to fly. Billy Thornblom, his RTO, and Casimir Sjaz, his bombardier, were assigned to another aircraft for a combat mission. At 4:06 p.m. a B-26G, aircraft # 43-34450, piloted by 1^st Lt. Elmer Frank, took off from a field at Perrone, France.  It was loaded with bombs. The pilot apparently lifted off too suddenly, not using the full runway, and pulled up into a stall. Trying to recover, the aircraft was hit with prop wash from other bombers. The Marauder ‘mushed’ downward and pancaked 100 feet from the end of the runway, bursting into flames. Sjaz was killed in the crash. Thornblom and one other crewman escaped, but Thornblom was grievously burned. Austin was able to visit him in the hospital before he died on April 26, 1945.

Austin’s 22^nd mission was on the morning the war ended in Europe. That afternoon, he had loaded with bombs for his 23^rd when he was told the war was over. Because he had over 20 missions he was given the choice of transferring to the Pacific Theater, or coming home. He chose to go home. However, before he could do that, he and his aircraft participated in a huge victory celebration fly-over at Paris. He felt that getting all those aircraft where they were supposed to be was as dangerous as a mission over enemy territory. Sadly, his beloved B-26 was relegated to a mothball fleet, somewhere in France, and probably scrapped.

Loaded on a ship, Austin came home. He says that re-adjustment to civilian life came easy. He went back into business with his father and brother Lonnie, selling dry goods and groceries. Deciding to leave the family business, Austin moved to Port Lavaca where he met and married Eleanor Paul, the love of his life, in 1952. Austin owned and operated grocery stores in Lake Jackson, Angleton, and Bay City. He sold his stores and returned to Lockhart in 1967, settling on land he had purchased in the 1950s.

Eleanor heard something in the hairdresser’s (where else in a small town?) about the owner of the White’s Auto Store wanting to sell. So, almost immediately, Austin “un-retired” and successfully operated that store (and was a Cushman dealer also) until selling out in 1980. When he and Eleanor returned to Caldwell County, they found that they couldn’t drill a successful water well on their property. The solution – create a water supply corporation to that for those in the area. Austin is still chairman of the board of the Polonia Water Supply Corporation, which provides safe water to many customers north of Lockhart.

Austin Pittman attends American Legion meetings regularly. He and        Eleanor remain active members of First Christian Church. He will tell you that his has been a wonderful life. While rightfully proud of his role as an aviator in World War II, his proudest achievement is being the husband to Eleanor, and the father to six fine children – Paul, Martha (Sanders), David, Mary (Voigt), Gary, and Austin.

Next time you see him, remember that he is part of the Greatest Generation, and thank him for his service to our wonderful country.