That’s My Story
Today we live in a very divided and selfish country.  We seem to be agreed on very little - either socially or politically.  How is it we are that way today, but were united during WWII?  I cannot answer that.  It mystifies me.  But in the period 1941-45, we were united as never before.   It is a shame we are not that way with the current war on terrorism.

I was born in 1938 and can vaguely remember that the Japanese had pulled off a sneak (no, not a surprise) attack on Pearl Harbor.  I remember my parents literally glued to the RCA Victor console radio in the living room. Of course I had no appreciation of what that meant, but it is still recalled. (Some may challenge my memory saying I was too young, but it is very clear to me - we lived on Ashley Street in Ann Arbor.  Brick sidewalk and front steps are readily recalled, too.)

My uncle joined the United States Marines right after the first of the year in 1942. He did his boot camp in San Diego and was posted to various sites in the PTO following that.  He was fortunate enough to have missed any beach landings, as a Japanese sniper shot him - and he was sent to San Diego to recover.  He was never the same physically after that, having a limp the rest of his life.

There was a young man that lived up the lane behind our home in Ann Arbor, who joined the Navy in early 1943.  He was so young I do no think he was even shaving at that time.  He promised me that he would bring back a Japanese flag when he returned.  He never returned.

My father was a pilot before the war and was an instructor on B-24s.  He was active at the B-24 plant in Belleville, Michigan for many months, training pilots to fly those planes in Europe.  His brother - Lloyd - was a friend of Henry Ford and ran the bomber plant in Belleville.  During the time my father was at the plant, Charles Lindberg was also there - I am not sure in what capacity, though.  Lindberg did not know how to fly a B-24.  So, he asked my uncle Lloyd to teach him, but only at night as he did not want the public to know he did not know how to fly them.  Protecting his image, I guess.  An interesting note to the building of those bombers is how they got the work done inside the turrets and belly guns.  They used midgets from carnivals and circuses.   Eventually my father was sent overseas to England.  He was posted to a small airfield from which many of the B-24s flew their missions over Europe.  That airfield is still there, serving small aircraft and personal pilots.

I well remember my father returning from his overseas assignment. It was literally a “Norman Rockwell” moment.  The yellow cab stopped at the bottom of the long lane we lived on, Dad got out with his long trench coat and a large duffle bag.  My mother ran down the front porch, down the steps and the long lane and jumped into his arms.  That house is still there and holds many memories for me. I have been in the house a number of times over the years and walked that lane and the front porch.  It is a very special place.  I was fortunate enough to have a fine young man in Hong Kong do a pencil sketch of the house for me.  That sketch will be framed soon and will become one of my family treasures.

That generation that survived the great depression and fought WWII, returned home, went to school, joined hands and literally rebuilt this nation and its economy.  That is the legacy we inherited from them.  I shudder to think what our generation’s legacy will be.

That’s my story.

Richard G. Freeman