Pearl Harbor — Recollections Beyond
A Day That Lives In Infamy
Roger, my dad, was five years old when Japanese bombers attacked Pearl Harbor thousands of miles from his home near Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. He can’t recall any details from December 7, 1941, but 76 years later, he does recall grown-ups discussing something of great magnitude the following Sunday in the church vestibule. Little did he know that a war fought in Europe and Asia would shape the way he saw the world, and in part, determine the man he’d become.
When I called my dad to ask him to share his memories of Pearl Harbor day, it was like opening a faucet full force. Although he cannot remember anything from the infamous day, every facet of his young life was affected by the ensuing war effort. He spilled one story after another, as I scribbled furiously on my notepad, just trying to keep up.
Roger remembers clearly that, “Everything — and I mean everything — went toward the war effort. I didn’t eat a banana. There were no bananas for sale! I never saw a balloon until the war was over. Rubber was needed for the war.”
He went on to explain that ration stamps were required to purchase almost anything — sugar, flour, meat, gas, rubber boots or tires. As best he can recall, stamp quantities were allotted based on the number of people in each household. Elmer, Mabel, Roger and his younger sister, Janet, lived in a country house built in 1940. The small two story, three bedroom residence was too far from the main road to be serviced by electric lines.
Anything requiring power was fueled by propane, gasoline, kerosene or battery. All lights were extinguished at night, out of fear for enemy bombing raids. Cities and houses nationwide doused bulbs and flames nightly in an effort to mask their visibility.
“Everybody worked,” dad said.
My self-employed grandfather owned three dump trucks, a 1941 Chevy and two Dodges, manufactured in 1938 and 1941. The trucks ran 24 hours a day. They were either hauling to, from, or at the Sturgeon Bay shipyard — or carrying rock, blasted from the quarry, twelve miles away. The rock was crushed on site and trucks hauled it to waiting ships bound for Gary, Indiana, where the rock was used to refine steel.
“When the war was over, those trucks were just rags,” my dad said. “No life left in ‘em.”
“Uncle Howard’s wife Lou was a Rosie the Riveter. She worked in the shipyard as a welder. Did you know that?” he asked.
I did not, and so my father shared what he knew and provided me with her contact information. He also warned me she had lost some of her hearing.
Lou Delcorps, age 94, still lives independently in a suburb of Chicago, Illinois. When I spoke with her — using my strongest voice, I asked, “Do you remember how you found out about Pearl Harbor and America’s Declaration of War?”
“Well, my dad had hauled the morning milk to the cheese factory and when he came home, he told us our country was at war,” Lou said. “I was a junior in high school at the time. I finished high school and then went to help out a family member who just had a baby. From there, I moved to Sturgeon Bay to start a welding job at the shipyard.”
Lou recalls working eight hour days. Her job was to climb a thirty foot ladder to weld anchors from the keel peak, down the length of the ship. It was a physically demanding job for a petite young woman. Lou told me there were lots of women — and men too — working at the shipyard, of all ages. She remembers a retired woman in her sixties who came from Green Bay to work.
“We just did what needed to be done,” Lou said.
Unmarried, Lou met her future husband, Howard, when he was home on furlough from naval military service. They met like so many of that generation did, in a tavern or at a dance hall. Howard returned to service and they stayed in contact through letters.
“From the deck of his ship — it was docked next to the Missouri, Howard watched the Japanese sign the surrender papers. I’ve got postcards of it somewhere,” she said.
The official papers of surrender were signed on the deck of the Missouri in Tokyo Harbor on September 2, 1945.
When my father shared memories of his early years in a one room country schoolhouse, they poured like pure maple syrup. The school encompassed first through eighth grades. One teacher took charge of three dozen students — give or take a few — ages six to fourteen.
“She had quite a job,” my father said. “She was the teacher, nurse, janitor, mechanic, playground supervisor and everything in between. Those country teachers worked hard.”
“Everything was very patriotic. The first thing we did every morning at school was pledge allegiance to the flag. We had a monthly meeting at which we were assigned jobs — cleaning erasers, washing the blackboard, straightening the library, hauling water or — flag duty. It was always two boys who’d raise the flag in the morning and lower it at night. It needed to be folded properly and placed on the shelf — and don’t you dare let it touch the ground!”
With so many young men enlisted as soldiers, there was a shortage of teachers. My father recalls that his teacher, Mrs. Kurdla, relocated to Sturgeon Bay to be near the shipyard where her husband found work. She took care of her family, taught school and worked at the shipyard at night.
“Some days she didn’t get to school until ten or eleven o’clock. I suppose she must have been tired. The older kids would take care of things until she got there,” my dad said.
In autumn, before Mother Nature blew the seeded milkweed tufts away, Mrs. Kurdla sent her student body outside with onion sacks. For a couple of hours, their job was to collect milkweed fluff. It was used as flotation material, stuffed into life preservers on military ships.
We’d been talking for over an hour when I asked my dad what foods he ate as a young boy.
“We didn’t have any refrigeration, so everything was canned or fresh from the garden. You name it, we ate it canned — pork, chicken beef — apples, peaches, plums — peas, beans and cucumbers. My mother used to make pickled apples — boy! Those were good. I could go for some of them right now.”
My grandfather was not much of a hunter, but they did raise some chickens and pigs for eggs and meat. When it came time to slaughter the pigs, Roger and Janet would cry. The pigs were like pets, some days escaping their pen when the children left for school. My dad proposes the pigs wanted to tag along.
“We’d have to get them back into the pen and start to school again,” dad said.
My grandmother cooked on a gas powered stove. There was a well pump that moved water into an attic storage tank and from there, gravity fed the water into the cook stove holding chamber, providing the house’s only warm water. My father wasn’t sure exactly when, but at some point they did get a battery powered radio. He cannot recall listening to war news, but does remember racing home from school to listen to a program called Sky King. The show was a western-themed adventure. It began airing in 1946, after the war.
I’ve heard it said that children learn what they live. My father was born during the depression and his early years were heavily influenced by the second World War. I’m amazed at how vivid his memories are, 70 years and many life experiences later. The lessons he lived and learned included hard work, frugality, cooperation and love of country.
The bombing of Pearl Harbor set off a course of events that shaped lives. People do indeed learn what they live, and our experiences are wide and varied. Geography, generation, education and relationships all shape how we see ourselves and our place in the world.
While typing this story, I noticed the age spots and weathered skin on the backs of my hands and was struck by the similarity to the skin I see on my father’s hands. I realize I’ve not only inherited his physical traits, but some of his experiential ones as well.
I’ll remember that we learn what we live when I look at you.
Will you do the same for me?
