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Bud: A war hero to me
Topics: war, B17 Bomber, World War II, hero
Posted by citizenjournalist Mon Mar 24, 2008 16:32:50 PDT
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I am haunted by the gentle countenance of the young Army Air Corps Lieutenant in the old snapshot discovered among my mother’s personal papers after her death.  The old photo stirred many memories, but in particular reminded me of an event long ago.  Time has not dimmed recollection of the day my Grandmother and Grandfather Williams, along with aunts, and my mother took me to the cemetery in Blackwell, Oklahoma to visit a gravesite.  A warm Oklahoma wind blew gently over the grave markers, and for a still grieving family, memories stirred of a native son, sacrificed in the name and cause of world peace. 

Just before tearing themselves from this place, my mother and grandmother took me by the hand and led me to the marker and explained in simple, but honest terms that there lay my uncle, Marion “Bud” Williams; War hero, 1st Lieutenant, B17 Bomber pilot, shot down over Germany during a bombing run---his 36th mission.

What Bud must have gone through only God knows.  Attempting to control a disabled bomber hurtling toward earth would surely call upon personal reserves we can only imagine.  The odds of surviving 36 missions were slim.  The odds of going home whole were miniscule.   Prior to this, my war was a grand game played by wild adolescents running around and shooting the phantom Germans or Japanese.  Childhood war games were never the same again.

My memory of Bud is scanty---only snippets remain.  I remember mostly things about him, i.e., a pencil drawing depicting a rearing horse; a photo of Bud in flight attire, standing by a Bi-wing trainer, fanny-pack parachute hanging in position; the small window banner with gold star. The Army footlocker with Bud’s belongings sent home by his command was a constant reminder of his absence.  The footlocker was kept in his bedroom, a sanctuary left unchanged and untouched.

Everyone at home had a part in the war effort.  Kids purchased war stamps at school with their pennies, and smashed tin cans for recycling.  Adults purchased war bonds, worked in the various war industries and suffered through rationing, while women met at the schools and other public places in the evenings and weekends to make bandages for the wounded.  Somehow it made the risk and horrors more palatable if you had a part---if you could do something.  The entire community had a part.  Young boys dreaming, playing war games, and fantasizing the glory and adventure, teenage boys feeling the war was passing them by---willing to quit school and lie about their age to get into the “action”.

It wasn’t easy for those at home.  Mothers, through their tears, tasted God’s salt of the earth as they hung the small flag with gold star in the front window for all to see.  It was a badge of courage perhaps, and certain testimony to the ultimate price paid in wartime.  Everyone had a part; some just paid a dearer price than others.  I cannot fathom the depths of despair that befalls a parent upon losing a son in war.  What a bittersweet task it must have been to place the small satin “Mother’s Flag” in the front window of the home; the gold star thereon stark evidence to all that a son had fallen on the field of battle.  

Who’s the hero?  Clearly, both soldier and loved ones back home were heroes, each in their own way, in their own time and place.  War was hell for those on the front lines, but there was a different type of hell for those on the home front.  The stark terror of a bombing run over hostile territory was equaled only by the dull thud of worry and uncertainty of those at home.  It’s hard to imagine the apprehension of a family, or fiancée waiting for word from the front.

During the war, everything was done in a hurry. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?   It could be jubilation or sorrow---either end of the spectrum.  You had to embrace today and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.  A frenzied pace helped you temporarily forget the war---a way for the homebody to cope.  Some say that life was simpler in those days, or less complicated, but this was far from reality.  People at home existed at a frantic pace trying to negate the uncertainties of war.  Keeping busy helped time go faster, longing for a time when it would be over.  But frantic as the days were, the nights brought little respite from thoughts of war.  During the day, you could tune out (or down) concerns, but, at night, when the press of the day was over and the lights were out, reality spiraled down to a mother’s bed in a modest home in a small Oklahoma town named Blackwell, and thoughts focused on a son in a bomber over Germany, wondering if he would ever see home again.  No matter how you slice it that was not a simple, uncomplicated life.

Surely, the only emotion that can match the despair of a knock at the door by an Unknown Soldier carrying bad news, or an ominous telegram messenger, is the unbridled joy of seeing your son walk up the steps, duffel bag over his shoulder, home from the war.  The feelings are equal in intensity, but the joy of homecoming is transitory, and soon taken for granted.  But families never take for granted the loss of a son in war---this lasts all their days.

In a day of unprecedented prosperity, we owe a debt of gratitude to this World War II generation.  If nothing else, we owe them a promise to never forget.  They forfeited their freedom so that we would not be denied.  We must never forget the cost of our freedom to enjoy the simple pleasures of life.  We take our freedom for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness far too lightly, and need a jolt now and then to remind us of the price paid for this privilege.  Our freedom did not just happen; rather it was bought and paid for.  Next time you ponder your station in life, think of a brave young man in a B17 over Munich, and thank God above for the sacrifice he made on your behalf.

The old snapshot still haunts me.  The smile speaks volumes; assuring the viewer that here was a young man, sure of himself and his destiny.  Surviving members of Bud’s crew got word to my grandparents that half of them were able to bail out of the disabled, burning airplane while he stayed at the controls.  The ground and the B17 ran a race.  The ground, and eternity, came up far too quickly and won the contest.  A large aircraft in a “death spiral”, wind screaming over its surfaces, does not easily recover.

The Bible says it well---Isaiah 40 verses 30 & 31, “Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles…” The B17 went down, but Bud’s spirit soared.  A Nation is grateful.
 

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Comment From: SunniCA

Wow. Thank you so much for sharing this. Incredible sacrifices from our Greatest Generation.