The Aging Warrior

By Rev. Gerald Raschke

Old Warriors never die. They just fade away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665509237

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2020 Rev. Gerald Jerry Raschke. All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-6655-0924-4 (sc)

       978-1-6655-0925-1 (hc)

       978-1-6655-0923-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020923623

Published by AuthorHouse 12/14/2020

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter I The Early Days

Chapter II My War – Training Begins

Chapter III Africa Over There

Chapter IV Sardinia The Battle Begins

Corsica

Chapter V Gunnery Instructor

Chapter VI The Abbeville Kids

France

Chapter VII Lafayette, We Are Back

December 1944

January 1945

February 1945

March 1945

April 1945

Chapter VIII Home at Last

Chapter IX A New Life Begins

PREFACE

M any comments in the following chapters are given with thanks to my mom, my sis, and Mildred for having saved letters I wrote to them (although I will admit to selective censoring of some of my letters to Mildred). I also had my extensive, daily diary.

In Washington, DC, the Library of Congress allowed me to take many photos in their archives (no longer permitted). (The Library of Congress copyrighted my Lifetime Journal; The Aging Warrior is a part of that journal.)

I especially owe many thanks to Vic Tannehill, the son of one of our ground crew, who wrote Boomerang, a day-to-day history of the 320th Bomb Group from the day it organized to the day it was disbanded. His history of the 320th was invaluable in recollecting this part of my life; bringing back many things I had forgotten. Two or three years after I began writing this part of my journal, Vic wrote and published an additional history of this period entitled First TACAF. While it did not add a lot to what I already had written, it broadened my knowledge and understanding of the overall campaign in our area. As a lowly enlisted man, there were no newspapers and little international news on our makeshift radio, built by my buddy and tentmate Melson. (By the way, very few first names are shown here. All of us called each other by our last names.)

All mission target strike photos and the Pearl Harbor photos are provided through the courtesy of the United States Air Force and the Library of Congress. The color photographs were provided by my very good friend, Joe Kingsbury, a bombardier in the 441st Bomb Squadron. My grateful thanks are extended to all, as this book would not have been possible without their generosity.

As hard as I tried, I was not always consistent with my diary entries. While the diary, Boomerang, and the dates are reasonably factual, it is quite probable a few of my missions (and also some mission details) are off by a day or two. Comments that might be construed as philosophical quite often can be found in my Book of Thoughts. These were written over a twenty-five-year period since my ordination, and many can be found in my sermons.

So much of life is like sandcastles we carefully construct at the water’s edge. We step back and admire our handiwork, but the tide comes in, and not a trace of what we have done remains. My philosophy of life holds that the enjoyment of the present will not be curtailed by my plans and hopes for the future, but rather that my anticipation of the future will enrich and fulfill my enjoyment of the present. I’m also convinced that, if one behaves with a certain kindness, civility, and tact to ease one another’s passage through this changeable and occasionally brutal world, one’s life becomes more fulfilling. I have attempted to follow these tenets throughout my life; hopefully, my sandcastle will be more long lasting.

Fantasizing about one’s life appears to be a normal human experience. I know I am guilty of it! What if? What if I had been born rich—a genius—what if I’d become a great diplomat, a great sports figure, an explorer, a hero—or whatever else my mind could imagine?

But then I reflected on the life I have lived to date. I have often stated (and meant it) that I have lived and been blessed with a long, happy, healthy, contented, exciting life. Why then would I want to fantasize about something that would probably change what has already proven to be good? For example, had either one of two seemingly insignificant occurrences not taken place—i.e., had I not offered a beautiful young high school girl a free cherry Coke (rejected) or accepted an unsolicited change of occupation on the opposite side of town—my whole life, in all probability, would have taken a totally different course. I would not have met (and then remet) the girl of my dreams—and my loving wife, the mother of my two beautiful daughters, resulting in four grandchildren and wonderful great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren, in all of whom I take great pride.

One’s personal story is a part of larger history. We have stories of nation, race, and gender that surround and direct our personal narratives. We buy into the tales of family, clan, job, church, and town that become our own personal lives.

Life can be compared to being dealt a hand of cards. Some of us are dealt good hands; some are not. While one might have the opportunity to improve his hand, eventually, as best he can, one has to play the hand he holds. This is what I have tried to do. I truly believe I was dealt a winning hand. For me, now at age ninety-six, my hand is almost played out, but I truly believe I have already won the game.

CHAPTER I

THE EARLY DAYS

I am smitten . One day in 1942, a pretty girl, a fourteen-year-old freshman at Central High School, came into the store where I worked and ordered a cherry Coke. She was really cute. I was a seventeen-year-old soda jerk in a pharmacy located in a large apartment complex. She came in almost every day after school and ordered her cherry Coke. Once, when she ordered her Coke, I pushed her money back as I wanted to treat her—and she refused.

This great-looking petite, brown-haired beauty made my heart flip. She was a little over five feet tall, just right for me. Her soft voice was so unlike other high school girls I knew. Being shy and short for my age (and holding down a job), I did not date. You will soon learn that this apparently insignificant little episode would dramatically affect my entire future life.

One night, I was working in front. Ike, my boss and the owner of the pharmacy, was in the back workroom. Some bus drivers were at the rear of the store playing the pinball machine. (The store was long and narrow.) A customer requested some cigarettes, which were up front, near the cash register. As I opened the register, he pulled a gun on me—a big one. (Later, he told the police that it was an old gun belonging to his grandfather.) He asked for the cash.

As I started to reach for it, he put the gun in his belt. Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around him and started wrestling with him, to keep him from getting to the gun. I yelled for the bus drivers to come help me. When I told them he had a gun, they came to my rescue. The guy, Paul Somebody, was much larger and older than I, and I needed rescuing. He told the police later that he had changed his mind. If so, I don’t know why he was hanging around with his hand out, waiting for me to give him the money. I am sure this is why he put the gun in his belt.

It was about this time WWII began. I still can vividly remember turning on the big old floor model Atwater Kent radio around 1:30 p.m. on Sunday, December 7, 1941, and hearing, on the local station KOIL (one of three stations), about the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Where on earth was Pearl Harbor? In the beginning, the news did not personally affect me. I thought the war would be over long before I would get into it. Little did I visualize that the Axis powers, Japan, Germany, and Italy, would be running all over us.

One wonders why it is that mankind finds itself in constant and, seemingly, ever increasing conflict. We seem to place ourselves in situations where we more easily violate one another. There is no escape into a vacuum, and most of us constantly keep putting ourselves back into the bind.

Rub (my oldest brother, Rupert) was much older than I was. In fact one day, when I was a little boy, my younger brother and I had a really nice-looking couple babysitting us while our parents were on a trip. When my parents returned, I mentioned that I wish he was my brother. My mother said, What are you talking about? He is your brother. (He was married to a beautiful girl, and he was never home while I was growing up.)

Rupert was already in the service. He was a captain in the field artillery. Ike and I often sat in the back corner booth and listened to the war news over the radio. At the beginning it sounded very bad. Our neighbor, on Pinkney Street, Jim Hasl, the son of my dad’s engineer (both worked for the Missouri Pacific RR), died at Pearl Harbor on the Arizona. The Arizona, a great battleship, was sunk by the Japanese. (A photo of the capsized Arizona is included with my Pearl Harbor photos.)

It appeared life was going to become more difficult. Life is never simple. The truth is, the righteous and the unrighteous can suffer equally. While for some the best is yet to be, for many, great hardships lie ahead; and we should all prepare ourselves for that possibility.

My first love, together with her mom and dad, moved from the apartments shortly after Pearl Harbor to their new home way out in the country, where they had a dog kennel and raised cocker spaniels. I was so shy I had not even asked her name. A few months later I left the pharmacy.

After I left Drake Court Pharmacy, Bud Baker, the son of our neighbor Mrs. Baker, offered me a job at his Safeway store. There was more money and a different line of work. Although it was in a completely different part of town, I accepted it and started working for him. I had worked there for only a short while when, one day, I came out of the back room of the store. Lo and behold, who did I see walking down the aisle with her mother and dad but herself—my first love, Mildred. We were both overjoyed at seeing each other—and surprised, since that store was not their usual grocery store. Mildred’s dad asked her what store she wanted to go to that day, and she chose the