Bernice Hughes and Werner Friedli, two likeable people, have been waiting since 1944 for answers to their questions. At this late date, I am still unable to provide them with suitable answers. But I will offer their questions to you in the hope that you may have a suggestion or two. Let’s deal first with the question posed by Bernice Hughes.
In 1935 or thereabouts, a brick home was built on the next lot adjacent to my parents home in Richmond Heights, Missouri. That house belonged to Bernice and Orville Hughes. Orville was an accountant by trade. In December of 1944, Bernice asked me a question which I was unable to answer then and I decline to answer it today.
In 1944, I had completed my fifteen month detached duty with the U. S. Army Twelfth Air Force in Italy and I had returned to my original assignment with the Air Transport Command in Accra, the Gold Coast. That country is now called Ghana. One day in the fall of that year, Captain Bell, the chief flight line officer, told me that I was to be the Aerial Engineer on the oldest C-47 in the African and Mediterranean Theater. My crewmates and I were to take the old C-47 back to its manufacturer, the Douglas Corporation, for refurbishing to be used in a War Bond drive. The crew was sent to Naples, Italy, to take possession of the old plane and bring it to Accra to prepare it for the long over-the-ocean hops and over-the-jungle hop in northern Brazil. As best I could determine, that airplane was built in 1935 by the Douglas Corporation and was known throughout the aviation world as a DC-3. The DC-3 (C-47) was to aviators what the Jeep was to ground troops in World War II.
I was 22 years of age and was put in charge of preparing that airplane for its long voyage to its home. We fitted it with interior gas tanks for the long, long hops over the ocean and the jungles of South America. In early December, 1944, we arrived in San Bernardino, California.
The orders for the four-man crew specified that we were to have a layover of five days before we started the journey back to Accra. That accounts for the fact that I spent some time at home that December. I am now able to confess that I did not mention my arrival at my parents home because I was confused. By the time my confusion lifted, I had spent almost two weeks at home instead of the five days specified by my orders. The war went on and no one seemed to notice my absence.
About half way through my home made furlough, Bernice invited my parents and me to have dinner at the Hughes’ home. Apparently Bernice had saved her ration stamps because she was able to put a large cut of roast beef on the table. Orville stood up and in traditional fashion, carved the roast beef for each plate. As I recall it, there were the usual mashed potatoes with a boat of gravy, but being as the dinner was held in December, there were no green vegetables. It was meat and potatoes and that’s all there was. The gourmets would have to look elsewhere for excitement.
Not long after the plates were put in front of us, Bernice unleashed a stunner for this young soldier. Bernice asked, “How many Germans have you killed so far?” I gulped a few times and wished that I was somewhere else far from the Hughes’ residence. But Bernice was not finished because she pressed on about whether the Germans were hit in the head or the heart or some other vital organ. I was completely stunned and Bernice never got an answer from me.
In all of the years since I was involved in combat, that question has been deliberately avoided. It pains me even now to recall that question. Among combat fliers, that question would never have been asked and would have been avoided at all costs.
In any case, I stumbled through the rest of the meal and was glad to retire from Bernice Hughes’ hospitality. Some sixteen years later in 1961, my mother had died and I was again back in St. Louis for the funeral. Prior to the funeral, there is a process called “viewing” which is an obscene custom. While the viewing was taking place, a gentleman in his late 50’s or early 60’s came over to me and introduced himself as Orville Hughes. We exchanged pleasantries for several minutes. He was interested that I was now working in New York and I was interested in where he had moved from the house next door to my parents to some other suburban location. In the ten or twelve minutes of the exchange of pleasantries, I made it a point not to ask where Bernice was. She may have been dead, or having another child, but I had every intention of not inquiring as to her whereabouts. I did not need another interrogation by good old Bernice. So you see, for the last sixty some years, Bernice’s questions have gone unanswered. And I propose to keep it that way.
Now let us turn to Werner Friedli’s question. When I took up residence in Accra, my barracks had the designation of G17. All of the inhabitants in that barracks slept in two-tier bunk beds. My downstairs partner was Sylvester Liss, who had worked at the Budweiser plant in St. Louis. We slept at one end of the row of beds, while Werner Friedli and Steve Thorin slept at the other end.
Werner Friedli was a man who commanded respect. He was tall and agile and was about 13 to 15 years my senior. Most of the men that I soldiered with were in my age group. I was surprised to find that Werner Friedli, a 35 to 37 year old, had been snatched by the draft. Friedli came from Chicago and he projected a professorial image. I liked Werner, but I really did not know much about him. Half-way between our two bunk beds was an aircraft electrician. On several occasions the electrician would brag about his wife’s mammary equipment. He called her breasts “boobs” and “jugs.” He bragged so much about the size of her bosom that Werner Friedli, the professorial type, was finally forced to ask the electrician: “Can you tell me what you can do with big boobs or enormous jugs that is different from what could be done to smaller boobs and jugs?” The electrician was as stunned as I was at Bernice’s question at the dinner party. He had nothing to say. And I am pleased to announce that his diatribes on his wife’s physique were ended. Werner Friedli performed a much needed damper to the electrician’s zeal.
So you see that war does not answer every question. Since 1944, Bernice and Werner have been waiting for answers to their questions. Werner Friedli’s put down of the electrician was one of the high points of my military career. And my avoidance of Bernice’s questions have pleased me greatly for more than 60 years. I can’t ask for more than that from an undistinguished military career.
E. E. CARR
May 13, 2007
Essay 253
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Kevin’s commentary: I don’t expect that Pop could answer the question even if he wanted to. It must have been absolute chaos in a tailgunner’s seat.
Now here’s a more interesting question about midair refueling — how does it work without anything exploding? I was always taught that while refueling a car, it should always be off, presumably because leaving it on poses some danger. But if you’re switching the fuel line from the main tank to a second tank, mid flight, does that ever pose a problem? Then, as a two-part question: first, did you ever do a mid-air refueling from one flying plane to another; and second, how on Earth does such a process not produce sparks that would blow one plane to hell?