Dad stories
 

We all have them. Stories your pop told you about his younger life. I've heard many of them, sometimes more than once but listen intently ever single time and love every minute of them. I bet ya'll have some great ones to tell as well. I'm however, not a great writer so bare with me here.

My Dad was born in 29 and at around 20 years old joined the Air force with his younger brother. They were stationed in Alaska and both have always been avid hunters. They would get on what he calls a puddle jumper and fly out, drop off fuel, fly back, get more fuel and do the same thing again. They could really get out there that way.

Anyway, they were on one of these hunting excursions when they happened upon an old prospectors cabin way out in nowhere land. They decided it was a good place to spend the night and settled in. Soon after they notice squirrels running around on the rafters, etc. Well, Dad being the hunter type pulled out his side arm (probably a 1911 I assume) and took some shots at them. My Uncle joined in on the fun.

He now starts laughing about it as he continues the story. "The next morning we decided to see what was up in the attic...boxes of blasting caps and dynamite" he chuckled. "Guess we're lucky to be here huh?!"

When my dad was in high school (late 1920s) he was called upon by his English teacher to make a sentence using the words defense, defeat and detail. After thinking for a second or two he said: De cat jumped over de fence, de feet went before de tail. His grade that day was not very good but the class got a big chuckle out of it!

I always hunted with Dad as a kid. On my 16rh birthday I got a Browning A5 Sweet 16. I had been using a 12 ga Ithaca Fearherlight. A big difference.

I was excited to go dove hunting with the A5. I couldn't hit chit. I didn't get my limit.

Dad knew of my poor shooting so on the way back to the truck he asked to see the A5. We hadn't taken 5 steps when a dove flew in front of us. A LONG way out. Dad raises the gun, pops off a shot, the dove crumples.

Dad hands me back the gun and says "Ain't the gun".

Lol!

During WWII, my father was an Army Captain running supply convoys up and down the Burma / Ledo road. On one trip a bunch of Japanese bombers flew over the convoy so all the drivers stopped and jumped into the ditch for cover. It just happened that one of the truck drivers had grabbed his carbine and wound up next to my dad, the Captain. My dad looked over at the driver and said "give me your carbine". The driver firmly clutched his rifle and said "no suh, Captain suh, you get your own gun"! The reply tickled my dad and he got a good laugh. It turned out that the Jap bombers must have already made their bombing run because they did not bother the convoy!

My version of Sooner's story:

We didn't have much money growing up so my dad fixed up some old bikes for my brother and I. Of course, somebody organized a race for all the neighborhood kids.

I came in last as you might have guessed and threw the bike down, skulked around all pouty and all the while kicking that stupid bike.

So dad hollars out and gets a repeat race all set up but with him on my stupid bike. Of course he won the race. He throws down the bike and says to all "It ain't the bike."

Going through a dark time now. Dad is 90, mom is in a nursing home under hospice care and no one can go see her due to CV19. Don't get me started. I'm in GA, dad in MI. Been spending hours every day on the phone with him.

He was in the Coast Guard. Told me this one today. First day on the ship, it was rough and he was on the rail puking his guts out with a few other newbies. An old salt walked by and said, son, you need to develop a stronger stomach. Dad looked back at him and said, what do you mean....I'm throwing it further than anyone.

No. We don’t.
My dad came home from work every afternoon, brought home a paycheck every week, didn’t drink, didn’t yell at or hit anyone, didn’t do anything bad, but he didn’t talk to his children.
Edit:
On second thought, I turned 18 a few weeks before I graduated from high school. Our principal brought me in and had me register for the draft. A couple of weeks later dad found out and went to the school and ripped the principal a new *******. In my entire life I’ve never seen him so worked up.
Something happened to him in WWII. I have no idea what. I do know he got disability checks for the rest of his life. And he hated the military. But he never said why.

Kinda with you there. He's fortunately mellowed with age. I am guilty of same.

I read fun children books to my little kids before bed. They would eat it up as the old man gave them two minutes.

One night I was tired of the books and made a story up about how I dug a secret tunnel from Mentor, OH to downtown Cleveland. Like 30 miles. I can't even remember the reason for the passageway.

I had to dig and dig and remove the rubble by hand so I could continue progress. I worked the story. They bought it because I could see it in their eyes.

Mike, Sorry to hear about your Mom - and I can't imagine not being able to have someone visit/check in on her. That is a funny story you shared from your Dad.

To those of you familiar with Reader's Digest - you'll relate. One of the joke sections was titled something like "Life in these United States." Well, my dad told a co-worker about something that happened one evening to the family and the coworker submitted the story and got paid the $100 or whatever for the published story.

I've got three older sisters - and this happened before I was born. One evening as my parents were watching TV, they realized they hadn't heard anything from the girls room for a while. My dad called out - "Denise (my oldest sister), what are you girls doing in there?" Her answer "Nothing, but I guess we better stop!"

My dad served in the 96th Infantry in the Pacific during WW2. One night, somewhere in the Philippines, his platoon was on night patrol, and had to bivouac in the jungle. They ran wire around the perimeter, and attached ration cans as an alarm system. Sometime in the middle of the night, the cans started rattling, and everyone opened up with their weapons in the general direction of the noise. All quiet after that. In the morning they found a cow that more resembled a piece of Swiss cheese. He hasn't told me a lot of stories, but that's one that I remember. He's 95 and still kickin'.

My dad was about 14 years old growing up in Milwaukee. It was well into the depression years. The Milwaukee Journal news paper was offering a bicycle to paper delivery boys. If you stayed with the job for a year, the bike was yours. He had never ridden a bike before in his life but he really wanted one. So he applied for the job. Before any boy got the job, they had to prove that they could ride a bike. They put him on a brand new bike and away he went. A little wobbly at first but once he got going he managed to stay up. The street was on a hill and it was a terrifying ride to the bottom. He managed to take a corner, and once he was out of site, crashed into the back of a paddlers cart. The old guy pulling the cart came around and dusted my dad off, assessed the situation and gave him a pep talk. After some coaxing, and encouragement, my dad got back on the bike and rode back up the hill to take his new job. He sold the bike when he enlisted in the Army Air Corps at the beginning of WWII.

Damn, you guys are old!

I'm going to be 50 this year. My parents weren't born until after WWII. Most of these stories sound like something that would have come from my grandfathers. Grandpa #1 had been a fire chief in Cincinnati before they moved to FL. His parents, German, were up there. There seems to have been some sort of falling out, I'm assuming due to him divorcing his first wife. I never heard anything about his early life. Grandpa #2 was in WWII. From what I understand from my mom and aunts and uncles, he never really spoke about it to anyone. I believe he was in the Pacific at the end of the war and held no love for the Japanese. My dad passed when he was 57. I don't have a lot of stories but I know about his various cars (he was a gearhead) and he taught me about working on cars.

I liked my dad until I got to know him. He was never much interested in me after about age 12. And before that we weren't a close loving family. I'm just a product of a marriage that didn't work.

He was a suit, president of the Rotary Club, member of the country club. I was a greaser. Not lifestyle, cars. He liked big fancy cars, I liked fast cars and VW's. He played golf. I played volleyball and baseball until I was 35. I raced karts from age 14 to age 47.

I've built or somehow restored or majorly improved somewhere around 30 cars. VW's (lost count) to Corvettes (5) to Porsches (7) and 2 MG's, a '36 and a '50. I've had a Chevy PU of one year or another since age 19. And then there were some motorcycles, no heavy iron, all light and fast.

He went to USC, I went to some college but fell short of 4 year degree. I was such an undeclared major that they were about to toss me out anyway, or just let me take classes that didn't give me any credit. I had a lot of English classes and welding. Somehow that doesn't help add up to a BA.

I've never worked for anyone more than 6 months, always on the hustle. He was Don Draper in Mad Men. Every bit of it. He wouldn't let me mow the lawn when I was around 13, he thought I was a flake. I had 2 lawn mowing accounts across the street. Never missed a week.

Bought my first car with my own money, a 5 year old (at the time) '57 283. I was 17. I was out of the house forever at 18. No more Corvette, a truck and a VW.

No fooking golf. No Lincoln Continentals. Night and day.

My Pop will be 94 in May. Now that my Mom passed and my wife passed, we have been spending a lot of time together.
He is starting to reflect on his life now and tells me stories about his past experiences.
Two come to mind.

He was in the pacific during WWII
His ship was dive bombed by a Japanize Zero. He was on top deck as a loader and everyone was shooting at the plane.
About 100 yards before impact the Zero tipped down and disappeared in the ocean.
Another time I was with him.
My sister and her girlfriend came running into our house screaming and crying. Some young men down at the river tried to rape them.
My Pop Grabbed my 12 Ga shotgun and handed me (I was 15 at the time) his 38. We went running down the levee to where my sister said these guys were.
When we approached them, one mouthed off... "Whatcha hunting for mister?"
My dad pointed the shotgun in his face and said... "teenagers."
These guys took off into the river and swam the 200 feet to the other side.
Pretty intense.

I have a few from my dads days as a state legislator, but those would have to go in PARF.

One that wasn't Dem v Rep was the Speakers golf tournament. The Legislators often were paired with a lobbyist, a staffer and a guest of the lobby or speaker. He was paired with a former legistator turned lobbyist.

My dad could not hit it over the water on a short par 3. He emptied his own bag in his attempts, then told the lobbyist to give him some balls. After about 5 more in the drink, the lobbyist started to complain that he was running out of balls.

My dad said, "Whitworth, if you can't afford this game, why do you play?".

My dad was a gear head and got his first car when he was 13. It was a 38 Ford sedan. He fixed it all up and used to go out driving around - this would have been 1955. When my grandfather found out, he took off the wheels so dad and his buddies used to go sit in the car and listen to the radio. Then something happened and my grandfather sold the car. My dad was so pissed off that he moved out of the house (he only told me this recently). When things simmered down, he moved back home (maybe a month or so).

Dad then built 2 dragsters with a friend. The first was a model T with a Chrysler 392 he built they didn’t like the high speed stability of the flat windshield. The second had a Messerschmidt body and was the first car in western Canada to run a supercharger at NHRA sanctioned events. Dad was 16 when they started racing the Messerschmitt that he and a friend built.

Here are some early photos of the Messerschmidt (no blower yet).

Taken behind my grandfather’s garage in Edmonton and has been posted all over the interwebs, notably by jalopnik.

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Another taken behind my grandfather’s place.

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Dad prevented me from getting into racing when I was younger. He always said that all you get is a bunch of trophies that your kids wreck, they promise to fix them but never do.

Oh yes. And in hindsight those stories were probably as embellished and excessive as my stories are for my kids. They picture my younger me as this bad boy super lover. :D

My dad lived it to age 82 and my mom until age 78. They were married for over 50 years. Till death do they part.

When I was a kid and even until I left home dad was in the US Air Force and a pilot. In the early years he was gone on TDY (temp duty) to far away places on a regular basis. In later life he was in Air Force intelligence and often worked 16 hour days for week at a time. We did not talk a lot back then.

When I moved away from home in search of a better paying job I picked Oklahoma City first because I had 4 grandparents here. I was pretty sure if I went to hang out on Sunday afternoon Grandma would invite me to eat with them. Best meal of the week.

I did spend time at my grandparents house and got a lot of stories from grandpa, and many were about my dad as a boy. When dad retired and my parents moved to OKC as a final move after 16 moves in his career, I got to spend more time talking.

Dad had an interesting career. In 1966 he was stationed as a remote (no family members) in S. Korea. He came home after 6 months for what was supposed to be a month with us. On his second day home the Pueblo was seized, and his commander called, said pack your back and be ready, we will come pick you up in an hour. The Air Force stole my daddy for a year more.

He said the the base there was always at the bottom of the supply chain, so they put in request for projector bulbs even month just to hold briefings. After the Pueblo was seized, they were changed to a top priority, only after the Pentagon level, so every back order for the last 10 years was filled. He said they had the halls lined with projector bulbs. Part of his job was to find places to park all the incoming aircraft, and find tents and places to house all the troops.

He had hundreds of stories, and I just wish I was smart enough to have recorded them. Same regret for my grandfather's stories. My mom's dad was already on the road to dementia by the time I moved here, so no real stories from him just both grandmas.

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This is dad in 1967. That base is north of the 38th parallel, and pretty remote. He had some interesting stories about it.

My Father was a West Point graduate, 1952. After Korea the Army sent him to MIT for graduate school in Nuke Physics and Civil Engineering.

He remains the smartest, most practical person I have ever met. He was not, however, a gifted story teller...good sense of humor, for sure, but he wasn't going to host The Tonight Show. Really fine man just not a raconteur.

While we were very different people, there was never any particular tension between us. As I have said before, I always knew I had great, supportive parents. My Mothers side of the family were the funny ones.

We became very good friends after my Mother died in 1990 - he loved my wife and thought it best to leave the house he had shared with my mother for so many years. I learned a lot in those years I had not be privy to, both personal issues and career issues. It was fascinating to hear.

He received two Bronze Stars, one in Korea and one for trying to rescue folks after the SL-1 Reactor outside of Idaho Falls had a core meltdown. I won't go into the details but the SL-1 story he told me was spellbinding and I have great admiration for his bravery.

SL-1

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Ceremony. He is on the left.

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Stories. I got em.

Not my Dad, but my FIL.

He has a lovely car collection. A big healey was purchased and he was pleased. It was three days in his possession and I was over and asked for a ride. He had not yet even driven it.

We roar off around the mountain where he lives and are being a little careless.

Side note here: FIL is successful. He likes to be in control. He doesn't make many errors- ever.

Back to the story, we are zooming around and the steering wheel comes off in his hands!! He looks to me in a microsecond and the look says "Oh sheet! I didn't mean to kill you!!!"

I have had British cars and had an instinctive response. I slammed the wheel back down and we drove back slowly and with caution.

It was a simple extension piece that needed the screw clamped down. No big deal, but I got to see my FIL being VERY uncomfortable and out of character for a moment.

I'm telling this one at his service, whenever it should be. He is still very much alive.

Like most guys in his era --he didn't talk much about himself --great listener and I guess my hero. Took care of us and anybody who needed help. WW2 Naval Aviator --Hellcats. never said much about the War except the ratio of women to men was outstanding before he went overseas.

So one day in the very early 80s -Dad and his buddy ED (WW2 tank driver ED) were working on Eds late 60s Impala. Seems they ran low on JD and after finishing headed out to restock the supply. I was invited to ride along as I had been helping out . Dad was shotgun -Ed drove -I was manning the rear bench.

We hit a light --and I guess a 1980? turbo Firebird pulled up -driven by a discoish lad of the era.
\The young guy took off rather aggressively from the light --- both gentlemen in the front seat grunted -made a note of it and as luck would have it caught him at the next light which entered a stretch of open road.

Ed stared straight ahead and as I recall my Dad sort of smirked at the guy next to us.
Light changed.
Turbo guy jumps out --from the back seat I could see what I think was his turbo light come on the in the dash or hood bulge.

Ed nails it and the old Impala reels the Bird in and my Dad waves at em.

Next light no eye contact and the bird is gone. The old guys are having a nice laugh. My Dad says to ED --I guess old guys rule !! and then says "old guys in Impala 427s at least".

No 'Dad' stories for me.

He was born in '20, a WWII and Korea Vet, had me at 48, I never remember him being at home, and he passed when I was 14.

My kids will have dad stories, I guarantee it! :D

Just a couple of many:

Oh, I knew not the parameters for posting in this thread. I didn't hear the story from my dad, but was by one taken over by the wake.

Before WWII, my dad have various jobs from working in a leather jacket factory. He operated a band saw used to cut out pieces to be sewn together with other pieces. A stack of leather sheets with a pattern on top would be placed on the saw table where he would cut all around the pattern. One of his first big jobs after high school was for Allis Chalmers. One of his first assignments was operating a large drill press used for drilling out the center hole in castings for bogie wheels for tracked vehicles. After he punched in for his shift he would check out a freshly sharpened bit at the tool cage and mount it in his machine. Then wrestle a bogie wheel blank into a jig on the press and clamp it down. There was a cast hole in the blank that would be drilled to machine tolerances with the bit. After he was finished the blank went to a guy on a lathe who mounted it in a jig using the new hole. After a while it all became very monotonous. One time he forgot to clamp the blank down so it just spun around. The power feed on the drill press pushed the drill through the cast hole like a big screw. There was no way he could extract the bit. He removed it all from the machine and took it back to the tool pusher. "Something wrong with this drill bit sir!"

Dad took Emir and me to the drive-in to see Night of the living Dead in probably 1972.

Emir and I had seen it a million times and for whatever reason we pulled up stakes before the movie finished. Was probably the back half of a double feature.

As we were leaving we (the two kids) yelled out the window repeatedly "The guy upstairs gets shot".

Any of us would want to strangle a smart ass kid who did that but my Dad re-told that story 50 times. He was 35-ish and still a kid himself. It tickled him.

I just had the wrong dad. I would have slept in that car every night. After every race when I was 14 I cleaned my kart with a toothbrush and my mom would let me drag it into my room. I will never understand that. I think I slept in it several times.

My dad never once drove me to a race. I always had a friend who had a kart take me and my kart with them while he played golf. Later in life I took other kids to the track. with their karts while their dads played golf.

^^^ what is amazing is that my dad has never once come to see my kids race go-karts. He was going to come watch my son at the endurance race last fall but it was postponed a week due to snow. It would have been great as my son won that race (2nd year in a row).

Dad has come to a couple of my races and participated in a HPDE that I ran 10 years ago, in my 911. He *****ed about the 915 tranny all day to his instructor.

A couple years before my dad passed away I recorded some of his stories. My brother and I used to argue about the stories and get them confused with each other, so one Thanksgiving I got out my handheld recorder and we asked him to tell us. After he died, I transcribed the audio and put it in a little booklet. This is him talking about his first car:

A 1951 Ford was my very first car that I bought when I was 14 with money I saved from mowing lawns and I paid $50 for it. It was nice except for it didn’t run because it had an engine problem. It made a really loud noise. It was going to throw a rod. So, I had been looking for a long time and my Dad knew it was going to happen and he was all for it. He used to take me to look at cars on Sunday. I would go through the paper and look for cars I could afford and he would take me out to look at them. This was the nicest one we had seen anywhere. It had a nice paint job. I was 14 so this was 1962. Since I was born in ’48 that would work out. ’62 I was still in junior high school. I hadn’t graduated yet. I was in the ninth grade. We went to get it and of course it didn’t run so we towed it home with a chain, which my Dad and I used to do a lot. That was probably the first time. One of our cars would break down and we would always tow each other and we got real good at it. I remember my Dad towing us home. I was in the old Ford and I’ve got the window down and my arm up, steering with one hand and the radio was on. I was listening to Monster Mash. I thought I was pretty cool because I was driving. Even though my Dad was towing me I felt like I was driving. So we took that car home and took the engine out. My Uncle Vic did all the work on it, rebuilt it and made it real nice. I used to wash it even though I didn’t drive it. My Dad let me put it in the garage. I would roll it out and wash it then put it back in the garage. A couple weeks later it would be all dusty so I’d roll it out and wash it again. I had to keep mowing lawns and I would funnel money to Vic and he would buy parts. Pretty soon we had a whole engine to put back in it. Since I didn’t have money for insurance, I made a deal with my Dad that he could drive it, actually my Mom drove it. They retired their car and started driving my car. That way it would be on the road and I could ride in it. It wasn’t long – another six months or so until I would actually drive it. The day of my birthday I was at the DMV getting my license right after I got out of school.

This is a tough one, my dad was just diagnosed with stage 4 cancer throughout his body.

Like others mention he doesn’t talk about himself much and definitely does not talk about his service in Vietnam. So much so that I am having a hard time getting him to even leverage his VA benefits. I have my little sister looking for his separation papers so we can find out what he is eligible for.

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My brother was always breaking down in various POS cars he could afford. One time he broke down just down the street from the house but the starter was shot so he couldn’t start it. Well dad wakes me up and says we gotta push a car home.

Well while we’re pushing a cop drives up and acts all like he’s busting a stolen car chop shop gang or whatever. So we’re all leaning up against the car and the cop is looking through it with his flashlight and he reaches in to open the glovebox and dad says calm as heck, ‘Don’t open that.’ The cops expression was like, ‘Says who?’ and pushes the latch.

So the glovebox door falls off and of course there’s nothing in it.

Dad says, ‘I told you not to open it!’ So we’re all laughing including the cop who says where ya going? And believe it or not he helps push.

Dad was like that. He could turn a situation around like nobody’s business.

Let me know if I can help. The form is called a DD-214 and should be fairly easy to get a copy of...that form is key to getting started.

What branch of service? Where is he located, which State? Makes a huge difference. I do know some folks at the VA so let me know.

My Father died of cancer five years ago and my recommendation is you guys get everything buttoned up as soon as possible.

He was in the Navy out of Washington State. He can be found on the public facing records site where you can see his bronze star with valor. But that’s all I can get at the moment. Will have to order a copy if she can’t find it.

Shoot me a pm if you would like. I certainly appreciate it, feels like it’s all moving very fast.

PM sent.. The fact that he is Navy will make it easier. Is he still in Washington State?

My best to your Pops.

My dad has end stage prostate cancer and can’t have much time left with us. This thread has made me rather reflective... my sisters remember so much more than me but I certainly feel for all of you who have lost yours. I should make an effort to catalog his responsible, wonderful life.

Another from my dad:
"It was the bean fields in Oxnard. [My GTO] had a full synchro 4 speed that would go in first gear. At 20-30 miles per hour you could put it in first gear, all the time without even thinking about it. It had good synchro’s. I didn’t see a reason why it wouldn’t go into first gear at any speed. For some reason that topic came up and I made a bet that I could put it in first gear at 80 or something like that. Maybe it was 65. My friend Terry Stevens in the Navy – I was at Point Magu – bet me I couldn’t do it. I was sure I could. In fact I did do it. We left the base and went down these deserted farm roads. He was right next to me and we got up to speed and he gave me the signal and I put it in first gear. It went right in. I heard like a little thump noise. I didn’t think anything of it. I took it out of first gear and put it back in fourth gear and let the clutch out because I had done it. We were going to pull over and he was going to pay me whatever it was. Except when I let the clutch out it didn’t drive anymore. It didn’t pull the car. It was like everything was disconnected. All I could assume was that the centrifugal force of that clutch spinning so fast which it had to spin in first gear at 60 miles per hour – you wouldn’t be able to drive it or ever get it that fast in first gear – that the clutch, this is what happened and when we took it apart the clutch facing disintegrated and flew off. Luckily, clutches do come apart like that in race cars and they can come right through the floor of the car. Luckily, nothing like that happened. So, I had to call my Dad and come and tow me. He was in his old tired 6 cylinder Plymouth Valiant with the chain. From Point Magu, there is a big grade between there and my Dad’s house. We got on the freeway and we were driving at freeway speeds with the chain. We were really good at this. We had about six feet between us. The idea with towing somebody like that is that the person behind has to do the breaking for the person in front too to keep the chain tight. So, you’re watching for a red light or anything ahead and you slow down. Its hard on the car behind’s breaks. Obviously the person in front can’t stop because the car behind will hit him. You want to keep that chain tight otherwise it bangs back and forth. At freeway speeds probably no more than six feet between us – that’s like real tailgating. The big grade was coming so my Dad started going faster and faster. We were probably going 75 when we hit the bottom of the grade – pretty fast for being that close to each other – hoping we would have enough speed to get over the top of the grade. And we did, that little Plymouth pulled us right to the top and over the other side. As I think of it now that my Dad would do that, I don’t visualize him as being that adventurous, but you do what you have to do and I guess he was at heart. He trusted me and figured it was no big deal."

Great stuff, great Dad.

That would be the Conejo Grade, btw...driven it a million times. My girlfriend was from Camarillo:cool:

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My dad grew up in Germany during WWII. He was just a kid during the war and is going to be 89 in August, a US citizen when he turned 21. He is currently writing his bio. Here is an excerpt when he was 8. There are many more similar to this.

We had rolled along in the train all night
Then we slowed down to enter a station. MESCHEDE said the sign.
It seemed like a small town. We stopped. A few people got off, a few people got on the train.
We were sitting there for maybe 10 minutes. Why are we not moving on?
I was sitting by the window, looking out. Suddenly I noticed a commotion outside. The uniformed station master who at departure time usually raises his green pedal signaling the train engineer to leave the station, acted strangely.
He was running back and forth on the pier, shouting something and waiving his pedal in the air.
He finally dashed forward yelling at the engineer. The train then started to move forward slowly. But I was not gaining speed. It just crawled along at walking speed.
We finally got to the outskirts of town, passing a few last houses, and then the train stopped. We were sitting on an about six foot high earthen dam above green soggy wet looking flat pasture land.
A two meter high cyclone fence ran parallel to the dam at ground level.
After a few minutes of nervous silence a deep humming sound began to fill the air, getting stronger by the second. Allied fighter planes!
Then we saw them. A whole swarm of single engined planes heading for our train broadside at low altitude.
All hell broke loose. Bullets were hitting the train like a hail storm. People were dropping to the floor screaming. Glass from windows was flying. I slid to the floor next to my mother. Close by a girl was screaming “My leg, my leg!’
The planes passed over us, disappearing in the distance.
Several of the soldiers on board yelled “Everybody off the train, fast ,fast. They will be back”
I don’t know how I got out. I found myself sliding down the embankment on my back, my mother already ahead of me on the ground. In an instant the cyclone fence was bent flat to the ground by the sheer weight of the fleeing people.
I suddenly realized that the cap I had been wearing was gone. I looked back up to the train. I saw the cap lying there. As fast as I could I crawled back up. I grabbed it and slid back down the embankment.
I heard my mother yelling ‘Werner, Werner’. She was running across the wet meadow toward the houses. I caught up with her.
We could hear plane engines again. They were returning.
We ran towards the house closest to us. The front door was wide open, and people were running inside. Mother was ahead of me. She made it through the door. As I was about three or four feet from the door, I saw dust and wood splinters falling in front of me. I looked up. Two large caliber bullets stuck in the door frame just above my head.
I made it through the door into the house and jumped down some stairs into the basement where several people had taken refuge already. Mother was there, breathless but alright. We hugged each other and cried.
We sat there for about an hour listening to the noise outside. There were explosions, close and distant, and much yelling and screaming. Then things got quiet.
When we got outside we looked around, stunned. Several of the homes were burning. People were running in all directions. Some were yelling at us, that all this was our fault because our train had attracted the planes.
Finally Mother said, “let’s get back to the train”
As we rounded a corner, we saw our train in the open field. The train engine was sitting on its haunches, the front of the engine pointing straight into the sky.