As anyone who knows me will tell you, I talk too much. I’ve learned as I’ve grown older to control it, but I have to consciously discipline myself. Some would say I have much work still to do.

No Off Switch

When I was young, I had no off switch. My dad’s second most-used phrase was “Shut-up, Russ.” (Though it never seemed to have the desired effect). My dad had his revenge, though: I have a son with the same “skill”.

Just like your fathers and grandfathers, my dad never talked much about his time in battle during World War II. By the time I was twelve, I knew he’d been in the war and I’d seen too many war movies not to drive him crazy asking what he did. Finally one evening, under the shaded patio of our little home, my dad started talking. I wasn’t prepared for it.

An Amarillo Summer Night

It was summer in Amarillo. Out on the dry plains, the hot days give way to cool nights. On one such night, after my dad had a couple of beers and had suffered all day from my badgering, I guess talking was the only way he thought he could shut me up. He didn’t stop talking that night. Over the next couple of years, he told me about parts of his life he’d never told anyone before. It seemed therapeutic to him. He told me some good stories, and some so bad I still haven’t repeated them, and won’t. But the bond between us strengthened to a higher level that I still cherish.

One of the funny stories he told involved a Liberty ship and how he got a medal for heroism. America mass produced Liberty ships during the war after Pearl Harbor. They were simple and large, built to carry cargo or troops: our country launched 2,710 in just a few years.

Boredom and Terror

My dad was on one waiting to invade Saipan. I’m sure you’ve heard that war is long hours of boredom interspersed with brief moments of terror. Waiting on a ship with hundreds of others in the South Pacific doing nothing, being told nothing, could be unimaginably, oppressively boring.

My dad’s group (I don’t know if it was a platoon or what: I was never in the military myself) spent their time gambling. After a while playing cards got old. Officers tried to discourage them, and would make them put up their cards or dice, but they couldn’t stop them from gambling.

The Sound of Planes

During World War 2, planes (by today’s standards) were slow. You could hear them coming long before you could see them. So my dad’s platoon started betting on what type the plane was just by its sound. My dad was cleaning up — so much so that his sergeant mentioned it to a ship’s officer, who told the captain.

So the captain ordered that my dad be stationed in the crow’s nest on top of the ship with a walkie-talkie. When he heard a plane, the captain ordered him to tell the bridge what type of plane it was and where it was coming from. My dad was afraid of heights, so you can imagine how he felt about that. Worse, more than once while he was stuck up there, Japanese planes attacked and strafed the ship. Not until they landed on Saipan did my father escape his assignments to the crow’s nest, and he didn’t think he’d been brave. He believed he’d been careless allowing his sergeant to see what he was doing and he often used it as an example when he warned me not to be stupid — again.

The Medal

It’s not the only time gambling got him or one of his buddies in trouble; but it’s the only time he got a medal for it.