 Tale #1: Passing Through Tale #2: Two Dreams Tale #3: Granddaddy & Me Tale #4: Three Days at Sunset Tale #5: My Father's Promise |
Tale #5: My Father's Promise (excerpt) December 1941 Has someone ever described to you an experience they've had that defies explanation? Like the person sensing unseen danger or misfortune and acting to escape or somehow avert it? Or sensing the need of another person and addressing it before being told about it? Or seeking someone or something that was lost and somehow knowing exactly where to look? I've heard many such stories. In fact, most families I know have at least one such story in their lore. My family has one too, except that ours is not about a sudden feeling or revelation followed by some kind of decisive action. It's more like a prophecy played out over two decades against the backdrop of an eventful stretch of American and world history. As dubious as that claim sounds, it really is quite a story. To tell it, I suppose I should start at the beginning. Our president called it a day that shall live in infamy, and he was right. Anybody who remembers that Sunday in December 1941 could tell you where they were and what they were doing when they learned of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. It is a seminal moment forever engraved on the consciousness of our nation. I was very young at the time and don't remember Pearl Harbor very well. That month, my focus was on Christmas--in particular, Christmas Eve, which was to be my seventh birthday. What I do remember about that month was how our family time suddenly became more rushed and more precious. What I remember much more clearly than December 7 was Monday, March 2, 1942, three months after Pearl Harbor--the day my father left home for the war in Europe. I remember it particularly well because it was the last time I ever saw him. Life quickly changed in the U.S. Young men rushed to the recruiting offices to join up. Women began going to work in large numbers. War bonds were on sale--I didn't know what those were. Shortages and rationing suddenly became a way of life as America began to prepare for the long fight and the lean years ahead. My father, Jim Pearson, Sr., had a skill our country would need in great abundance: he was a military pilot. He had been a U.S. Army officer for ten years and trained as a bomber pilot, primarily on the B-17 Flying Fortress, while achieving the rank of captain. That December, he'd been out of the military for less than a year, flying passenger service for a regional airline. In January, they recalled him to duty, recertifying him and training him on the B-25 Mitchell. By the end of his training, he knew he was going to Europe to fight Germans. That Monday morning, we gathered with the families of other airmen to say goodbye. My mother, Helen, was sobbing as she had been for several days. She feared Dad would go missing in combat and never return. As he prepared to leave, she clung to him. Looking into her red, swollen eyes, he uttered the words that haunt me to this day. "Don't worry, dear," he said, "I'll be home for Christmas." Text Copyright, G. S. Treakle, 2023 |