1930s War is in the Air

Business just wasn’t there any more and there wasn’t enough action to keep me busy. My uncle John, who had an office in the Mart Building, suggested that I hustle on down and apply for an opening as an elevator operator. I did just that and began earning the bountiful sum of fifteen dollars per week. I didn’t see this endeavor as a lifetime affair, but for the moment, it served a purpose. I became friendly with a young man-of-the-world type who was in the advertising business, exuded confidence, and dressed smartly. He talked about a place in Michigan called Mackinac Island where someone like me could make a bundle during the summer. My buddy Paul was at loose ends at the time so we compared notes, weighed our chances, and decided to give it a shot. Next thing you know, we’re on our way to Great Lakes country and an exciting summer.

Mackinac Island is located in the Straits of Mackinac between Lakes Huron and Michigan, separating the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan and  pronounced  with a “w” at the end. This we learned early on because the islanders take offense if you end it with a “c”. So, once we got that straightened out, we both got jobs, Paul as a short-order cook and me as a soda jerk. Ships that cruise the Lakes stop there for short visits to discharge those who are going to stay, or for those merely wanting to tour the island. The Grand Hotel, boasting the longest veranda in the world, is a famous attraction and the island itself is particularly beautiful. No cars are allowed and horse-drawn carriages take you wherever you want to go. Yearly boat races between the island and Chicago bring in the wealthy and adventurous sailors who liven up the place while they’re preparing to set sail. Two delightful older ladies owned the drug store where I spent my working hours, and we got along famously. The store was at the head of the wharf where the ships tied up, so we didn’t miss anything. Paul, as the master of the grill, turned out a mean burger or eggs over, depending upon the time of day, and I enjoyed his artistry frequently. All in all, it was a summer of fun, satisfying work, and a few dollars. I enjoyed it so much, I returned the next year and ended up working for a small hotel, meeting the cruise ships and carting the luggage from the dock to the hotel. The guests could ride a carriage while I followed the old-fashioned way: walking. It was fun; I was young; and I still want to get back to the island as a guest.

By 1938, the pot was boiling over in the rest of the world. Hitler moved into Austria and conned the European powers into allowing him to partition Czechoslovakia, and by 1939, World War II began as Germany invaded Poland with Paris to fall shortly. Back home, I recall gatherings in support of and against Germany; criticism because of our seeming disregard over what was happening; impassioned speeches against getting involved; dire predictions of our fate if we remained aloof; and recognition of our miserable state of preparedness. We still seemed to take comfort in the oceans as barriers.

It must have been about this time that we struck a lend-lease deal with Great Britain where we would lend them a bunch of destroyers while leasing British bases in the Western Hemisphere. Isolationists were having a fit while others were claiming we weren’t doing enough, but the seriousness of the situation was made manifest when a Selective Service Act was signed. After France fell, Britain would certainly be next. Could we allow that to happen without doing everything possible to prevent it?

As I remember it, all men had to register for the Draft, to be classified as fit for duty or not fit for one reason or another. My friends and I all registered at the local office and went about our business not knowing what would happen next. By now, I was working for an outfit making electric connectors for military purposes, enjoying substantial pay checks as the country began to prepare for whatever the future held. The action and the threats were still far away and our social lives continued, made even livelier with the economy on the upswing. I didn’t give much thought to being drafted, but having seen a series of pictures of wounded vets from World War I, I decided I didn’t want to end up in the infantry. So when Pearl Harbor was bombed with the likelihood of every able-bodied man being called some day, Paul, Jim, and I got together and decided we all wanted to fly for the Navy. In time, then, we headed for the nearest recruiting office and offered ourselves up as potential Naval Aviators. We took a lot of tests, mental and physical, and were called in for the verdicts. Jim had a football injury that was still evident and could be a problem; Paul had overcome an allergy that altitudes could bring back; and I had one eye that was not as perfect as required, so after being assured that any other echelon of the Navy would be delighted to accommodate us, we left in a huff and joined the Marines.