Chapter 4 - 1961 John's Hunting Lesson

Chapter 4 Version 1

1961

“Look” said Stanley as he drove up Northampton Street turning his head toward the field to the left. John craned his neck and then stood up to peer over the dashboard as there were no seatbelts. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for and saw nothing but a buttery brown open field.

The white Ford station wagon pulled off Route 10 to the right and parked beside the brick building at 168 Northampton Street housing the lumber and hardware store for Zywar Bros. general contractors.  It was late fall and the air was crisp and clear. John spent many days here helping. He knew a piece of quarter inch plywood could be easily moved by him and his father but another piece of three quarters inch plywood was pretty heavy. Sometimes eight foot two by fours need to be unloaded from the flatbed dump truck or railway car and he would be brought along to help. He liked how the smell of the pine, spruce and fir lingered in the air especially if the wood was damp or freshly cut. The smell of the wood drew John to head for the open garage door where the spruce framing lumber or pine boards were cut to size. He was not allowed to use the table saw or the radial arm saw yet. But he could use any of the hand tools on scrap wood, did some painting, and was allowed to score and snap window glass using a glass cutter.

”Hold on there” said Stanley as he exited the driver side of the car.  Stanley walked around to the passenger door and bent down to pull a long object from under the front bench seat of the station wagon. To John’s surprise, it was a rifle or shotgun. Stanley opened the glove compartment and slid four shells into his jacket pocket.

“Come on,” said Stanley as he nodded his head toward route 10. The two walked across the street, over the fence, and into a field on the way to the woods some hundred yards from the road. As they entered the field, Stanley loaded the gun.

Stanley was an outdoorsman. He already had taken John fishing to the Chicopee River and the Westfield River Gorge in the Berkshires so an outdoor sporting event with his godfather was already an occasional treat. This was the first time John was invited to go hunting.

When Stanley was in his teens, he had his own trap line down the “dingle” from his house at 112 Ferry St. to the Manhan River. He skinned his prey and sold the pelts. One day he trapped a skunk and was sprayed badly. Stanley smelled so bad his mother wouldn’t let him in the house so he moved out to live in a cardboard box down by the railroad tracks. This lasted as long as the nice summer weather did. By that time the skunk smell had subsided but the independence of living outside stuck with him. By the time Stanley reached eighth grade he knew he had enough of school and went to work in the factories where he learned be an electrician.

John and Stanley walked slowly through the cool Forest. The reds, yellows, and golden brown of the deciduous leaves still had the springiness of wet noodles carpeting the forest floor so that their movements were quiet. A few weeks later and just such a walk would be more like stepping on crisp potato chips but for now the leaves were silent. Stanley stopped and put one hand to his ear. Without saying a word he indicated that he wanted John to stop and look and listen and observe. It was peaceful in the woods. John had seen deer in the field and turkeys once but the forest was quiet today with no wind and no sound. A peaceful calm existed without even the usual sound of birds to intrude on the serenity. Stanley walked on with John in tow.

They walked until they came to a depression in the woods. The hole was about 36 feet across and three feet deep and stretched for his far as John could see both to the right and to the left. This was an unnatural feature like coming across a stone wall in the middle of the woods–a remnant of ages past. The 1820s and 1830s was the age of canals and it spawned a renaissance in canal construction. This was a section of what remains of a canal built to go from Northampton to New Haven down the west side of the basalt highlands of the Metacomet-Monadnock Ridge. It was far enough from the Manhan River to avoid the large ”dingles”–the ravines caused by erosion of the Manhan River’s feeder brooks. One of the major feeder tributaries, Broad Brook was a large tributary but not large enough to be navigable as it eroded it’s way from the base of Mount Tom to the Manhan. Broad Brook itself had its own tributaries with their own secondary dingles. The relatively rich farmland that the brooks cut through were Eastampton’s first draw for settlers. The steep descent of Broad Brook’s flow into the Manhan became the second attraction. In 1847 a dam and mill was constructed by Samuel Williston at Cottage Street creating a pristine millpond -  Nashawannuck Pond - that provided waterpower for his factory that made buttons. Williston had a virtual monopoly in the button industry and branched out into making other products like the new stretchable suspenders. A second dam on Ferry Street created the Lower Mill Pond also known as Perfume Pond to the locals due to its smell. The smell unfortunately was not of desirable perfume. Neither Indian nor white man wanted their name to be associated with this pond and it was not a potential fishing site.

 There was a flash of gray across the old canal. Stanley dropped to one knee and raised his gun. Squirrels are crafty targets. They use the tree as a shield always moving to the other side of the tree trunk away from potential hunters. This was a tactic the squirrels might have learned from woodpeckers. But this squirrel was far enough away on the other side of the canal that it froze in place allowing it to become an exposed target. Stanley took careful aim. John waited for the sound of the gun. And waited for the sound of the gun as Stanley aimed motionless beside him. The seconds ticked off as the squirrel overcame his catatonic state to scurry around to the other side of the tree trunk.  The moment passed and the target was lost.

”Well, you almost had a squirrel tail to put on your bike” said Stanley.

The idea of attaching a squirrel tail to his bicycle was not appealing to John. He said ”I probably wouldn’t do that.” to Stanley.

 After thinking about John’s comment, Stanley said ”Well, then it’s good we didn’t kill the squirrel”.

”There’s no point in killing something for no reason” said Stanley as he unloaded his gun.

They turned and walked out of the woods.

Chapter 3 - 1961 Growing Up in the Shadow of Mt. Tom

Chapter 3 Version 3

1961

Boys explore – that’s just what they do. There is no reason – no goal – no end point. They just can’t help it.

There are fields of corn, grass and weeds where butterflies and worms can be caught. There are ponds where frogs and pollywogs hide in green slime. There are streams where trout are too sly to be caught. Crayfish inhabit the banks of the stream and can be found if a net can sift through the roots of the plants that love being at the water’s edge.

With a mountain in your backyard and a major river only a bike ride down East Street, there were recreational choices some boys can only dream of but here they were part of life.

“Mom, I am going up the mountain – see you later” and a sunny summer day was started with choices galore. Mount Tom was not technically a mountain but it was a large enough hill to qualify as a mountain in a child’s mind. Whiting’s Peak had cliffs of hard angular volcanic rock and a TV tower if you wanted to go all the way to the end of the trail. The cliffs were made of purple basalt that filled a rift valley caused by continental drift 200 million years ago. The basalt stretches in a thin line from the Vermont border to New Haven on Long Island Sound. The volcanic rock weathers into a reddish brown color that is particularly pleasing to view with a crisp blue sky and the green of the forest. Stories of rattlesnake encounters on the cliffs made children wary but not wary enough to avoid hiking on the cliffs. There were some nature exhibits with rattlesnakes that were caught locally. If the wind was blowing from the west which was not often, it encountered the cliffs and an updraft was formed. A child could toss out a substantial log and the wind would blow it quickly over the child’s head and it would land some distance behind. The fun outweighed the danger – it always does. Elsewhere on the Mt. Tom Range, Goat’s Peak had a rusty metal observation tower with a sweeping view both north to Vermont and south to Springfield and Connecticut. There were also streams with salamanders and Lake Bray was plowed in the winter for ice-skating. Today the trek would be to the east end of the Mt. Tom Range to Mt. Nonotuck.

The attraction at Mt. Nonotuck was two-fold. First were the foundation ruins of an old resort at the summit. The story passed down from child to child was that it burned down when the proprietor of the resort was disposing of the carcass of a horse by burning it and the fire got out of control. The resort burned down to the foundation and was never rebuilt. The rocks used in the foundation looked to be locally sourced to avoid the cost of getting the building materials up to the top of the “hill”. The foundation was built to last and was about three feet thick so it was good to climb on and had some arched window holes and door openings where you could imagine Indians were peering in from the other side.

And secondly there was the view to the north. The Connecticut River flowed down between Vermont and New Hampshire and into Massachusetts looking for a gap in the range so that it could continue its passage south past Hartford to Long Island Sound. That gap was right below Mt. Nonotuck where the old village of Mt. Tom was located between Mt. Nonotuck and Mount Holyoke. The village was high up enough to avoid the yearly flood that made settlement on the flood plain hazardous. The flooding provided the best and arguably the only good farmland in Massachusetts. The valley was dotted with white patches of cheese cloth covered fields of shade tobacco next to red barns with vertically hinged boards for ventilation when the tobacco was hung inside for curing. The shade tobacco was used exclusively for the wrappers of fine cigars and provided summer employment for high school age students.

Until 1840, the Connecticut River made a meander in the shape of an ox bow – a U-shaped piece of wood that went over an oxen’s neck so that it could pull heavy loads. In 1836 Thomas Cole completed the famous painting of the oxbow that hangs in the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art  from the top of Mount Holyoke looking west. But four years later, a major flood cut a new channel directly into the water gap at Mt. Tom. The oxbow became a pond fed by the Mill River passing west of downtown Northampton and the Manhan River which flowed east through Easthampton with the excess water in the Oxbow going into the Connecticut River at Mt. Tom village. The Oxbow made an ideal fishing and frogging spot for young anglers to hone their skills. The Connecticut River itself offered some good catfishing for the more adventurous. By the 1960’s Mass Audubon’s Arcadia Wildlife Sanctuary included some animal and bird exhibits near where the Mill River entered the Oxbow. The Audubon Sanctuary also hosted a 4H camera club for junior high school aged children that John joined with his plastic Kodak Brownie camera. All of this could be seen from a bird’s eye view from the top of Mt. Nonotuck. The sunsets were probably spectacular from that vantage point west to the Berkshire Hills but it was at least an hour’s walk back home and you don’t want to do that in the dark.

But exploring was not limited to the outdoors.

One morning John was staring inside a shoebox he found on the top shelf of the closet he shared with his parents. Pictures, papers coins and a sailor hat were overlooked as he reached inside to pick up a pewter colored item that could have been mistaken for a rocket. But he knew what it was. The end was pointy and heavy. No, you are not going to put this into a six shooter. This was a serious bullet. This was a war bullet. There were some smaller bullets too. These were copper colored with rounded tips. These were the kind of bullets Davy Crockett used, he concluded as he reached for the metal object in the leather covering.

There was a snap to keep it from falling out of its leather holder. He picked up the object by the handle and knew the feel of the lacquered leather grip. The same feel as the Estwing hammer handle but this was lighter than a hammer. He snapped open the short leather strap that held it in. Slowly he drew it out. Running his hand down the top of it, he came to the end where the blade came to a point. Turning the blade sharp side up, he ran his finger over the blade at a 90 degree angle to test its sharpness just as had done so many times with his pocketknife. It was sharp – very sharp. He put the blade back into its leather sheath and then back into the shoebox with the bullets. But before he put the shoebox back onto the closet shelf, John slid his hand inside the shoebox and pulled out the sailor’s hat. It fit. Off he went looking good in his newly found white hat.

Chapter 2 - 1944 Kazmer's Nevada Navy

Chapter 2 Version 1

1944

The plane came in from the north dropping down just above the water. Bombs could be dropped from a height but a torpedo needs a more gentile placement in the water. The target was just ahead. If dropped from too high above the water, the torpedo could be blown off course by the wind. Too low and the plane could hit the top of a wave. Too far from the target and the torpedo could run out of propellant fuel or miss a ship taking evasive maneuvers. Too close introduces many life threatening problems.

Holding the drop too long and the plane may not be able to avoid a collision with the target and the pilot becomes an accidental kamikaze. Banking the plane too fast without climbing tips the plane to its side. It could catch the tip of the wing on a wave and start he plane cartwheeling across the water. Banking the plane also exposes more surface area to anti-aircraft fire from the target.

When the torpedo enters the water it slows down so the pilot does not get to see if the drop was successful as the plane outpaces the slower torpedo. Part of the mission has been accomplished – the torpedo has been dropped. Getting out of harm’s way alive is the next immediate concern and only then a look back to see if the torpedo has found its mark.

The torpedo’s momentum carried it toward the target. It then slowed to a stop and just bobbed in the water joining its other torpedo friends in front of the target on the lake.

“That’s the last one this afternoon – let’s go fishin” drawled the ensign.

The sailors on the dock were a little annoyed as training runs this afternoon concluded early interrupting their afternoon snooze.

“Grabon – are you joining us for this afternoon’s cruise?” the ensign inquired.

“Yes sir” replied Kazmir in the process of regaining his consciousness.

“Then get your ass in gear sailor”

Grabon jumped down into the boat with his crewmates. The engine roared to life accelerating the boat to top speed in very little time. Out on Lake Meade the boat pulled up beside the bobbing torpedoes and hoisted them into the boat. The drill was the same day after day. An early rising was made for the morning training drops. Then the torpedoes were extracted from the lake and reattached to the training planes in preparation for the afternoon training drops.

With the afternoon’s work completed, the crew headed into Las Vegas for the end of day beers. They passed the one armed bandits as they entered the bar and Kazmir Grabon stopped to try his luck on a nickel machine with no luck today.

In the Bible, Kazmir was one of the three kings bearing gifts and riding on camels. So it was only appropriate that Kazmir Grabon was assigned to a navy base in the Nevada desert. This gives a whole new slant on the term “ships of the desert”.

“What do you think the odds are of a torpedo plane pilot coming home after the war?” asked a crewmate.

“Probably like a submariner” the ensign responded.

“That bad?”

“It all comes down to skill, training and luck.” said the ensign with wistful authority – “Sometimes it is just the luck of the draw. When your number is up, it’s up.”

‘Who is buying the next round?”

Chapter 1 - 1944 Henry's Unfriendly Fire

Chapter 1 Version 4

1944

     The aircraft carrier cut its way through the water on its way to the rendezvous point.  Across the Pacific ships steamed their way to another meeting that brought men, supplies and firepower to another island target.  A synchronized ballet of ships moved into their positions. The stage is being set for yet another performance that few wish to be either in the audience or to be on the stage. Everybody knows that the show will take place at the given time and the given place.

    

     Henry’s tent contained all of his possessions – M1 rifle and his other 782 gear, smokes and one uninvited guest. His M1 was a constant reminder of home as it was produced at the Springfield Armory. The accommodations were ok as long as the weather and the enemy cooperated. The gyrenes on the deck of the carrier knew that the voyage might be the easiest part of this operation if they remained undetected.  If detected, they would be exposed to attack from the air and from both above and below the surface of the ocean.  The tents were on the deck of the carrier for now but the marines and their tents would be part of the amphibious assault on an island that they did not know the name of yet. The name did not matter. It was just the next one.

The guest moved slowly but in a determined way on his self assigned duty.  Henry noticed the guest about half way through its mission.  Inside the tent, the guest was   setting the snare to capture its enemy.  Maybe not an enemy – more of a lunch companion. Henry saw the glint of the web strands and looked around for an appropriate weapon to dispatch the uninvited web maker.  A bullet? – Overkill and reckless.  A boot heel? – Only if the spider was on a hard surface. A lighter? – That could work.

     Henry slid his Zippo lighter from his pocket and felt the black crackled surface that was familiar to his touch. Before the war, Zippos were made of smooth brass but brass was a strategic war material so the steel lighter was painted black that chipped and cracked as the Zippo aged. Henry flipped up the lid with his thumb. The sweet smell of naptha lighter fluid alerted his unconscious mind that nicotine was on the way. A spark from the flint and the rotating steel wheel at the edge of the Zippo ignited the flame.  The flame was thrust toward the spider. Feeling the approaching heat, the spider moved up the tent support with the Zippo in hot pursuit.  The flame touched the wax coated canvas and quickly the tent became a lit candle with Henry inside it. Henry tried to put out the flames but the more he tried, the more the flames spread.

Grabbing his M1, Henry dove out of the tent and onto the deck of the carrier.  Shouts of “Fire!” rang out.  The tent became fully engulfed in flames in a flash just before a heavy stream of water sent it careening across the deck and over the side. Within seconds it was extinguished in the churning wake of the ship.

“Mitowski!”

Henry heard his name and snapped to attention.

“Mitowski was that your tent on fire?”

“Yes sir” Henry stared straight ahead knowing what was to come after the steam of profanity starting with his lineage and ending with his mother.

“Mitowski did you deliberately set fire to your tent?” Asked his sergeant.

“No sir”

“How did your tent catch fire, Mitowski?”

“A Zippo sir”

“A Zippo, Mitowski?”

“Yes sir”

“What were you lighting with your Zippo, Mitowski?”

“A spider sir”

“A spider”

“Yes sir”

“Mitowski, you didn’t just crawl out of Paris Island – how many landings have you made?”

Henry hesitated.

“How many?” shouted his sargeant.

“Six sir”

“Why didn’t you answer me right away Mitowski?”

“I was counting them sir”

That number took a few seconds to register in the sergeant’s mind. To survive an amphibious assault took courage and luck. To survive a second took away more of what luck was left. The courage was augmented with experience. By a sixth landing there was little luck left – just the bare knowledge of what was coming and the beach smarts needed to end that day as a survivor.

“So this is your sixth landing Mitowski?” asked the sergeant quelling his angry tone.

“No sir – this is number seven sir” Henry replied.

The sergeant stared into Henry’s stoic face.

Henry looked past his confronter and only saw blue sky and blue water separated by the horizon.

“Mitowski go down to stores and get another M1941 pack.”

“Yes sir”

Henry stared straight ahead expecting  to be dismissed.

“Mitowski, in the future, if you have a spider in your tent,” the sergeant hesitated for emphasis “just piss on it – understood?”

“Yes sir” Henry replied.

“Dismissed”