World War II

The Kansas City Star has a wonderful story this morning about 86-year-old Lee Lamar. On Nov. 18, 1944 Lamar, the co-pilot of a B-24 Liberator was shot down over northern Italy.

Next month Lamar will travel to the crash site with an archaeologist who discovered the remains of the plane and used the Internet to find Lamar. Professor Dennis Okerstrom will go with Lamar to video the story, which will be incorporated into a documentary about the mission. Although three of Lamar’s crewmates are living, their health is too poor to make the trip.

On Friday, Lamar had a chance to fly a vintage B-24 on a portion of a flight from Fort Collins, Colorado to Kansas City. Dressed in a leather flight jacket and cap Lamar emerged from the experience tired, but elated. He hadn’t been at the stick of a B-24 since the day of the crash.

A couple of years before his death my Dad and I were in Edinburgh, Scotland. Across the Channel preparations were underway for the 50th anniversary of the D-Day landings in Normandy. It was a windy day at the castle overlooking the city. We were talking when suddenly my Dad froze and turned his eyes to the sky. Fearing he was ill I asked what was wrong. “I hear a B-25,” he said. My Dad was deaf as a post.

“Papa,” I protested, “that’s impossible.”

At just that moment a B-25 roared out of the clouds overhead. It was General Billy Mitchell’s plane, restored and on the way to France. I can tell you with complete confidence that had they put my Dad behind the stick, he could have flown that bomber just like Mr. Lamar did yesterday. It doesn’t matter how old they get, those fly boys love their planes and they don’t forget.

B-24, B-25, Billy Mitchell, Lee Lamar

A few days ago the Atlanta-Journal Constitution published a story about the delivery of a package — 61 years after it was mailed. Inside there was a rolled-up black-and-white picture of the USS Wichita sitting in Nagasaki Harbor. On May 5, 1946, someone put a six-cent stamp on the package and mailed it, probably a sailor aboard the Wichita. If the post office can’t figure out a way to deliver it, the package will wind up in one of the “dead-letter” offices.

The same day a story came through my RSS reader from The New York Times about the death of Rear Adm. Eugene B. Fluckey, 93, a Medal of Honor winner (and the holder of four Navy Crosses) for his daring exploits aboard the submarine Barb in the Pacific Theatre from April 1944 to August 1945. The Barb sent 95,360 tons of Japanese shipping to the bottom. Adm. Fluckey died of complications of Alzheimer’s disease.

I cringed when I read that, both for the Admiral and for his family. We’re losing them, you see. The men and women of the Greatest Generation. And sometimes we lose them before they’re really gone, their memories shut away by dementia at just the time we most want to ask our questions. Those memories, like the photo of the Wichita, wander lost in an information system deprived of its delivery mechanism.

I am the daughter of a World War II veteran, the late Lt. Loyd Victor Williamson, United States Army Air Corps. Papa flew 51 missions in B-25s over North Africa and Italy. He went in right after Kasserine Pass fell and his last mission was to bomb the aerodrome in Rome. Stateside he was an instructor and flew in the ferry command until he left active duty. In the reserves, he attained the rank of captain before retiring.

The war was very much a living thing in our home as I grew up and continued to be a primary interest for me as I went on to attain a doctorate in American history. I’m not an “expert” in the field, but it is a topic I approach with avidity and great emotion. Here, I’ll try to do my part to preserve the memory of World War II. They’ve taken to calling it the last good war. I’m not sure any war can be “good.” I do know, however, that a lot of good men and women like that anonymous sailor on the Wichita and Adm. Fluckey — and my Dad — served honorably. Both they and their war deserve to be remembered.

World War II, USS Wichita, Eugene Fluckey, USS Barb