known at the time as 'Dixon's School for Girls' because of the shortage of male students. Most of the guys my age and older had already been inducted into the military service, and a naval cadet program on campus, which had temporarily added a male presence to the campus, was now discontinued leaving a female dominated campus of approximately 400 coeds to around 65 males. It was Utopia for the guys with a six to one ratio of ladies to men. Girls who previously wouldn't have given you the time of day in high school were suddenly now your best friends. It was a unique era in the history of Weber; athletic teams and events had been largely discontinued as had all the men's social clubs. The 'Acorn' yearbook had not been published since 1942, and few coed social events, i.e. parties and dances held. Still there was a high level of school spirit and enthusiasm expressed in such events as war bond rallies and drives where fellows and girls were 'auctioned' off as dates to the highest bidders of war bonds and stamps. Girls volunteered at the U.S.O. clubs, presented Christmas boxes to service men, performed with J. Clair Anderson's 'Musettes' and fellow students at Bushnell Hospital and other military facilities. With entry into the service imminent, Laurence Burton, Grant Garner and I stretched our short-lived college experiences to the limit indulging in such nefarious adventures as leading a brass band of cymbals and a bass drum complete with an American flag into the hallowed domain of Wilma Grose's library in a presumed bond rally. We then crashed the gates of Gertrude Stallings' 'sanctum-sanctorum' in our invasion of the girl's gymnasium locker room. 'Close your eyes, girls. We're coming through!' we gentlemanly called before entering. We eventually appeared before the college disciplinary council for our 'questionable' performance of 'Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,' or 'He Was Pure as Driven Snow but He Drifted,' having incurred the wrath of Shakespeare aficionado, Dr. Leland Monson. But the 'high jinks' aside, we did try to make a difference in the social inequity of a date-less campus through a unique event hatched by Laurence Burton and the freshman class officers and students. A social evening was scheduled for January 12, 1945, featuring a student production to be followed by a girl's choice dance wherein each fellow asked by the girls had to accept all requests up to seven, after which he had the ecclesiastical right to say, 'No.' We were scriptural about it by referring to Isaiah 4:1, '...and in that day seven women shall take hold of one man saying let us be called by thy name.' The event was thus appropriately dubbed the 'Polygamist Prance,' and became the highlight of the campus with numerous stories and various recollections persisting over the years. Almost forgotten in that evening's soiree', however, was the student produced 'adaptation' of Gilbert and Sullivan's 'H.M.S. Pinafore' held in the Moench Auditorium prior to the dance, and thus affording an audience for each "polygamous family'' as they entered the facility. It should be noted that in those days before vans and multi-seat vehicles, the transportation of one's 'harem' was somewhat limited to the sedans of that era, thus presenting an immediate problem of logistics. Rising to the occasion, class president Laurence borrowed a friendly neighbor's home milk delivery truck and installed little red Sunday school chairs in the back for his passengers. The rest of us simply packed 'em in as best we could and hoped wartime gas rationing would be sufficient for our pickup and home deliveries throughout the city and beyond. Another ticklish problem was how best to share and socialize with each date equally so as to not show favoritism to one over another. I quickly developed a new respect for my own polygamous ancestors. All things considered, the 'wives' were good sports and adjusted to the challenge as well as could be expected. After all - one seventh of a date was better than none at all. The real problem, however, came later after the program, dance and refreshments: whom did you take home first? How could you manage to take your 'favorite' wife home last without offending the others? I will never forget pulling up to the first home and escorting my 'wife' to the door, and glancing back at the car seeing six faces all pressed up against the window in anticipation of what farewell 'salutation' could be expected when their turn came. Incidentally, my own personal solution to the question of whom to take home last was solved by referring to the gospel of Mark, chapter 10, verse 31: '... the first shall be last . . . and the last first.' (After all, who can argue with scripture?) And so the girl who asked me to the dance first, I took home last, for obvious reasons, and by so doing started a great relationship that lasted until I left for the service the following month - and eventually culminating in a 'Dear John' letter six months later! Epilogue: When I returned to campus in the fall of 1946, at the conclusion of my own tour of duty, I was greeted by a vastly different and, for me, disadvantageous male to female ratio. Student enrollment had burgeoned to 1,725, with most of the increase being male vets taking advantage of the GI Bill. The 'favorable' ratio was now reversed - with about four men seeking the attention of every coed! Alas, 'Sic Transit Gloria Mundi'(Thus passed away the glory of my world!). 198 Farr F. Hurst The quiet stamina and courage of thousands of mothers and fathers from the homes of those serving in the military during WWII has not been chronicled as extensively as the more dramatic accounts of those in harms way, whose very lives were often in the balance. Nevertheless, the remarkable strength and sacrifice of parents, spouses and families stands as one of the hallmarks of a nation that rose to face the ultimate challenge of the time. This is such a story, a WWII saga of a typical American family. It was September of 1943. I had not often seen my mother weep and seeing her now in the arms of my father crying softly, created anxieties in my eight-year-old mind that were most unsettling. I had accompanied my parents and sister to the Bamberger Station in Ogden, Utah, to bid farewell to Farr, the eldest son of Leo and lone Hurst, who had been inducted into the Army and was leaving for duty. The war was raging in both the Pacific and European Theaters and seldom did a day pass without stories, close to home, of casualties and killed in action appearing in the newspaper or being broadcast over the radio. I was witnessing a scene that was replicated untold thousands of times across the nation during the war years. But, it was a first for me. As we walked toward the car, I frantically searched for some way to take the anxiety from my mother and ease the burden that was making her tears flow. Perhaps something funny would return her to her normally cheerful self. I blurted out the words, 'Us guys always say that only sissies cry!' I knew the moment the words had cleared my lips that they shouldn't have. Dad's look sliced through me like a laser and his rebuke cut deeply into my heart. 'That's enough, Jimmy!' I was devastated. Not only were my words the wrong ones, they seemed to make matters worse, at least for me. I laid awake late into the night plagued by remorse and searching for ways to repair the damage of misdirected efforts to distract and comfort a weeping mother. The following day Mother hung a small service star flag in our front room window. It had one blue star in the center of a white background with a red border. The blue star signified a family member serving in the military. These significant emblems hung in windows of homes all over town. A silver star indicated a family member who had been wounded, and a gold star was displayed if a family member had lost their life in the war. The anxiety level around our house increased noticeably with Farr's departure and with the display of the star in the window, but it also reflected a degree of pride we all felt in our family: there was one of us who was now doing his part in this conflict against the evil axis powers that were attempting to erode our freedoms while committing unspeakable atrocities in far-off lands. The daily newspaper had always been a source of enjoyment for me as I looked forward to reading my favorite comic strips: Alley Oop, Major Hoople, Joe Palooka, Red Ryder and Little Beaver. Now, however, the newspaper was also a source of critical information on how the war was going, and often contained news of wounded and killed in action that seemed to increase the tension in our home and millions of other households across the country. We were fortunate. Farr was stationed at Wendover, Utah, with frequent two-or three-day passes enabling him to spend weekends at home once or twice a month. The anxiety level dissipated and all was well in the Hurst household; at least temporarily. The relative tranquility, however, was about to end. During the winter of 1944, Farr was attached to the 509th Composite Bomb Group which was being assembled at Wendover Field. He had taken classes in machine shop at Weber College before being inducted and was assigned to work with a group of engineers and machinists who were given the task of enlarging the bomb bay capacity of the B-29s in order to accommodate a larger bomb. No one knew why the larger capacity was needed, but in true military fashion they proceeded with the modifications without questioning them. Included among the B-29s that were modified was one with the name Enola Gay painted beneath the cockpit and another with the moniker Bockscar. Early in 1945 rumors began to circulate that they would soon be shipped overseas. No one knew where, but indeed they were eventually ordered to prepare for an overseas assignment. 199