Walter F. Andrew - KIA The radio was playing in the next room when we were wrapping Christmas presents. My mother said, 'What are they saying on the radio?' Then I heard her crying and went to see what the matter was. She said, 'The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. Its war, and now thousands of people will die.' Being in the first grade, my thoughts were mostly about school. I didn't realize what it was all about. I knew that Hitler was bombing London and it frightened me, and I saw British children putting on gas masks, and that was horrible. I didn't like it at all. Another thing that frightened me was the anger in Ogden was so thick you could walk on it. This was upsetting to have adults behaving that way. My part of the war, the shortages and the rationing were just a part of life. The sugar shortage affected us the most, so I had my oatmeal with honey on it. Earlier in the war, young married men with children were exempt from the draft, but then the time came when they were also called into the Army. My uncle, Walter F. Andrew, had married my Aunt Ellen, and they had a little girl. He was a good young man, my uncle. We all loved him, and he did not want to go to war. He had been an instructor of sports and swimming at Weber College, later working for the Union Pacific. So suddenly the war was even more real, hitting at me. 'Hurry home to us again. Hurry and come back safe to us,' so my eight-year old heart said, as all of us aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents said goodbye to him at the Bamberger train station in Ogden. (It's the back of Crittenden's paint store on 24th Street now.) Did he know then he would never return? I think he did. He was looking through me as if he was seeing another world. But most important were the words that he said. 'Remember whatever happens to me, I don't hate the Japanese. They are my brothers.' Those words sank deep in my mind. One young life, speaking an ideal of love beyond my understanding. Little did I know at that time, I would have the opportunity to live that ideal. I would go to Japan in about 15 years and teach English there for seven long years. Nevertheless, when my husband's orders came to go to Japan, I cried all day. In the invasion of Cebu, April 13, 1945, in the Philippines, my uncle, being a medic, brought three men in to the aid station and went back to get another man when he was hit by mortar fire. Did I know where Cebu was? No, but I do now. We went to my grandfather's house on Jefferson where my aunt was sitting on the couch staring at the telegram in unbelief. In the movie, 'Saving Private Ryan,' when the car was coming up to the farmhouse and the mother collapsed in the doorway, I started to cry and could not stop. All the people around me began to cry too and soon almost everyone was crying. I had been a witness to this thing, and it will never go away. My uncle and many young men died for my freedom. Do I owe them a debt? I believe I do. They paid their lives for our peace. Then a day in August came when the war was over. In that far off Pacific world, the killing had stopped. People flocked to downtown Ogden where a big celebration was taking place. In our own family, there was no celebration. There was emptiness. We drove up east of Ogden, where we could see the sun going down on the first day of peace. In the misty red sun, through my tears, I could see the color of the price that had been paid. Submitted by Jean N. Siemens, niece Robert Preston Blair - KIA That brisk October day was not like any other. My mother and little sister, Margaret (Maggie) were home. It was Maggie's fourth birthday and she and mom were busy baking a cake and planning a birthday dinner. There were seven Blair children. My oldest sister, Marion was married and her family lived in Sacramento, CA. Bob, my oldest brother, age 24, had been drafted the year before. He, his wife and one-month-old baby daughter lived in Sacramento, next door to Marion. My sister Bettie was working at Lockheed Aircraft in 194 California. Ed was in high school, and Seth attended junior high. I was in grade school and Maggie was home. Just before noon on that day, 26 October 1942, the phone rang. Mom answered and after the voice on the other end affirmed that he was talking to Mrs. Seth M. Blair, he stated. 'Mrs. Blair, we regret to inform you that your son, First Lieutenant Robert Preston Blair was killed this morning near Luke Air Force Base in Arizona.' There were two planes involved and in the fog, the plane above Bob's didn't see the second plane and the accident occurred, killing all four occupants. Mom fainted. She awakened to a ringing phone. It was Dad. He was a salesman for Swift Meats and everyday around noon he called mom from an Ogden store to ask if she needed any groceries for dinner. She told him to hurry home, which he did. Mom cried as she told him about Bob's death. The three of them waited for us older children to return home from school to tell us the gripping news. Bettie was telephoned in Los Angeles. That day, as I sat in my desk at Burch Creek Elementary, I was watching the clock. I could hardly wait to get home to see the birthday cake and watch my little sister open her presents. Finally, the bell rang and I was out the door like a shot. I practically ran the mile home. As I approached the house, my little sister Maggie came running up the street crying, 'Bob's been killed. Bob's been killed.' What shocking words for the ears of a nine year old! To us, Bob was the most handsome big brother in the Air Corps. A framed picture of him in military dress had a prominent place on the top of our upright piano. As you walked into our living room, Bob's picture was a focal point. I looked at his picture every day as a proud sister. But on this day and many days following, each time I saw the picture, I cried. This was a sad time for our family. On that same day, October 26, Marion was in the hospital in Sacramento giving birth to her second son. It was decided that she would not be told of Bob's death until after the funeral since it was impossible for her to attend. The morning of October 28, our family drove to Union Station to await the arrival of the body. As we walked through the lobby, servicemen in uniform were crowded into the small waiting room. We were all teary. Two Air Corps lieutenants had accompanied the body. They met us on the platform, along with representatives from Lindquist Mortuary. The flag-draped casket was placed in the long, black hearse and we drove behind the hearse to the mortuary. We were asked to sit in a small waiting room where the casket would be placed. When it was opened, mom fainted again. We were not told that Bob's face could not be shown. So what we saw was the full uniformed torso with the head wrapped in folded white satin. Dad asked that the casket be closed. The closed casket viewing was held in our home. Friends and relatives came to share our grief. Between food, floral deliveries, phone calls and telegrams, our family home was filled with a texture of family, friends and feelings. A large floral spray with black ribbons hung on our front door. Outside, it was the sign of death but the inside of our home was filled with love and an outpouring of sympathy and general concern. Immediately after the funeral, mom boarded a train. She traveled all night and well into the next day. I can remember her stating that 'she shed tears for 700 miles.' She arrived in Sacramento and was met by my brother-in-law. The two of them drove to the hospital to check out the mother and new baby. What should have been a glorious homecoming immediately became a time of tears and hugs as mom told Marion about Bob. This many years later, I will always remember the three large stars on 9 x 12 white placards that hung in our front window. One star was gold and the other two were blue. The gold one meant that a member of our family had lost his life during the war and the two blue ones reminded others that our family had two members serving in the military. Bettie enlisted in the Waves in 1944 and Ed was drafted into the Army in 1945. My brothers and sister served with distinction and honor. Each year when 26 October appears on our calendar, I recall that 1942 memory. The combination of a birthday, a death and a birth on the same day in one family, reveals the reality of life. I believe that our family and families like ours are the backbone of the American fiber. We lived through the Great Depression and the Second World War; and because of these experiences and the required sacrifice, we value our freedom and are indebted to those who defend it! Submitted by Karen B. Lofgreen, sister 195