Hey, Hey! Get Out of My Way! I Just Got Back From the USA!

By Kim Medders

Of the many memories that come pouring back to me of my years of being a military brat, are those spent playing behind the base apartment buildings and the school playground at recess. As kids would do in the fifties and sixties before IPods and cell phones, we spent as much time outdoors as we could, finding ways to entertain ourselves. With the creativity inherent in all kids, we would find all sorts of things to do and would invent all sorts of games to play.

One of the things we would do in Karlsruhe was to walk over to the Green Stand. This was a small kiosk located on the edge of Paul Revere Village. If mom would give you a Mark, which at the time was equivalent to about 25 cents, you could get all kinds of weird, but exciting German candies. For the price of a couple of pfennigs you could buy a little tüte (sack) of gummi bears. One of my favorites was sour sticks which were sticks of compressed dextrose that were extremely tart. A small sack would cost about 20 pfennig. One candy I stayed away from was marzipan. It was deceptively pretty and came in some unique shapes and colors, but as it was made from almond paste, it tasted like crap!

One game readily comes to mind is playing Army. Living on Army bases in Germany, it was a game of war mainly against the Germans. Just about every kid in the housing area had his own “footlocker” of cast off Army gear from his dad. Things like helmet liners, entrenching shovels, canteens, and mess kits. Add in some cap guns, toy walkie talkies, and a couple pine cone hand grenades and the arsenal was complete.

The only problem was who was going to be the Germans. A few kids who had German mothers automatically were chosen whether they liked it or not. Hey, if you had a name like Wolfgang or Helmut, that was the price you paid. Wolfie usually picked a pretty good team of soldiers, but you knew that if you were on the German side of the battle, you were destined to lose. When the sides were settled on, we would set up our lines and attack each other. General Patton would have been proud of the heroism displayed on those fields of honor! I think I even fell on a pine cone grenade once to save my comrades.

In 1962 we moved to the Army Garrison in Hohenfels which was a training base near the Czechoslovakian border. At the time it had a small dependent housing area in front of this vast forest used by the Army for maneuvers. When soldiers weren’t in there playing Army, we were up there playing Army. G.I.s had a bad habit of leaving stuff out in the field. We would find spent shell casings and other cool stuff just lying around for us to collect. Just about every kid had an ammo box full of military junk. It seems this was worrisome to the adults, because periodically they would march us all from the school to the base theater and tell us what not to pick up. One item was a brass colored object the size of a pencil which as a detonator. A graphic demonstration was performed where the soldier would insert the “pencil” into a hole drilled into a block of wood with a child’s hand painted on it. It was then placed into a garbage can and blown up on stage. How exciting, although it just made us want to find them if we could!

The movies often influenced our games. Action and warfare movies gave us all sorts of ideas. If there was a really good shoot‘em up at the show, we would play out that movie for days and weeks. I remember seeing one movie involving pirates. I went home and begged an old handkerchief from my dad and got him to draw a skull and crossbones on it. I colored it in black with a magic marker, found some string and took some curtain clips. Outside on a tree, I hoisted the Jolly Roger and called all me mateys to action! We wore patches over eyes, boarded many a ship, buried treasure, and were buccaneers for several days thereafter.

Another activity we indulged in on almost a daily basis was marbles. Paul Revere Village in Karlsruhe, Germany had the best marble court I had ever seen. It was located in area between the last two buildings just before the tennis courts. In a strange coincidence, I lived in both of those buildings eight years apart. There was an area between the swing set and a chin up bar that was manicured into a first class Five Pot court. Five Pot as the name suggests was five holes dung in the ground in the five on a dice pattern. The center pot held the ante and was the goal. I loved that game! Other games such as Ringer, Potsie, and Poison were played under the tall trees that shaded the area.

The rules were slightly different on each base, but as kids we would adapt to the dissimilarities very rapidly and would adopt the local nuances of the games. Every kid I knew had an old sock full of marbles. Aggies, clearies, steelies, boulders, catseyes were in every arsenal. The most prized of these were the clear ones called clearies. The catseyes were fairly common, but on the bottom of the food chain were the German clay marbles. I didn’t trade in the clay ones myself although mom bought me some. They weren’t even very round and were weird in color. Nobody wanted the clay ones.

The thought of a clear, cold marble between my thumb and index finger still gives me chills! After the lag, we would play until it was time for dinner. No fudging was allowed, and if you did you might be penalized a marble. Most of the time we played for keepsies, which meant we anted up and whoever won got the pot. Playing for “fun” meant you had to give back what you won and was generally only used on the school playground, if the teacher or school allowed you to bring marbles to school. Generally they were confiscated if they were found on you so we ended up playing the school sanctioned games.

Usually the school yard games required little or no equipment, other than our imagination. The two games that did require at least a pink rubber ball was Two Square and Four Square. I don’t remember the rules very well, but I played each of these games incessantly. You only needed two people to play Two Square and you had to round up four or more to play Four Square. Both games required you put someone out by having them miss a returned ball in their court to win. I remember it was important to get a commitment from the teacher to get the ball before recess in order to be sure to be part of a game for the short fifteen minutes you had to play.

Other games we regularly engaged in were Red Rover, Simon Says, and Red Light Green Light. Red Rover has a pretty bad rap these days, but it was exhilarating to hear the words, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Kimmy on over!” Racing at all possible speed, you tried to break through the clasped hands of your enemies. Many a time a kid got “clothes lined” trying to win for your side. Fairly picking the person to be “it” by the famous, “eeny, meeny, miney, moe”, and “one potato, two potato”, was important. Girls tended to like Simon Says and Red Light a lot, and the boys usually played them if there wasn’t anything better to do.

One other curious game was played by us military brats, at least overseas. It really wasn’t much of a game, but more of a declaration. Usually two or more kids would link arms and walk around the playground yelling at the top of their lungs, “Hey, hey, get out of my way. I just got back from the USA!” I suppose in the grand scheme of things, those you just arrived from the “World” would be that important as to demand the tribute of moving out of their way. After all, they were privy to the knowledge of what was cool stateside, and we did want to know what was going on in the States. We desperately wanted to hear about the new TV shows, toys, music, and fashions. I tried it a few times on my return from our visits back to the land of the “Round Doorknobs”, and it was elating to do.

I do not know how the children of service men in foreign lands play these days, but in my era our play was definitely special and memorable. Whether we were recreating the war our fathers had fought in Europe and Korea, as we waged battles between apartment buildings, or the endless marble matches, it seemed that we had a quality of fun unsurpassed by sitting on your butt playing a video game. If I was confronted by those kids proclaiming their return from the “World” today, I would probably tell them, “Hey, hey are you out of your mind? Go back to the USA you idiots. I like it here just fine!”

Who Are The Veterans For Peace?

By Iain Woessner

While attending a Memorial Day event in Albuquerque, NM, our museum director and I came upon met and talked for a time with an organization called Veterans for Peace, a national organization that we had had hitherto no previous knowledge of. Intrigued by their mission, we asked that they explain who they are, and if they might possibly wish to contribute stories for our museum. While we do not normally publish stories from the perspectives of soldiers, we felt that in the wake of Memorial Day that some of the thoughts and aspirations of the organization might be of interest to our readers. Please remember that the museum does not endorse any one group, and all voices and opinions shared here belong solely to the credited authors of their stories. We encourage you to make up your own minds and opinions based upon what you read and see here and elsewhere. 

The following is a paraphrased version of VFP’s printed mission statement, which we have kept largely intact save for minor edits to change it from the first to third perspective. For more information on Veterans for Peace, please visit their website here: http://www.veteransforpeace.org/

Veterans for Peace is anti-war, not anti-armed forces. Some of their members and supporters have family and friends who have served or are serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. They want all the killing to stop. They want their brave men and women to return safely.

According to their charter, VFP has the utmost respect for those that have been wounded or killed in the conflict. They offer their sincere sympathy and special regard to the grieving families.

Veterans for Peace is a national organization, founded in 1985. The national office is in Saint Louis and they have over 120 chapters nationwide, including Albuquerque, Santa Fe and Taos. They also have dozens of international affiliations in such countries as El Salvador, Russia, Canada, Japan, Guatemala, Vietnam, The Netherlands, Mexico, France, England, Cuba, and Nicaragua. VFP is an official Non-Governmental Organization (NGO) represented at the United Nations.

Their membership is mainly men and women, military veterans, from World War II, the Korean War, Vietnam War, Gulf War, Afghanistan, Iraq and other conflicts as well as peacetime service members.

They draw on personal experiences and persepctive gained as veterans, to raise public awareness of the true costs and consequences of militarism and war and to seek peaceful, effective alternatives.

Having dutifully served their nation, the organization does hereby affirm its greater responsibility to serve the cause of world peace. To this end, they seek to work with others:

–Toward increasing public awareness of the cost of war.

–To restrain the Federal Government from intervening, overtly and covertly, in the internal affairs of other nations.

–To end the arms race and to reduce and eventually eliminate nuclear weapons.

–To seek justice for veterans and victims of war.

–And to abolish war as an instrument of national policy.

Veterans for Peace is a leading voice in the anti-war/peace movements. By speaking out as veterans, they have made room for others to feel comfortable speaking out against the war. They stand with countless brave conscientious war resisters. They have toured military towns speaking to hundreds of soldiers about their GI Rights and post traumatic stress disorder. They have highlighted the resources wasted on the war that should be used to help hurricane survivors and fund numerous other human needs, including the health care of returning veterans.

Memorial Day: Pick your Perversion

By Leah Bolger, courtesy of Veterans for Peace, used with permission.

Memorial Day, originally known as “Decoration Day,” was created in the aftermath of the Civil War as a day to honor the memory and sacrifice of Union soldiers who had died in battle. It later broadened to include the theme of reconciliation, honoring Confederate soldiers as well; and through the years has become a day to remember all U.S. military personnel who have died in combat. Increasingly, it evolved from simply decorating the graves and solemn memorialization of those killed, to opportunities for flag-waving, nationalistic displays with parades, marching bands and political speeches. Today, it has become a perversion of its original intent in two ways.

Perversion #1—Commercialism/Consumerism/Entertainment

Nearly all American holidays have been transformed from their original intents and into opportunities for economic profits, and Memorial Day is arguably the best example. Memorial Day has turned into Memorial Day weekend—a time for shopping, watching the Indianapolis 500, and kicking-off the summer.

Adding superficial, “patriotic” gimmickry to advertising must work because it is ubiquitous. In this ad,the images on the left are saluting with the wrong hand—but accuracy doesn’t matter as long as it’s red, white and blue; advertisers know what works with American consumers.

In another example of patriotic pandering, Heinz has outdone itself in their appreciation for veterans…nothing says “thank you” quite the way condiments do. The truly patriotic American will be using nothing but Heinz ketchup at their Memorial Day BBQ!

Perversion #2—American Exceptionalism

This perversion of Memorial Day is typified by the glorification of war and everyone who participated in it. God is always on our side (which means we are always right). Politicians try to outdo each other in their effusive thanks for the military, and refer to everyone who has ever worn a military uniform as a hero. God, guns and glory are wrapped up in the flag, and the whole package is given the credit for all that is good: liberty, freedom, justice, and the American Way of Life. Perversion #2 is of much more concern because of the ideology that it represents.

It is very dangerous when the people of a nation believes it can do no wrong; that it can operate outside of international law; and that God is on its side. Because when a nation is so confident in its righteousness, it loses any capacity for objectivity. On Memorial Day we remember the American war dead, but never question the necessity for the battle. We cannot bear to think that American lives lost in war might have been in vain, and so we continue to insist that we are on the side of right. We never second guess our country, because if we come to the realization that the war is wrong, for whatever reason, then we have to accept responsibility for all of those killed in our wars—not just our own. In the cases of Iraq and Afghanistan, that seems way outside the capacity of the American public, who are only now starting to question whether the sacrifice of more U.S. troops is “worth it.” We have not even thought to question whether the sacrifice of Iraqis and Afghans is worth it—more than 90% of whom were non-combatants. The media is starting to describe us as “war weary” but we haven’t the slightest clue.

On this Memorial Day, Veterans For Peace asks you to mourn not only for Americans killed in battle, but also for those killed by Americans in battle. We ask you to be willing to accept the fact that these war deaths did not have to happen—that they are actually in vain. Hundreds of thousands of innocent people have died in American wars of aggression. That is a tragedy and is a truth that must be accepted and for which we must take responsibility.

Bio: Leah Bolger spent 20 years on active duty in the U.S. Navy and retired in 2000 at the rank of Commander. She is currently a full-time peace activist and serves as the National President of Veterans For Peace. leah@veteransforpeace.org

An Extraordinary Life

By Mary Lou Darst, author of War Ready: In my Father’s Shadow shares an excerpt from her book.  Click here for more info.

We lived an extraordinary life, experiencing cultures on both 
sides of the world in ways that many people will never know. 
In Alaska, we experienced two earthquakes and saw the 
northern lights. Living in the old house in downtown Nara 
was an unforgettable time. Our lives were greatly enriched by 
Mama-sari, Mr. and Mrs. Kimoto, and our beloved Hatsie. My life 
was especially enlarged by the kindness of the Japanese students 
in Nara, who extended themselves in such a caring way to a 
lost and very lonely American child. Mr. and Mrs. Gruckenberg, 
Helga, and Gerhardt were like family to us. Without them we 
would never have really known Munich or the radiant warmth 
of the German people. Jon Madsen, my father’s good friend, 
shared his family in Copenhagen with us and later came to see 
us in the States. Living in Nara and traveling throughout Europe 
and the Mediterranean helped us to understand the historical 
advancement of humankind, while at the same time, witnessing 
powerful forces of human destruction. Our values and our 
horizons were broadened considerably by these experiences, 
but the long, gripping tentacles of war reached far and deep into 
our family life.

Being a military dependent left me with a strong need for 
order and the feeling that I do not belong in anyone place. 
Change is the norm for me, but for people around me, stability 
is the norm. Repetitive behaviors remain the most challenging 
for me. I still struggle with issues of abandonment and rejection. 
When my life as a military dependent ended, I had to assimilate into American life. I had to learn how to be a civilian, how to live 
in one place, how to make and keep friends, and how to work 
out difficulties. Prior to this, my life consisted of always starting 
over; there was never any ending.

After reading my father’s WWII diary for my book, I was 
absolutely astonished to learn what he had experienced and 
endured during WWII as a young soldier.

 

Mary Lou Darst

As an adult looking 
back over my childhood, I can see now that his war experiences 
as a young man affected him throughout his life. I am grateful 
for his strength and admire deeply the courage he demonstrated 
in life. He had a good heart and helped many people, civilians 
and military; throughout his life. From him I learned to 
withstand adversity, to be a strong person, and to not be afraid 
of life. My mother was very good with people and enabled us 
to communicate successfully with people who did not speak 
English. She helped us befriend wonderful people when we 
would otherwise have been very alone. As a military wife she 
created a warm and comfortable home wherever we lived from
army-issue furniture. She entertained often and graciously.

After living in St. James, Missouri, for six months, where my 
father officially retired from the army at Fort Leonard Wood, we 
settled in Houston. My father started a landscaping business that 
later became a small construction company. My mother made a 
career at Trinity Universal Insurance Company. My brother and 
I both graduated from Bellaire High School. I went to Stephen 
F. Austin State University and he joined the Army. On April 6, 
1978, my father died of lung cancer at fifty-eight. A twenty-year 
veteran and army engineer, he was honored forservice to this 
country with a military salute at his funeral. Shortly after his 
death, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. 
Eight years later, on April 6, 1986, she passed away at sixty-two. 
Constantly relocating had robbed my parents of living a stable 
life while giving my brother and me the opportunity to travel and 
experience history and fascinating cultures through out the world.

Christmas in Japan

By Mary Lou Darst, author of War Ready: In My Father’s Shadow.

Americans on Mount Kurokuriyama made Christmas in Japan 
special. There were colored lights in the windows of the duplexes, 
and nearly everyone had a real Christmas tree decorated with 
colored lights and bright decorations. At school, we practiced 
singing Christmas carols and a Christmas pageant for the PTA 
program. I was asked to be an angel and stood with my arms 
extended while the choir sang, ‘Angels We Have Heard on High.” 
All of this brought traditions from the States to our isolated 
community on top of the mountain.

On Christmas morning, 
Frank and I found Japanese-made bicycles near the Christmas 
tree, and a small book, an English version, of traditional Japanese 
children’s stories, Old Tales of Japan by Yuri Yasuda. We both 
loved this book.

My father helped Frank learn to balance on his 
first two-wheeled bike. They were in the street in front of the 
duplex most of Christmas Day. My father pushed the bike and watched him balance, and then he ran to catch it before Frank 
fell or crashed. My cousin Helen taught me to ride her bike in 
Blytheville, Arkansas=-I still have the scars on my knees to prove 
it-so I didn’t have any trouble riding my shiny maroon bike. It 
even had handbrakes. I loved that bike, and I loved to ride so fast 
that my hair blew in the wind like it did when I stood next to my 
father on a ship’s deck. When we transferred back to the States, 
we left our bikes in Japan.Hatsie might have taken them home 
to her brothers and sisters.

JEMEZ PUEBLO ROUND TABLE

By Allen Dale Olson and Circe Olson Woessner

Listen! This story has audio components. Be sure to click on the colored words to hear the whole story. You can open them up in new tabs on your browser with the right-click menu. –Ed.

By the time we were all assembled around Tito and Lorraine Chinana’s dining room table, there were seventeen of us – fourteen residents of the Jemez Pueblo and three board members of the Museum of the American Military Family (MAMF). We were there not to dine —though it wasn’t long before Lorraine produced a wonderful meal–we were there to talk freely and openly about the effect of military service on Jemez Pueblo families during and since World War II.

MAMF board member Allen Whitt talks to Lorraine Chinana and Mabel Sando.

The get-together between MAMF and the normally very private Jemez citizens was due, in part, because of Museum Board Member Allen Whitt’s earlier interviews with some of them for the Veterans History Project.

The exceptional gathering got off to a good start when World War II Veteran Geronimo Fragua raised his hands and invoked a blessing from the Great Spirit for everyone in the room. In his booming voice, he wanted it understood that “we are all One…all under the same Great Spirit –and we must never forget that and we should say what needs to be said, and to remember we are all together.”

Circe Olson Woessner, MAMF Executive Director explained that she had created the Museum of the American Military Family because, as an Army wife and mother, and as a child growing up around the military, she had been surprised about how little public recognition had ever been given to the spouses, the children and parents, brothers and sisters of men and women in the military…

To facilitate the discussions, Circe had sent a list of questions a few weeks before, which many people had filled out or had sent along with one of those gathered.

The conversations over the next four hours ranged from combat experiences to home life, to PTSD and to the frustrations of trying to get Veteran benefits.  There was a great deal of laughter, some anger and a few tears. But above all, there was pride.

This is the first of several articles based on the stories.

L-R Lorraine Chinana, Martin Loretto, Allen Whitt, Mabel Sando, Ole Olson

Geronimo urged the attendees to speak frankly and reminded them that there was a time when the Indian wasn’t considered fit for military service but that a lot has changed since the Second World War. He added that he was proud of having been one of “Patton’s Boys” in WW II.

Like many military families, Lorraine and Tito Chinana can point to multiple generations of military in their family. Tito’s grandfather served in WW I and Lorraine recalled her military grandparents fondly.  Eighty-eight-year-old Napoleon Loretto said that all five brothers in his family served overseas concurrently during WWII.

Norma Toya said she felt “hurt” when her son first joined the military; she didn’t want him to leave home. Now three of her children and a nephew are in the military and seem to be making careers of it. Because of Jemez’ remoteness, it makes keeping in touch that much harder. Lorraine agreed.

Geronimo pointed out that’s one of the differences now. “Today they volunteer. I was drafted,” he said. Mabel Sando whose husband died in 1982, was not drafted, but chose to join the Air Force.

Lorraine took the lead in addressing concerns of the families. She told how Tito had gone off to Vietnam and she never really knew what he was doing in the war. Four members of the Pueblo had been killed over there, she said. She knew that Tito was suffering, but “we didn’t know about PTSD back then,” and the Agent Orange caused him to get diabetes and lose his left leg. She explained that no one from the government came to the Pueblo to talk about benefits. It was more than five years before they knew what was even available. Now they help all the Pueblo Veterans navigate the system to get the support and benefits.

Lorraine added that it took nearly 67 years for Geronimo and Napoleon and other Jemez Pueblo World War II Veterans to realize some of the benefits to which they were entitled, and that by telling their stories, it may help future Veterans.

Geronimo said that that is why it is so important  “to keep talking, to tell our stories, to learn about our government and our system.”

Norma Toya and Geronimo Fragua

Families in Jemez are close-knit. Rosalie Fragua said it was hard to manage everything when Geronimo went to Korea, but her grandmother-in-law came by early every morning to light the fire to have the house warm when Rosalie and two small children got out of bed. Her daughter, Laura, mentioned that while there was no formal spouse support group, the women in the Pueblo were very helpful to one another.  Norma, too, mentioned how important Tito and Lorraine were to not only her children, but to others in the Pueblo.

Everyone seated around the table had a homecoming story to relate. Napoleon started the reminiscing, and Tito and Norma chimed in.

There are several dozen Jemez Pueblo residents currently serving in the military Tito, Lorraine and the Walotowa Veteran’s Center ensure the OEF/OIF Veterans  get a good welcome home.

More stories unfolded and more memories were shared. Time flew by. We looked at the clock, and couldn’t believe four hours had passed. It hadn’t taken long for the tentativeness of the first few minutes to dissipate. As mothers, and Veterans, and children and wives, we had this in common:  service, sacrifice, pride, and deferring to Geronimo, we were, indeed, One.

‘Children of Pearl’ to preserve memories of historic attack

By Jim Painter

First published in the Urbana Daily Citizen, Tuesday March 20^th 2012

A former Urbana woman has inspired a film project featuring people who were children of U.S. military families at Pearl Harbor when the Japanese attacked on Dec. 7, 1941. Vivid recollections are being recorded by survivors, some who lost parents during the attack or during the wartime that followed. Their stories are being chronicled in a documentary, “Children of Pearl.” The hope of producers Glenn Burris and Jerry Sisser is to bring the stories to public television, museums and the Internet.
A woman with local family ties is involved with the project to preserve such memories. She spoke of the attack and film project with the Daily Citizen.
The aerial bombardment began at 7:55 a.m. and lasted until 9:45 a.m. as Japanese forces attacked about 84,000 uniformed Americans on the island of Oahu. It was mostly military personnel among the more than 2,400 killed in the battle.
Today, it’s estimated that fewer than 8,000 military survivors are alive. On Dec. 31, 2011, the Pearl Harbor    Survivors    Association    disbanded    as    fewer than 2,700 members are living. Now in their late 80s and 90s, many have health issues that prevent them from attending anniversary events.
Many of the survivors’ children, now in their 70s and 80s, are members of the Sons and Daughters of Pearl    Harbor    Survivors    national    organization.    Their goal is to keep the memory of the act of war alive for younger generations.

The Former Anne Hubbard
The former Anne Hubbard, formerly of Urbana, was living at Pearl Harbor with her father, Commander Joseph C. Hubbard, her mother and younger brother, Joe Hubbard, at the time of the attack.
She is now 77 years old and known as Anne Shambaugh, living in Sagamore Hills Township near Cleveland. Joe Hubbard lives in Glendale, near Cincinnati, where he once served as mayor.
Burris and Sisser of Home Stand, an Ohio production company, are collaborating on the project in hopes of preserving the memories for future generations. Burris, of Bowling Green, is Shambaugh’s son-in-law.

“Anne has been my mother-in-law for 20 years. She has talked about (Pearl Harbor) for years. I thought it would be a great public interest item to talk with these people. It all started with Anne,” he said.

 

In 2010, Burris attended the 69th anniversary of the attack with survivors in Hawaii. The project will include Hawaiian children and Japanese children liv- ing on the island at the time and how their lives changed.
In a posting on Facebook, Shambaugh’s ordeal is noted.
It reads, in part, that her father “was on his way to duty on that fateful Sunday morning, driven by Anne’s mother. Before they could reach the base, the attack began, and their car was strafed (dam- aged by enemy fire). Anne’s mother soon found her- self alone by the side of the road, as Commander Hubbard hurried on to Pearl Harbor alone. Anne’s mom had to make her way home on her own, and Cmdr. Hubbard was soon at sea, sadly, never to return.”
Shambaugh recalls her mother attempting to drive her father to the naval base as enemy planes flew overhead and shrapnel hit the car. She said her brother was an infant at the time, too young to recall the day.
Although the commander survived the Dec. 7 attack, it would be the last time the family saw him. He was killed aboard the USS San Francisco during a night surface engagement on Nov. 13, 1942. He was honored posthumously with the Navy Cross, one of the Navy’s highest honors.
As a tribute, the USS Hubbard was launched a year    later    serving    as    a    destroyer    escort    ship.

Christmas Day Evacuation
Shambaugh spoke of the phone call her mother received Dec. 24, 1941. An officer advised her of an evacuation telling her to have the family packed and ready to board a ship in Honolulu headed to the states by 5 p.m. the next day.
The Hubbards first traveled to San Francisco and soon would return to Urbana.
Shambaugh said her local family roots extend into the pre-Revolutionary War era. Connected family names include Simon Kenton, Chance, Whitaker and Steinberger. Her mother, the former Helen Chance, lived at 419 N. Main St., a house no longer in existence.
Chance taught school and eventually moved to Boston, where she met her future husband, a gradu- ate of the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. They were married the day of an Army-Navy football game.

Anne was born in Philadelphia, not China, as some people believe.
The family was stationed in Singapore before being sent to Pearl Harbor. When her father was killed, Shambaugh said, the family stayed in Urbana to care for her maternal grandparents. She graduated from Urbana High School in 1952.
Shambaugh moved from Urbana in 1972 when her husband, who died in 2000, was transferred to the Cleveland area. Her sister-in-law, Janet Anderson, lives in Urbana.
“I believe it’s important for people not to forget Pearl    Harbor.    We    were    very    fortunate    that    World    War II changed the way we thought about the world, but we were only bombed that one time in our country,” Shambaugh said.
She plans to return to Urbana for her 60th high school class reunion this year.
Burris and Sisser are featuring the stories of other survivors. One recalls a piece of the USS Arizona landing in the front yard after exploding. Another tells of staring into the eyes of a Japanese pilot in her front yard. Several spoke of their playground becoming a battlefield.
The producers have traveled the country and used their own equipment to gather the memories. They claim to have personally funded one-third of the project, but estimate an additional $69,600 is needed to complete a broadcast-quality piece.

They are seeking donations online through Kickstarter, a website aimed at fund-raising for creative projects. The project only can be posted for 60 days and now faces an April 1 deadline for donations.

As of Wednesday, the project had 17 donors pledging $5,026.

Details of the project may be viewed at www.kick- star ter.com/projects/childrenofpearl/children-of- pearl. Further information can be obtained from Burris    and    Sisser    by    e-mail    at childrenofpearl@yahoo.com.

Jim Painter can be reached at jpainter@urbanacitizen.com.

Documentary covers ‘Children of Pearl’

By John Montgomery (original article written for The Focus)

BOWLING GREEN — They are almost a forgotten footnote in the history of the day that will live in infamy, but two northwest Ohio men are hoping to share the story with the world.

Glenn Burris and Jerry Sisser of the Ohio television production group Home Stand are in the midst of creating a documentary about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

But while countless previous projects and movies have focused on the reason for the attack, the actions of the military and governments on both sides during the encounter and how it thrust America into war, Burris and Sisser are highlighting a unique angle.

“Children of Pearl” recounts the memories of the sons and daughters of U.S. military stationed in Hawaii who woke up one Sunday morning on the frontline of war.

“I see it with a lot of educational value for museums and schools,” said Sisser, a retired Fostoria High teacher. “We’re looking at a piece of history that really changed the world, and we’re looking at it through the point of view of people who were very young at the time.

“It’s an excellent opportunity for a teacher to use this as an historical discussion of how life changes so quickly,” he said. “These kids were living the ideal life before this.”

The idea for the documentary has been growing for a while, and has a personal attachment to Burris, a 1982 Fostoria High graduate. He is married to the daughter of Anne Shambaugh, who was about 6 when the attack occurred.

Shambaugh’s mother was driving her father, a Navy commander named Joe Hubbard, to his ship for duty on Dec. 7, 1941, when the attack began.

However, they didn’t realize an attack was underway — Burris and Sisser said the sight and sound of planes and bombs exploding in the distance were common for training — until a Japanese pilot fired on them, putting a bullet through the windshield.

Hubbard raced to his ship, the U.S.S. San Francisco, and his wife returned home to their children, Anne and a younger son named Joe. The family never saw Hubbard again.

He and the ship survived the attack, but Hubbard was killed in 1942 during another attack at sea.

The family was evacuated a few weeks after the attack on Pearl Harbor, on Christmas Day, and Burris said his mother-in-law didn’t return to Hawaii until a few years ago when her brother introduced her to a group of fellow child survivors.

“It’s a rather loose organization, but there are a number of them across the country …,” Burris said.

“They attached themselves to an organization called the Sons and Daughters of Pearl Harbor Survivors, which of course they are, but they have a unique perspective because they were actually there, whereas the vast majority of SDPHS members were born in the ‘50s, maybe,” he said.

Now in her 70s, Shambaugh is one of approximately 150 surviving Children of Pearl whose lives were forever changed by the attack.

Of the dozen already interviewed, several involve harrowing encounters.

One was a 4-year-old boy when the attack occurred, but he still has a bullet fired from a Japanese plane. His mother was standing in their doorway when the pilot fired. The bullet gouged a track in the sidewalk, ending just short of where she stood.

Another survivor has part of an anti-aircraft shell, fired by the Americans, that came down near his home.

Still another remembers a piece of the U.S.S. Arizona landing in her yard after the ship exploded.

One recounts what his family went through to reach safety — by driving through a battle zone.

Joe Estores and his seven brothers and sisters lived in the residential area of Hickam Air Force Base, which was surrounded on three sides by the facility.

When the attack began, their mother put them all in the car and tried to evacuate, but what roads weren’t destroyed were filled with military vehicles, so she struck out across the airbase’s runways while it was under attack.

Along with escaping the bombers and fighter planes, the family had to evade a burning member of the U.S. military because letting him in the car would have killed them all.

While some fled to other parts of the island, some remained in their homes after getting quick instructions on how to load and fire weapons.

Their ordeal didn’t end when the attack did.

Authorities feared another attack and rumors of frogmen invaders and spies spread across the island, Burris and Sisser said.

“There could be another documentary based just on the rumors that went around after Dec. 7,” Burris said.

Those who weren’t evacuated to the mainland right away were put to work preparing for another attack.

When they were transported back to the states, not everyone went to the same place. Friendships with other children and other families were lost, and pets had to be abandoned.

The documentary covers it all — life before, during and after the attack for those who remained on the island and those who were evacuated.

“Many of these people have been asked individually to speak at schools and presentations and to some local media,” Sisser said. “Obviously this would be different, this would be a collection of their memories, but presented not just as individuals, but as a collective memory.

“One of the goals that we have is to kind of get to the bottom of what did happen and what didn’t,” Burris added. “I don’t know if we’re uncovering new revelations, but there’s probably a little more truth to some of the rumors, the little stuff, than some of the stories that have already been documented because so many of these people haven’t been asked anything.

“When they’ve done research on Pearl Harbor, who do they always ask? The military every time,” he said.

More information about the project and snippets of what’s been completed so far can be viewed at www.youtube.com/childrenofpearl,http://childrenofpearl.wordpress.com/, www.kickstarter.com/projects/childrenofpearl/children-of-pearl-second-campaign and www.facebook.com/childrenofpearl.

The project officially began in April 2010 with the first interview, with another following that summer before a trip to Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7. There, Burris and Sisser met with SDPHS members and conducted more interviews.

Burris and Sisser hope to interview at least another dozen survivors, as well as speak with historians and a child psychologist for the documentary, but funding has become an issue.

Burris and Sisser have already spent about $20,000 of their own money on the project.

They hope to raise another $48,000 with the help of a group called Kickstarter.com. However, the $48,000 must be raised by June 3 or the project won’t receive any money from Kickstarter.com.

The money would cover expenses for filming, equipment and travel for interviews.

“We are really looking for funds to finish this,” Sisser said. “I think it’s a worthwhile project and I hope others think the same way.”

Travel Stories

By John Littlefield

Travel as an Air Force brat was always an adventure.  Depending on where your dad was stationed depended on the kind of transportation that was going to be available to you.  My dad was stationed in Germany after serving in Viet Nam.  We left in 1969 (when I was 13) for Wiesbaden, Germany from Richardson, Texas.  We lived in one of the three major housing areas in the Wiesbaden area.  The housing areas were huge buildings with 6 apartments per stairwell, 6 stairwells per building.  Our housing area was called Aukamm  and it was the farthest housing area from the high school  thereby necessitating us to use the school bus.   German law only allowed two POV’s (Privately Owned Vehicles) per family. That meant that Dad had to have a car to get back and forth to work and Mom had to have a car for everything else.  If you had a stateside license when you arrived in country you could take the SOFA (status of forces) course and you could drive.  If you came of age while you were there you had to jump through a lot more hoops to get licensed.  Not many of my friends were able to drive and no one had a car anyway.  However, there was always public transportation: trains, buses and taxis.

As a thirteen year old I was quickly made aware that I was on my own when it came to getting from one place to another.  My mom was not the type to cart my butt from one friend’s house to another or needlessly drive anywhere for that matter.  To be honest, my mom was a little afraid of driving out on the “economy” (military speak for outside the base perimeter).  We always had bicycles but in Germany, the weather was rarely conducive to riding about.   In Wiesbaden there were a lot of really steep hills as well.  Getting out of the housing area from my house down the hill took about 5 minutes.  Climbing up the hill took 45 minutes, particularly miserable when the rain and sleet pounded down.  Within a couple of weeks of arrival I found out how to think in Deutsch Marks (local currency) and translate the bus schedules.

Buses were great! They started early in the morning and ran until my curfew (about 10 pm).    In Germany there were standards of bus and social etiquette.  Children were tolerated only when they behaved civilly in public.  I remember going through a German department store and watching a couple of 7 or 8 year olds running through the aisles screaming at the top of their lungs.  A German matriarch quickly grabbed the two of them by the collar (damn that old lady was fast!) and started berating them in a rapid fire dressing down that curled my hair.  She held them until the mother came and got them.  After she released the young hooligans she gave the mom hell for allowing her kids to run crazy.    Buses were not dissimilar.  There was a hierarchy for standing in line.  It was first come, first served except:  all elderly people got priority getting on and off the bus.  Men were expected to give up their seats to ladies.  Also, there were two seats that a young man of my age had better not occupy at any time.  Directly behind the driver and right next to the entry stairs were seats that were designated for elderly and infirm patrons.  I learned that lesson late one night coming back from downtown Wiesbaden.  It was the last bus to get back from the AYA (American Youth Association) club downtown.  It was dark and raining outside, I was 14 and alone.  I had run to the stop and barely caught the last bus back to Aukamm.  I was soggy but grateful to have made it and sank in gratefully directly behind the driver.  Two stops later an elderly German lady, folded up her wet umbrella and hoisted herself up the stairs.  She pulled out her worn needlepoint coin purse and dropped in the 40 pfennigs for her fare and stepped toward the back of the bus.  Instead of rotating left to get to the designated elderly seat she looked right at me with a glare in her eyes and told me to move out.  Now, I didn’t speak much German and I don’t think it mattered a whit that I was an American.  I really didn’t understand what the heck she was saying and was a little annoyed she was bugging me.  Obviously I didn’t move fast enough or soon enough and she drew back her sodden umbrella and whacked the hell out me until I got out of her seat.  I never made that mistake again!

Buses were great for local travel.  If you had to go to another town there was the train service.  I was 14 when I went to my first rock concert.  My friend Billy and I had tickets to see Creedence Clearwater Revival in Frankfurt.  To this day it just amazes me that my parents had absolutely no hesitation in allowing me to travel at night to another city.  Anyway, we grabbed a bus to the train station, hopped the train and landed in Frankfurt about an hour later and went to the concert.  It was incredible!  We sat on the floor two rows from the band and rocked our socks off.  We got out about 11pm and had to hustle to make the last train back to Wiesbaden.  We were doing great until we got to our stop and realized that the last bus back to the housing area had left an hour before.  There we were; downtown Wiesbaden, dark and late at night with no buses available and no money for a taxi.  We started hoofing it from the bahnhof, still reeling from the concert, with no real idea how far from home we really were.  I don’t remember how long the walk was but there was never thought of trying to call our folks to get a ride home or that we were in any danger walking home late at night.    I do remember that the walk took us through the darkened city and out into the suburbs of Wiesbaden.  We tried hitch hiking for a while but there weren’t many cars out.  We did hitchhike on a regular basis and it really wasn’t considered a big deal.  It took us several hours to get back home and I went straight to bed.  I didn’t check in with my folks, I didn’t have to leave a note that I was home, I just had to get up in the morning and make sure I was ready to start the day at a decent hour.

My Boy Scout Troop used the trains a lot for travel to and from different camping locations.  I took a contingent of 10 boys to Kandersteg, Switzerland for a 7 day camping trip.  We took all of our food and camping gear with us (boxes and boxes of new fangled freeze dried foods and heavy canvas tents).  It was amazing how we were able to haul all of that stuff and go from Germany to Switzerland without a hitch.

As I got older and we moved to England we used public transport even more.  English law required you to be 18 before you could get your full driver’s license and the laws were so strict nobody ever passed the driving test the first time.  I was only 17 and had to rely on public transport to get me around.  My dad was stationed at a little bomb dump base called RAF Welford.  It was the ammunition dump for the larger RAF Greenham Common near the town of Newbury—30 miles away.  This was a tiny base.  There were only about 15 teen agers on the base and we were way out in the English countryside.  It was extremely difficult to get anywhere from there.  There was a base shuttle bus but it only operated a couple of times per day and it was mainly used to shuttle the military folk back and forth from Greenham.  Once you got to the English town of Newbury, outside of Greenham Common,  you could get on the train to get to London and places beyond.

Our high school was located in High Wycombe near London.  Every Monday morning at 4:30 am we boarded a comfortable charter bus with all of our belongings for the week and stopped at several locations to pick up other high school students.  The trip lasted about 3 hours and we were dumped outside of our dorm, threw our stuff into our dorm room and headed off to class.  We stayed at the dorms until Friday when we made the trip in reverse.   There really wasn’t much to do at RAF Welford and a lot of us did not go home on the weekends.  My roommate’s Dad was the Marine attaché  to the London embassy and I stayed with him on a regular basis or stayed with other friends in nearby villages. I think the second semester of my senior year I only went home twice.

Getting around London via the Underground (“The Tube” as it was colloquially known) was easy and we became experts in navigating the city.  We found it very useful not to admit to anyone that we were Americans.  If anyone questioned us we told them we were Canadian—we were treated much better.  It wasn’t until my senior year that I ever felt any trepidation about traveling in England.  That year the IRA bombed one of the train stations and a lot of people died.  I was in London at the time and if just seemed like the world changed and we now had to be afraid.

I was accepted to the University of Maryland, Munich campus, after graduation.  I packed up my two graduation present suitcases, boarded a British Airways plane and headed for Germany.  That was the first time my father ever bought me a ticket.  We had considered sending me via Space Available (more on that mode of travel later) but we weren’t assured that I would get there in time for registration.  I arrived late in the evening and had to use all of my German skills to get a taxi to get me to the campus on the outskirts of Munich.    The other part of this equation was the lack of telephone service in those days.  The local phones were difficult to use and expensive for long distance calls.  I was able to contact my parents when I safely arrived only because I was able to use the Government phone at the campus and my folks had a government phone in their on-base house.  Even then I wasn’t allowed to dial the phone myself.  The registrar was a US government worker and she dialed the phone and handed it to me.  I was allowed just a few minutes and that was it.  I think I only used that phone twice more in the year I was there.  All other communication with my folks was via mail (which was free, no stamps necessary).

Getting around Munich was just like London, just in a different language.  We hopped trains, subways, and buses throughout the city.  The adventure was always in getting home for the breaks.  I only went home twice during the year, Christmas and Summer (both trips were mind bending).  The other breaks I spent with classmates whose fathers were stationed in Germany.

Christmas break.  My Dad had made arrangements for the whole family to go skiing in Spain for Christmas.  This was one of our family traditions and one of the best Christmas presents we got every year.  But the trip was to take place about a week after school let out and I could not stay in the campus dorms during that week.  There was no choice but for me to get back to England and then go with the family to Spain.  Since I had the time it was decided I would take a train to Frankfurt and “hop” over to England on a military aircraft.  As a dependent I could use military transportation free of charge by signing up at the terminal on a standby roster.  There was a priority system for travel and dependents were pretty much the lowest on the totem pole.  Military members on orders, military members on leave, retired military and then dependents were the order of precedence for Space Available (Space A) travel.  Nothing was guaranteed and you were taught to not expect anything.   You would sign up for your destination and hoped for the best.

My trip began with two suitcases, a pair of ski boots, and a brand new pair of 205cm skis.  The skis were taller than I was and the boots had their own metal rack with a handle.  By tying the skis to my back with some strapping I could grab the two heavy suitcases and the boots and waddle about 100 yards before stopping and catching my breath.  We grabbed a late train out of Munich and headed toward Frankfurt.  There were about ten of us heading out together and as soon as we were all piled on the train we started drinking beer.  It was only a couple of hours ride to Frankfurt but we were not feeling any pain when we arrived.  We piled out of the train station and hustled to the base via several taxis.  We all signed up for Space A.  When we put in our destinations there were two categories; specific base and country.  I knew that putting in a specific base would lessen my chances of getting back to England so I chose the option of just putting in Great Britain.  Even if I landed in Scotland I could still get a train back home.

The clerk told us right away that there was only one scheduled plane for England that week and it was going to be full of military passengers.  We all knew there were always unscheduled flights and it was disappointing news but not the end of the world.  We looked for a secluded spot we could stash our gear and get comfortable in the terminal.  The chairs were plastic and welded together and the floors were cold linoleum.  The local Military Police kept a pretty close watch on us and cruised by our encampment on a regular basis.  The rules stated you were not allowed to sleep in the terminal but we really didn’t have any place else to go.  We couldn’t afford a hotel room and if you left the terminal you were in danger of missing an unscheduled flight back home.

We made the best of it by playing cards, reading, telling stories and guarding our sleeping comrades while they snoozed under the seats.  We ate sparingly in the terminal cafeteria.  Sparingly because we did not have much money and the food was bloody awful!  Occasionally a couple of brave souls would travel off-base to get some bratwurst and brochen (hard german rolls) and they would bring them back in paper bags.  Of course, we were also sparing our change for beer.

After two days of living in the terminal and running low on cash a couple of my group called their folks and begged them to pay for a commercial flight home.  They left within a couple of hours and we felt slightly betrayed.  The rest of us dug in our heels for long stay and checked with the Space A listing every couple of hours.  The next night about 6 of the group had had enough and told us they were heading downtown for a decent meal, some music and some beer.  Four of us stayed behind.  I didn’t have much money left and I really didn’t want to leave the terminal in case a flight came in.  About 10pm that night an unannounced flight came in from the Far East.  It was a C-130 and was only going to be on the ground for refueling and it was heading for RAF Lakenheath.  There was no way to get in contact with our friends downtown and no way to secure their gear.  We piled it into a corner and grabbed our own stuff and headed out onto the tarmac.  The loadmaster strapped our stuff down to the floor and directed us to the seats along wall of the aircraft.  The seats were thin hammocks of red nylon suspended from the bulk head meant for troops heading into harm’s way.  We strapped ourselves in and the engines fired up.  We huddled in close together for warmth and hoped the heaters would kick in before we got to altitude.  The plane was full of cargo running down the center of the aircraft and we were the only passengers scrunched in along the side.  The loadmaster was an unpleasant man that looked at us like we were communist sympathizers with our long hair and bedraggled condition.  We were kind of used to the attitude and tried to make the best of it.  As we settled in at altitude we were allowed to unbuckle ourselves and stand up.  You could feel the heaters pumping hot air down but it never reached your feet.  A couple of folks stood on the seats just to get their feet off the cold floor.  One of our braver compatriots went forward and asked the loadmaster if he could crash on top of the cargo.  Surprisingly the permission was granted and we all scrambled on top of the cargo to get closer to the heaters and lay out.  I think we all took a nap and were comfortable for the first time in days.  On our approach to Lakenheath the loadmaster ordered us down and we strapped into the seats once again.  The weather was typically rough and the plane started bucking around pretty hard.  The pilot was saying something over the intercom but he was drowned out by the engines struggling through the turbulence.

I was watching through the port hole window as we did our final approach in the dark.  Just as we settled into the final descent, one of the outside engines coughed and sputtered to a stop.  The C-130 is a prop driven cargo plane with 4 engines, two on each side.  It was just my luck that I was looking through the port hole on the side with the bad engine and watched it stop rotating.  The plane yawed to the left and the other three engines were throttled up.  We skipped the approach and went around for another attempt.  The pilots turned us back into the turbulence headed toward the flight line. It was very frightening to see the pilots and the loadmaster tightening their straps as we made our final approach.  We finally set down in downpour with no damage.  Of course, we could not just walk over to the terminal and be done with it.  We had to grab our own bags and equipment and walk through the rain to the terminal.  One of my friends was stationed at Lakenheath and his dad came to get him.  They actually lived in a little town near the train station called Bury St. Edmunds and his dad was gracious enough to give me a ride to the train station.  There was only one catch:  he had a really small car and it did not have a ski rack on top.  We strapped the skis to the roof with some parachute cord and piled all of our suitcases into the boot (British for trunk) and it too was tied shut with parachute cord.  Thankfully the train station was not far and everything survived the trip.

I got on the next train to London and stashed all my gear.  By this time it was early morning and I was exhausted.  It never occurred to me that the timing of my travel could not have been worse.  At each stop, as we approached London, I was noticing that more and more people were getting on the train.  As we arrived in London it was the full blown morning rush hour.  I grabbed my gear and headed for the Tube.  I had to make two changes to get to the correct station for a regular train to Newbury.  Needless to say it was very difficult to get into and out of the subway train with the skis, boots and suitcases.  I kept the skis strapped to my back and had to be careful not to turn around too fast without ducking down—otherwise I would break out the interior fluorescent lights.  I learned that lesson the hard way and hit two lamps and scattered broken glass on several people’s heads.  I thought it was going to be a mob scene and someone was going to throw me off the train.  Somehow I managed to get to the station and call my dad to come pick me up in Newbury.  Without further incident he picked me up and brought me home.  About 6 days later all four of us piled into the car with all of our collective ski gear and suitcases and headed to Gatwick airport to make our trip to Spain.  The only inconvenience on that trip was the 6 hour bus ride from Madrid to Formigal.  I guess the worst part about the whole experience was I broke my new skis the second day we were there.

Summer break.  After my previous experience with Space A travel and knowing that the PCS (Permanent Change of Station—where military members and their family transfer from one base to another) season was approaching, I decided to travel back to England completely by train.  The trip was mostly uneventful until we arrived in Oostend, Belgium to catch the ferry across to England.  Our group had started with about 12 people and many had gotten off the train at various destinations along the way.  By the time we arrived in Oostend there were only three of us.  It had been a great trip up to that point, with much consumption of beer and wine and promises of everlasting friendship as we dropped each comrade off.  By the time we arrived at the ferry we were hung over and not in the most pleasant of moods.  One of my compatriots had managed to misplace their passport and military dependent id card.  We spent almost an hour looking for the lost items and just as I was about ready to abandon him, he found them in a coat pocket.  We piled on to the ferry and ducked inside the cabin.  Even though it was May it was still miserable outside.  It was raining and the Channel was tipped with whitecaps.  People were crowded shoulder to shoulder on the interior and the crossing began.  It was horrible!  The boat tossed and rolled and people were sick everywhere.  It got to the point that I could no longer take the smell and the sound of the retching and I ventured outside.  It was cold and wet but fresh air kept me from getting sick myself. Even though I was soaked through I was glad to be ashore and headed to the terminal to get on the train home.  I was able to sneak into one of the bathrooms at the station and change into some relatively dry clothing.  I made it to Newbury just in time to get a hold of my Dad, who was working in Greenham Common that week, and catch a ride home.

My final travel trail was our much anticipated trip back to the states. We arrived in Germany in 1969 and did not leave England until late 1975.  The entire time we were in Europe we did not go back to the States.  My brother, sister and I were all raised in Europe during our teen years and we were excited about returning “home”.  We had no friends waiting for us there but it didn’t matter.  We really weren’t prepared for the amount of culture shock we were going to encounter.  Our first clue was when my brother and I ordered a beer on the plane heading back stateside.  We had traveled separately from my folks and were scheduled to meet them in New Jersey.  The stewardess asked for our id’s to ensure we were 18 years old (no one had ever asked for our ids before!)  She then brought us two cans of lukewarm Schlitz beer.  We opened the tops, took a swig and asked if we could get the plane diverted back to Germany to get a real beer!

We landed in New Jersey and met up with my dad, mom and sister.  Mom and sister got on another plane for Dallas and my dad, brother and I picked up his new car and started driving to Dallas to my grandparents home.  Dad had bought a VW Dasher.  It did not have air conditioning and was a stick shift.  Dad and I were the only licensed drivers and we took turns traveling to Texas.  It was a warm spring but not too bad.  After two days of travel we arrived in Dallas and spent some time catching up with my grandparents.  We all then piled into the Dasher and headed to Dad’s new assignment in Grand Forks, North Dakota.  It took us almost three days with the five of us crammed into this little piece of crap vehicle that was never meant to hold 5 full size people.  It started getting hot and the windows only provided a blast furnace as we traveled northwards.  In South Dakota we literally ran out of highway and traveled a dirt road for almost 100 miles.  It was a rough road and got rougher as we went along.  As we crossed the border into North Dakota we were amazed how flat it was!  My brother exclaimed, “I haven’t seen a pancake lay this flat!” We were glad to get out of the car in Grand Forks and examined the car for any damage.  We had broken one of the leaf springs on the rear axle in South Dakota and that had contributed to the rough ride.

We had been disconnected from the US for most of our teen years.  The changes that had occurred stateside during that 6 year time span were immense.  The gas shortage, the crumbling of the sixties youth movement and counter culture, the ending of the Viet Nam war, were all seen through our eyes through a European lens.  We weren’t ardent fans of American sports (we knew who played in each Super Bowl) but we did follow who was going to be in the World Cup.  We knew how to play cricket but didn’t have a clue what the teams were in Major League Baseball.  Our speech patterns and expressions were completely different from our contemporaries and often set us up for criticism and mistrust.   The English used the term “pissed” to indicate drunk.  We called car hoods “bonnets”; car trunks “boots” and said “Ta” for thanks.  Also interspersed with our language were common German terms: Danke (thanks), Das is clah (that is clear), Das is shade (that is too bad) and Bitte (please).

I started working for carpet cleaning company in North Dakota not long after my arrival and ran afoul of one of the female co workers.  In England it is not uncommon call women “luv” if you are familiar with them.  The term does not imply anything other than a familiarity with the person and does not imply any kind of amorous attachment.  One of my co-workers took extreme offense to my using the term and reported me to management.  It didn’t matter that I had addressed all my female co-workers in the same vernacular and that my English accent was still pretty strong.  I was given a verbal warning and threatened to be fired if I did not cease immediately.    That was the start of my purgatory assignment to the northern frontier of America.  I came to loathe North Dakota for its narrow minded outlook on the world and its outright discrimination.  In Grand Forks you were either a “baser” or a “towner”.  My poor brother and sister were subjected to terrible discrimination and prejudice because our father was stationed at Grand Forks Air Force Base.  To this day they hardly acknowledge the high school there as their alma mater even though they both graduated from it.    My father did not enjoy his assignment much either and went back to Germany within two years of his arrival.  He took my sister and mom with him and left my brother and I stateside.  I joined the Air Force to get the heck out of Grand Forks and my brother went to the University of Colorado.  My sister went to the University of Maryland, Munich campus, where she started her own volume of travel stories.

Month of the Military Child

By Debra Rae

Daughter of an Army Colonel, Debra graduated with distinction from the University of Iowa. She then completed a Master of Education degree from the University of Washington. These were followed by Bachelor of Theology and Master of Ministries degrees-both from Pacific School of Theology.

While a teacher in Kuwait, Debra undertook a three-month journey from the Persian Gulf to London by means of VW “bug”! One summer, she tutored the daughter of Kuwait’s Head of Parliament while serving as superintendent of Kuwait’s first Vacation Bible School.

Having authored the ABCs of Globalism and ABCs of Cultural -Isms, Debra speaks to Christian and secular groups alike. Her radio spots air globally. Presently, Debra co-hosts WOMANTalk radio with Sharon Hughes and Friends, and she contributes monthly commentaries to Changing Worldviews and NewsWithViews.com. Debra calls the Pacific Northwest home.

 

Web Site: www.debrarae.us

E-Mail: debra@debrarae.us

 

 

In her 1991 book, Military Brats: Legacies of Childhood inside the Fortress, Mary Edwards Wertsch isolated America’s community of military children as an indigenous subculture with its own customs, rites of passage, forms of communication, and folkways. In doing so, she launched a movement for cultural identity through which adult military “children” began discovering the “secret family” they didn’t know they had.[1]

Thereafter, in 2005, filmmaker Donna Musil released the first ever documentary made exclusively about military children. In it, Musil draws on many studies and interviews with counselors, psychologists, and military brats themselves. Her award-winning documentary, Brats: Our Journey Home, fingers this distinct American subculture, “an invisible tribe” comprising five percent of the population. Former military child, author Pat Conroy ends the film with a provocative observation: “We spent our entire childhoods in the service of our country, and no one even knew we were there.”[2]

The Defense Department addresses this conundrum by earmarking April as the “Month of the Military Child.” Given our nation’s three extended military engagements (two in Iraq and one in Afghanistan), now is a great time to examine America’s distinctive subculture of the military child—and to appreciate unique challenges faced by America’s military families at home and abroad. We owe them that much.[3]

Linguistic Reclamation of “Brat”

Wherever organized warfare exists, military spouses and their children follow armies. The so-called “little traveller” is found in literature dating back to the early nineteenth century. Historically, military children were known as “camp followers.” Though origin of the term, “military brat,” is unknown, some evidence suggests that, originally, the label stood for “British Regiment Attached Traveler.” American “military brats” date back to birth of the United States.[4]

In her research, sociologist Karen Williams used the term reluctantly in order to “follow the wishes of participants.” You see, while non-military personnel find the term “brat” impudent, it has been reclaimed linguistically as a positive term of affection within the ranks of the military. Member of the United States Senate Committee on Armed Services, Senator Ben Nelson explains, “When the word ‘brat’ is used to describe someone, it is not meant as a compliment; but … “military brat” [is] … a term of endearment.” It speaks respectfully of one who is a world traveller and, hence, a global citizen, graced with spunk and a spirit of adaptability.[5]

Third Culture Kids

In the 1970s, sociologist Ruth Hill Useem coined the term “third culture kid” (TCK) for the child of a soldier. TCKs integrate aspects of one’s birth culture (the first culture) with a new and different culture to which he is exposed (the second culture). When merged, the two create a unique “third culture.” Studies show that third culture kids move frequently, often hundreds or thousands of miles away from what’s familiar.[6]

Sociologist Morten Ender conducted the largest scientific study to date on career military brats exclusively, specifically those who from birth through high school had at least one parent in military service. Of 600 brats studied, ninety-seven percent had lived in at least one foreign country (sixty-three percent in two; thirty-one percent in three), spending an average of seven years abroad. Brats averaged eight moves before graduating from high school. Over eighty percent were bilingual; and fourteen percent spoke three or more languages.[7]

Education Turntable

Unlike the public school system, a typical military school can experience up to fifty percent turnover every year; and base schools reach one hundred percent turnover in only two years. Recent studies show that mobility during the school year may be less traumatic than summer time moves. However, when required to move mid-year, the student is forced to join classes that have already begun. Social groups are even more difficult to break into, and previously enjoyed activities may be open to him no longer.

Even more, continuity in core curricula is interrupted, resulting in instructional gaps. A student who excelled at one school may feel inadequate upon entering a larger, more academically rigorous one; and, adding to the stress, previously completed coursework may fail to fulfill graduation requirements.[8]

Home and Family

The modern military has a larger proportion of married military members. For the “travelling child,” home is where the family is. Although a significant percentage of military brats report difficulty forming strong relations with people or places, they typically experience tight bonds with siblings; and they often forge strong connections with (or, in some cases, aversion to) their military community. Military bases represent tiny, self-contained, government-subsidized towns defined by conformity. Even the areas immediately surrounding bases are highly influenced by the military culture.

Eighty percent of Cold War era military brats characterize their fathers as “authoritarian.” Military households frown on non-conforming behaviors and dissent. Consequences for said misbehaviors are generally greater for brats than for civilian counterparts, perhaps because the brat’s behavior likely becomes part of the military member’s record. Patterns of misbehavior can undermine a parent’s promotion or preferred duty assignment.

As a general rule, military brats are better behaved than their civilian counterparts. It’s typical for U.S. military families to display “duty rosters” on the refrigerator and to enforce parent-conducted room inspections. Tardiness and insubordination are unacceptable. Traditionally, military children address adults with “sir” or “ma’am,” and they are expected to answer the family phone with extreme formality.

Because brats are pressured to conform to military culture, they sometimes are perceived as being more mature than peers. Paradoxically, having struggled with perfectionism and performance-control issues, a majority of military brats describe themselves as being successful.[9]

• “Down” Side of Family Militarization

On the other hand, under the intense stress of always being on their best behavior, some military brats develop psychological problems; others rebel against military regimentation well beyond what is normally considered acceptable. Rather than develop problem-solving skills, there is a temptation simply to leave a problem behind without resolving it. If a brat does not like somebody, he knows that in short order the problem will likely disappear.

Among a minority of military brats, there is a higher than average incidence of Avoidant Personality Disorder and Separation Anxiety Disorder. Some adult military brats fail at developing and maintaining deep, lasting relationships. One major study shows that thirty-two percent of military brats feel as if they are only spectators to U.S. life, and another forty-eight percent feel central to no group whatsoever. A significant minority exhibits symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Avoidant Personality Disorder, and the like.

Long hours, frequent disruptions in lifestyles, and high levels of stress, sometimes war-related, can lead to abusive behaviors and alcoholism within military homes. Both are common themes in Wertsch’s book and in Pat Conroy’s The Great Santini.[10] However, because military culture offers more accessible help—i.e., health care, community, and family support programs—some report abusive behaviors (inclusive of alcoholism) are less prevalent among military families.

• “Up” Side of Family Militarization

Anecdotal evidence compiled by Samuel Britten suggests that many children from military families are raised with a strong sense of patriotism. After all, at the close of each workday, the bugle callTo the Color resounds on military installations while the flag is lowered. In my day, all activities ceased, even driving, while uniformed personnel saluted and all others placed their hand over their hearts. Lifeguards emptied pools of swimmers for all to stand at attention. Prior to movies at base theaters, patrons and staff alike stood for the National Anthem followed by God Bless the USA or its ilk.

Until recently, students at Department of Defense Dependents Schools (DoDDS) overseas and Department of Defense Domestic Dependent Elementary and Secondary Schools (DDESS) within the United States recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning. Patriotic and militaristic songs were sung not only in schools, but also during military chapel services.[11]

Duty, Honor, Country

In the 1990s, the army officially adopted what have come to be known as “The Seven Army Values,” summarized with the acronym “LDRSHIP”—namely, loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. Indeed, the motto “duty, honor, country” is the standard of the U.S. military. To some degree, brats are treated like soldiers, subjected to a warrior code of honor and service.

Training and preparing for war involve significant dangers, as do other military duties. Consequently, even when there is no active war, many military brats live with the reality of risk to one or both parents. A military brat understands and accepts that, in the line of duty, the service person within his family may be killed or maimed. Accordingly, a positive backronym (acronym-style derivation invented for existing words) identifies brats as “Brave, Resilient, Adaptable, and Trustworthy.”[12]

Marine General Peter Pace, the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff adds, “There’s no way, in my mind, that you can be successful in the military and have a family unless that family does, in fact, appreciate your service to the country. … [Brats are] patriots and role models for us all.”[13]

Lifestyle Quirks

Military brats have been studied extensively from the perspective of social psychology and as a distinct and unique American subculture, but less so in terms of long-term impact. Unlike civilian counterparts, military brats endure absence of a parent due to deployment, threat of parental loss or injury in war, stresses associated with the psychological aftermath of war, and militarization of the family unit. Studies show that growing up within the military culture can have overall, long-lasting effects—some positive, some not.

Due to a transient lifestyle, military brats routinely forfeit friendship ties. However, in being exposed to a wide range of regional cultural differences, not to mention foreign cultures and languages while living overseas, brats tend to cultivate resilience, exceptional social skills, proficiency in foreign languages, and a high level of multicultural and/or international awareness.

“Suddenly military” reservist and National Guard families face isolation from other military-family peers, coupled with isolation within hometown communities. Operation: Military Kids is a program designed to help “suddenly military” children understand the military culture; and Our Military Kids provides monetary grants for National Guard and Reserve children, whose parents sometimes incur a lapse in income upon being called to active duty.[14]

Adult Brats

Remarkably, brats divorce at a lower rate. More than two-thirds of brats over forty years of age remain married to their original spouses. This applies even though military members can be deployed without their families for days, months, or even years at a time. In such cases, the children experience similar emotions as children of divorced parents.[15]

Having lived around the world, military brats can have a breadth of experiences unmatched by most teenagers. Sociologist Henry Watanabe showed that growing up in a mobile community offers opportunities generally unavailable to geographically stable families. Not only do they boast lower delinquency rates, military brats also achieve higher scores on standardized tests and rate higher median IQ scores than civilian counterparts. Furthermore, they graduate from college and earn advanced degrees at higher rates than the non-military population.[16]

Author of a well-known study on military brats, Mary Edwards Wertsch identified a curious pattern. Statistically, brats show a very strong affinity for careers that entail service to others—e.g., military service, teaching, counseling, police, nursing and foreign-service work. Adult brats who do not choose military service tend instead to favor creative and/or artistic professions that offer more independence. Hence, many elect to be self-employed.[17]

Recent studies show that, although brats move an average of every three years, they do not grow accustomed to moving. An adult military brat can never return and find old friends, neighbors, or even former teachers on military bases where they grew up. Feeling outside in relation to civilian culture is common for a majority of military brats. Studies show further that many adult military brats refuse any and all pressures from spouses or employers to move ever again. Still others report having “the itch”—namely, difficulty settling down in one geographic location.[18]

Military Classism and Racism

In recent years, military classism is rare among military brats. In fact, “social” rank discrimination among families is typically frowned upon. Most officer- and enlisted- clubs have merged into “All Hands” Clubs, and military children play together without recognition of parental rank.[19]

Decades before the civil rights movement, President Truman signed Executive Order 9981, thereby integrating the military and mandating equality of treatment and opportunity. The EO made it illegal for military personnel to make racist remarks. Fifteen years later, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara issued Department of Defense Directive 5120.36 that opposed discriminatory practices affecting men and their dependents.[20]

Brats today aren’t solely “non-racist”; they are commonly “anti-racist.” According to the largest study conducted on nearly 700 third culture kids, eighty percent claim they can relate to anyone, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or nationality. A recent study, Military Brats: Issues and Associations in Adulthood, found that military brats can feel a “sense of euphoria” when connected to others who share this sense of transcendence.[21]

Conclusion

Limited studies on children who have lost a parent show that ten to fifteen percent experience depression, and a few develop childhood traumatic grief (inability to recall any positive memories of the deceased parent). Based on his experience, military psychiatrist Stephen Cozza speculates that wartime death of a parent is even more traumatic and difficult to deal with than typical causes.[22]

 

The U.S. Defense Department reports that there are currently two million American children and teenagers who have had at least one parent deployed in a war zone, and parents of over nine hundred thousand have been deployed multiple times. To complicate matters, both parents in approximately fifty thousand military families serve in the armed forces.[23]

With the advent of the Internet, family members can communicate with servicemen and women in combat zones. However, given CNN and Fox News, military families know that servicemen have died before official word reaches the family. Not surprisingly, a Pentagon study released in June 2009 shows that children of combat troops demonstrate increased fear, anxiety, and behavioral problems; and one-third of them experience academic problems. For a year after the parent returns, some thirty percent of the military children exhibit “clinical levels of anxiety.”[24]

Armed with awareness of their unique subculture, we do well to honor America’s approximately fifteen million military brats. Accordingly, at the Center for Changing Worldviews, we’ve implemented Operation Heartlift, which connects local communities with troops and their families. Our purpose is to to show in tangible ways that we appreciate them and care about them. Indeed, no military brat should feel as though he spent his entire childhood in the service of our country with no one even knowing he was there.[25]

 2012 Debra Rae – All Rights Reserved

Footnotes:

http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref11. Mary Edwards Wertsch. Military Brats: Legacies of Childhood Inside the Fortress. Saint Louis, Missouri: Brightwell 
Publishing, 2006, p. 350.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref22. BRATS: Our journey home.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref33. Rudi Williams. “Military Brats are A Special Breed.” Washington, D.C.: American Forces Press Service (US Department of Defense Publication), 2001.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref44. Grace Clifton. Making the Case for the BRAT (British Regiment Attached Traveller).” British Education Research Journal, Volume 1, No 3: June 2004, p 458.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref55. Senator Ben Nelson. “April is a Very Special Month for Children in Military Families,” 2005. Retrieved on March 18, 2012.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref66. Ruth Useem, et al. “Third Culture Kids: Focus of Major Study.” International Schools Services. Retrieved on, 2006.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref77. Morton Ender. “Military Brats and Other Global Nomads.” Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Publishing Group, March 2002.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref88. ”Despite the commonly held belief that summer moves are best for children, teens who moved during summer vacation seemed to experience particular difficulties… Their problem was that, with school out of session, it was very difficult to identify potential friends and begin to form relationships.” (Tyler, 2002).
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref99. Morton Ender. “Military Brats and Other Global Nomads.” Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Publishing Group, March 2002.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1010. The great Santini.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1111. ”We all stopped, no matter what we were doing. And no matter where we were, no matter what foxhole we were hiding in, … we stopped. Retreat would blare out from the loudspeakers all over the base. We could never see the flag; it was miles away. But we knew where it was, and like facing Mecca, everyone turned around, and put their hand over their heart, and stood there until the music stopped…. There was never even a comment about it, no matter what was going on. It just happened everyday.” (Truscott, 1989)

“Whenever and wherever the National Anthem, To the Colors, or Hail to the Chief is played outdoors, at the first note, all dismounted personnel in uniform and not in formation, within saluting distance of the flag, face the flag, or the music if the flag is not in view, salute, and maintain the salute until the last note of the music is sounded… Vehicles in motion are brought to a halt. Persons riding in a passenger car or on a motorcycle dismount and salute.” (Bonn, 2005)
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1212. Grace Clifton. “Making the case for the BRAT (British Regiment Attached Traveller)” in British Education Research Journal, Vol 1, No 3, June 2004, p. 458.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1313. Marine General Peter Pace. “Sacrifices of Military Children.” American Forces Press, December 3, 2006.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1414. Bob Roehr. “Families of Deployed Reserve, National Guard Soldiers Face Challenges.” Denver, Colorado: Medscape Today, Medscape Medical News, November 16, 2010.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1515. Your children and separation.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1616. Admiral Dennis Blair, Commander in Chief, U.S. Pacific Command. “The Military Culture as an Exemplar of American Qualities.” San Diego, California: Supporting the Military Child Annual Conference, Westin Horton Plaza Hotel, July 19, 2000. Retrieved December 3, 2006.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1717. Mary Edwards Wertsch. Military Brats: Legacies of Childhood Inside the Fortress. Saint Louis, Missouri: Brightwell 
Publishing, 2006.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1818. Kathleen Finn Jordan. “Identity Formation and the Adult Third Culture Kid.” Westport, Connecticut: Praeger, 2002.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref1919. ”Protocol is not intended to promote snobbery; it is a courtesy designed to recognize official status and give respect to those who, by their achievements, time in service, and experience, deserve it. And the exercise of that most certainly extends to spouses.” (Cline, 1995)
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref2020. Heather Antecol and Deborah Cobb-Clark, “Racial and Ethnic Harassment in Local Communities.” Unpublished working paper: October 4, 2005, p 8. Retrieved on January 1, 2007.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref2121. Mary Edwards Wertsch. Military Brats: Legacies of Childhood Inside the Fortress (first hardcover edition). Saint Louis, Missouri: Harmony, April 23, 1991.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref2222. Stephen Cozza. “Military Families and Children During Operation Iraqi Freedom.” Psychiatric Quarterly, Vol 76, No 4, Winter 2005, pp. 371–378.
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref2323. Elaine Wilson. “Military Teens Cope With Wartime Challenges.” Fort Campbell, Kentucky: American Forces Press Service, Department of Defense, April 22, 2010
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref2424. Troops’ kids feel war toll
http://www.newswithviews.com/Rae/debra212.htm – _ftnref2525, Operation Heartlift