Those were the two conflicting views of life and of the world in the Kilmer household. Now that both generations have aged and mellowed some, they’re slowly finding more common ground.
For Frank it began when his parents moved to Sun City West, a popular retirement community outside of Phoenix. His father noticed that the main boulevard had no flags displayed on the Fourth of July. Ever since that day, April 29, 1945, when the swastika went down and the American flag went up near his prisoner-of-war camp, Lloyd Kilmer has looked for the Stars and Stripes. He started a campaign to do something about R. H. Johnson Boulevard. “I devised a plan to attach an American flag to each of the hundred power poles along the boulevard,” Lloyd says. It’s now known as the Boulevard of Flags. Red, white, and blue American flags flutter every twenty yards or so along the thoroughfare that leads to the spacious retirement homes of so many World War II veterans.
They dedicated the Boulevard of Flags on Presidents Day 1989. Lloyd was honored for his role with the Patrick Henry Award for Patriotism, one of the highest awards of the American Legion.
Frank says of his dad, “He will brag about his involvement with the POWs and the VFW and the flag thing. But what I really appreciate about him is how he took care of my mother for ten years when she was really ill.”
Shortly after they retired in Arizona, Marie had a series of health problems—a broken hip, then a stroke followed by Alzheimer’s disease. The American dream for the Kilmers turned into a nightmare of emotional and physical pain. Lloyd never complained. He simply took care of the love of his life, hiring a nurse a few afternoons a week so he could go shopping. It went on for almost ten years before Marie died. Frank, who had continued following the Buddhist faith after his earlier feuds with his father, was deeply impressed and, for the first time, felt a real bond with him.
They grew even closer when Lloyd met a widow after Marie died. His new love, Ruth, had been married for half a century to another ex-POW. She was a former schoolteacher and the daughter of a small-town Iowa banker. It was a perfect match, but Frank remembers how his father was worried. “He needed affirmation it was okay,” Frank says. “What better person to get validation for something he perceived as unconventional than from his nonconformist son?”
Lloyd and Ruth are married and they think of their life in Sun City as paradise. Since her first husband was also a POW, Ruth knows never to serve anything containing turnips or cabbage. She also knows to say Lloyd’s name softly if she wants to awaken him from a nap; an unexpected touch or a loud “Wake up!” startles him still.
Lloyd remains active in the campaign to get a constitutional amendment to make it illegal to desecrate the flag, and he often attends reunions of his old bomber squadron held by the Ex-POW Association.
As his son Frank says, in a mixture of affection and admiration, “My dad’s a piece of work. He’s the quintessential GI. What you see is what you get.”
GORDON LARSEN
“I didn’t talk about the war much. I spent most of my time trying to forget it.”
FOR LLOYD KILMER, the war and his experience as a POW was a central theme throughout his life, even if he didn’t share that with his family. Other veterans shoved their war experiences to the far corners of their lives and sealed them off as best they could. They could never completely erase the memories or the residual effects of their training, but they were determined to start an entirely new life once the war ended.
In 1953, when I was living in a small town constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers along the Missouri River in South Dakota, I was surrounded by the young veterans of World War II who were busy making up for lost time: raising families, earning a living by building the large hydroelectric dam across the Missouri on this isolated stretch of the Great Plains, trying to forget what they had been through just a few years earlier.
As a talkative kid, friendly to grown-ups, I heard lots of stories about their days during the Depression or their long-ago sports achievements or hunting and fishing lore, but I cannot recall any of the veterans sitting around telling war stories. It just wasn’t done.
I do remember one startling comment, however. It came from Gordon Larsen, a popular member of the community. He was a stocky, cheerful young man who worked on a crew that kept the electrical, heating, and plumbing systems going in the town. He had such a lively sense of humor that it was almost worth it to have your furnace break down. Gordon always kept up a lively chatter while he worked on it.
Gordon Larsen (right) at Guadalcanal, 1942
So it was surprising that the morning after Halloween he came into the post office, where my mother worked, and complained about the rowdiness of the high school teenagers the night before. My mother, trying to play to his good humor, said, “Oh, Gordon, what were you doing when you were seventeen?”
He looked at her for a moment and said, “I was landing on Guadalcanal.” Then he turned and left the post office.
It was a moment that made a deep impression on Mother. She shared it with me when she came home that evening, and we have talked about it often. It was so representative of how quickly times had changed for young people.
Gordon is now seventy-three. He’s retired from the Army Corps of Engineers after thirty-five years, having moved on from fixing furnaces to operating the sophisticated control systems in the powerhouses of dams in South Dakota, North Dakota, and Washington. He was surprised when I told him my mother and I remembered that moment in the post office. “I didn’t talk about the war much,” he said. “I spent most of my time trying to forget it.”
Gordon quit high school in Omaha to join the Marines in 1941, following the path of his older brother, Jim. He trained in San Diego with the 3rd Marine Division, 9th Regiment, and immediately shipped out for the Pacific, where he carried the heavy Browning automatic rifle ashore at Guadalcanal, Bougainville, Guam, and Okinawa, participating in some of the heaviest fighting of the war.
He hooked up with Jim, then nineteen, in the 3rd Marines, and they went ashore together at Bougainville. It was a bloody, unforgettable day for Gordon. His brother was hit almost instantly, severely wounded, on the beach. Gordon remembered it vividly. “He bounced around,” he said. “He was really hit.”
Jim was down in an exposed position, and every time a rescue effort was launched, the Japanese opened up. Gordon’s commander told him they couldn’t do anything until dark. Jim lay there all day, his life draining from him. Finally, once it was nighttime, they were able to get him back to their lines and transported to a waiting ship.
But too much damage had been done. Gordon’s brother died two weeks later in a Denver hospital.
As he told me this story, unprompted, on a telephone call across forty-five years, Gordon’s voice grew husky and more distant. “I haven’t”—he hesitated and then went on—“I haven’t talked about this hardly ever.”
He said he still has nightmares about his days in combat, and when I knew him, in the early fifties, when the memories were especially fresh, he said he thought about it all of the time, even when he was entertaining us while fixing our furnace.
There were no psychiatrists in our small community for him to see, even if he had been inclined, which he wasn’t. “I just wanted to forget,” he said, “I just wanted to get on with my life.” Gordon said that when he went into a bar in those days and heard guys talking about combat, it made him sick, so sick he’d just walk out rather than stick around and share the painful memories. Besides, he always figured those who were willing to talk about combat had never really experienced it.
After all the bloody fighting across the island chains leading to Japan, Gordon’s outfit was on Guam, preparing to board ships that would take them to the invasion of the mainland. Then word came of the surrender of the Japanese. Gordon’s shooting war was over.
He came home with his unit. There had been 240 men in it when he left San Diego three years earlier. Only eight returned alive and uninjured. Gordon says he’s never been in touch wi
th any of them. He doesn’t want to revisit those days.
He does credit the Marines, however, and that awful experience during his formative years with giving direction to his life. He said he was a wild kid, and he didn’t know what would have happened without the discipline of the Marines and the sobering experiences of war.
He came home a man, went to school nights to get his high school diploma, and worked days learning the trade of a furnace-and-heating-system technician. “I was never out of work,” he proudly recalled. “I never had to take the 52–20 program”—a government subsidy for returning veterans who couldn’t get work—twenty dollars a week for fifty-two weeks.
Most returning veterans went to work or back to school as swiftly as possible. They were acutely aware of what they had lost in their training years. In fact many of them to this day just subtract three, four, or five years from their chronological age in good humor, laughingly explaining that those were the years they lost during the war.
Gordon Larsen
Gordon’s choice of furnace-and-heating work proved to be a good fit. It was a skill in demand, for America was in a building boom and home heating was changing over from coal to oil. After fixing furnaces on Army Corps of Engineers projects, he stepped up to powerhouse operator on the Corps’ big hydroelectric dams in the Midwest and West.
He met his wife, Emelia, on the job in Omaha and they raised six children, four boys and two girls. Gordon reveres his Marine Corps connection but he’s also grateful his sons never had to serve. As he said of his Marine days, “It was a million-dollar experience, but I wouldn’t give you a plugged nickel to go through it again.”
Part of that experience was learning the lessons of loyalty and family. As his Marine buddies had been his family in training and in combat, he carried that attitude into his civilian life. He said, “It’s hard to explain, but my friends are like my family. I found out in the Marines what that can mean in life, and I’m still that way today.”
Life didn’t always work out the way Gordon had hoped. When he already had six children of his own and was working two jobs to make ends meet, he took in a young Sioux Indian as a foster child. He just felt sorry for the tot, whose parents were both in jail. The boy lived with the Larsens for several years but grew increasingly difficult to control, at one point attempting to burn down their house. They were forced to send him back to the reservation and they’ve never heard from him since. This is not an unusual occurrence when white families try to raise young Indians. The cultural differences often become too great to be successfully managed, but Gordon still feels disappointed that it came to a bad end. It was not what he had learned in the Marine Corps, to lose a family member because there was no common ground.
When I talked to this ordinary man with such extraordinary experiences during his teenage years, I was sorry that he hadn’t shared them with the young people in our community during the fifties. I understood, of course, why he didn’t want to revisit those nightmare years, but I am confident we could have learned something from him.
World War II left another mark on Gordon Larsen—he’s an unabashed patriot. That’s a part of American life lost on younger generations, he believes. It’s a common refrain among World War II veterans, forged as they were on the anvil of military discipline and the call to duty to defend their country against real peril. “Whenever I hear Taps or see a flag go by, I get tears in my eyes. Even now,” he said, “and I’m seventy-three.”
John Caulfield (far right) with buddies, Panama, 1945
The ROMEO Club—
Retired Old Men Eating Out
JOHN “LEFTY” CAULFIELD
“I have only one regret. My kid never had a Corner.”
ALTHOUGH THE WINDS OF WAR had been blowing steadily across the Atlantic and Pacific for some time, it wasn’t until the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor that everyone in the United States finally realized we could not stand idly by while the Axis rolled across Europe and Asia. That stunning surprise attack galvanized the nation as no speech or distant development could. While Pearl Harbor was the explosion that triggered five long years of death, injury, and separation, it also gave Americans everywhere common cause. They talk longingly now about the loss of that bond, that cohesion of national purpose and the personal ties that went with it.
It’s a regular topic at the monthly meetings of the ROMEO Club, held in various diners at the edges of Harvard Square, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. John Caulfield, a burly former high school principal, started ROMEO. “Retired old men eating out,” he explains. Not just any old men. The guys from Kerry Corner, the Irish working-class neighborhood not far from the leafy sanctuary of Harvard Yard.
In the thirties, Kerry Corner made up about ten square blocks of Cambridge. Caulfield and the others are forever attached to those roots. “I tell ya, where we’re from, every three-decker house had four, five kids to every floor, and every morning they were out the door and headed for St. Paul’s School.” Wood frame homes were divided into three parts for the families that had emigrated from County Kerry, Ireland. These were large families whose lives revolved around work, the Roman Catholic Church, the Democratic party, and whatever sport was in season.
Every guy had a nickname. Hutch, Lefty, Nibby, Mac, Dude, Jabber, Spud, Bugs, Tea Pot—whatever it was, it stuck for life. They were a gang, but not in the modern sense of guns and dope and senseless violence. They were a gang of pals, and when they got into a fight it was with each other, and then, as one of them says, “We shook hands and forgot.”
As teenagers they led lives of innocent deprivation. They used the showers at the playground fieldhouse because no one had showers at home. There were no swimming pools so they took their dips in the Charles River. They organized their own baseball and basketball games without the current worries about uniforms and liability insurance. They got whacked by the nuns at St. Paul’s, the neighborhood parochial school, when they stepped out of line; and if they went home and complained to their parents, they were likely to be whacked again. Their mothers stayed home and their fathers went off to jobs as laborers, policemen, firemen, plumbers, printers, railroad men.
When Pearl Harbor was attacked, they signed up for the Navy, the Army, the Marines, the Merchant Marine. Someone put up a big banner in the neighborhood—KERRY CORNER’S CONTRIBUTION TO THE UNITED STATES—with a star for every young man who enlisted or who was drafted. Mothers and fathers would gather on the square to organize Christmas packages for the boys who were fighting their way across Europe or the Pacific as infantrymen, radar operators, aircraft controllers, helmsmen, and quartermasters. None became a highly decorated hero or senior officer, but the boys of Kerry Corner, and millions more like them from neighborhoods across the country, were the muscles and bones of the U.S. armed forces.
It was the biggest adventure of their lives. Before Pearl Harbor their world was defined by the ten square blocks of their neighborhood. As Eddie O’Callaghan remembers, “I was glad to get out and get back, but it really was an education because when we were kids a trip to Cape Cod was really a big thing—sixty miles away.”
John Caulfield (middle row, second from right), August 1942,
St. Paul’s CYO baseball team
Not even the war could separate them. One of their favorite stories was told by the late Angie Backus, a Marine in the Pacific in 1942. His unit had been in heavy fighting on Tulagi for six weeks, with no reinforcements and no fresh supplies. Finally some more Marines landed, so Angie decided to take his mortar crew for a midnight raid on the supply depot. “We sneak down,” Angie said, “and we get stopped by a sentry. He looks at me and says, ‘Angie, is that you? It’s me, Sonny Foster.’ Way out in the Pacific, in the middle of the war, I bump into a kid I grew up next door to. Small world, huh?”
Remarkably, only a few from the Kerry gang didn’t return. They can count only a half dozen. The others came home to the old neighborhood at the end of the war. But before long it began to change, under pressure from the
expansion of Harvard and the rising prosperity in Cambridge. The lads from Kerry Corner were doing well too, and they were able to move to nearby working-class suburbs. In their hearts, however, they’ll live on Kerry Corner, as friends, forever.
Some went on to college while others went directly to jobs as machinists, graphic artists, telephone company foremen, state highway patrolmen, or city cops. In the war they were the foot soldiers and common seamen, the men who made the war machinery work. They returned to perform the same invaluable service to greater Boston, just as other members of their generation were doing for other urban areas and small towns across the country.
John “Lefty” Caulfield, the organizer of the ROMEO Club, returned and went to Harvard, which he had attended briefly on a baseball scholarship before enlisting in the Navy. When he reenrolled in 1946, he had the GI Bill to pay the way—and many classmates who would later make their marks on the world, including Henry Kissinger; James Schlesinger, the former director of the CIA who was also secretary of defense and secretary of energy; Robert Coles, the distinguished psychiatrist who has devoted his life to the study of troubled children; and Amory Houghton of the Corning Glass family.
Caulfield, now a member of the Harvard Athletic Hall of Fame, played four years of varsity baseball, captained the team, and led the Ivy League in hitting. His favorite memory is beating Yale in 1948, when a young Navy veteran was captain of that Harvard rival—George Bush, Yale’s first baseman.
Tom Brokaw Page 8
