Reconciling Dad the Farmer with Dad the Veteran Pilot was the first story I ever recorded for Our American Stories.
I never had a chance to ask Dad about his WWII days and it wasn’t until I got into the Wilson family WWII letters, and Mom shared hers and Dad’s that I realized he’d been a pilot–an Advanced Instructor as soon as he’d earned his own wings, then later the commander of a four-engine bomber.
He and his brother were farmers and never talked about WWII, although both were pilots and Uncle Bill even flew fourteen missions over the Hump in a C-47.
Realizing that Dad would have made a good pilot and instructor finally clicked while I was sitting in an old warbird.
The story is also in Chapter 9: Veterans of The Immigrant and the Outlaw. Here’s how it starts:
“An engine smoked and sputtered. One propeller began to stir on the aging bomber. Then another. The third engine started to shudder and choke–satisfying sounds of old piston engines. Finally the last one coughed to life.
“A few minutes earlier I had been sitting in the pilot’s seat of that World War II Flying Fortress–an old B-17 like the one in the movie “Memphis Belle”–in the seat where my dad sat seven decades ago.
“My dad, the farmer.
“As I sat in the cockpit, looking out the pilot’s window at the gold-tipped propellers, I tried to imagine that Iowa farmer teaching cadets to fly (at Marfa, Texas), and later being in charge of that big four-engine bomber.
“In my mind’s snapshot of Dad, he was wearing Big Smith overalls where, in the bib, he carried a pocket watch and a DeKalb bullet pencil–with a little metal cap to protect the lead point. Shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. A Pioneer brand seed corn cap. Tired leather work boots and Rockford socks.
“Vignettes of him–guzzling Coca Cola from a small curvy glass bottle. Leaving for the field on his red Massey Harris tractor. Overseeing his crops from his perch on a gate. Throwing back his head when he laughed. Penciling neat diagrams and math formulas on scraps of paper. Catching a nap at the table after the noon dinner, his head resting on folded arms. That’s the Dad I knew.
“My husband, an air traffic controller at the Des Moines airport, had called to let me know that a B-17 was there just for a short stop-over. So I rushed out with my camera and asked if I could see inside–that my dad had trained in one in 1945.
“One man led me up a short ladder into the fuselage, then over a catwalk above the bomb bay, to the cockpit. I climbed down into the bombardier station, then up into the pilots’ area. He told me to take all the time I wanted there.
“As I sat in the pilot’s seat, a strong breeze buffeted the bomber. It swayed slightly. It sighed and creaked, just like Dad’s barn on a windy day. I had forgotten about those friendly sounds. . . .”
The Immigrant and the Outlaw: A Collection of Stories from America’s Heartland
This was one of the first stories I recorded for Our American Stories, produced in March 2019. I’m surprised and humbled that OAS is mentioning my name in their new ads on WHO-Radio.
I enjoyed this touching story about your dad.
Thanks so much, Liz.
You’re welcome, Joy.
This was one of the best stories from your book. It sounds like your dad was a hard-working, humble man. What a great memory of having the opportunity to sit in a B-17.
Thanks, Pete! He sure was.
Still reading the book, Joy.
Thanks, John!
Our dads had some great stories. Thank you for sharing yours.
Thanks, GP. Good to hear from you!
I love this story about your dad. My dad had that same farmer’s tan too. He was too young to be in the war. His conscription papers arrived in the mail just as the war was ending.
Thanks so much, Darlene!
Joy…your closing lines! Why we need to slow down and remember. Celebrate.
“As I sat in the pilot’s seat, a strong breeze buffeted the bomber. It swayed slightly. It sighed and creaked, just like Dad’s barn on a windy day. I had forgotten about those friendly sounds.”
Thank you for bringing us into the fold. Appreciate you. 💝
Bless you for your comment, Vicki.
❤️😉❤️
With all the “pilot blood” on both sides of your family, I’m surprised your son is not flying for a major airline. Your description of your dad is wonderfully warm and moving. 🙂
The Wilson boys hoped to fly after the war, even their oldest brother who’d served in the Navy. But Dad and his brother were both glad to return to farming. Son Dan became a CPA!
Good career choice! 😁👍
It’s so nice to hear about your brave dad in WWII, Joy. My dad could not serve during the war because he had polio as a child, which gave him a bad limp.
Tim, I forget that polio goes back a ways. I went to school with a girl who came down with it in 1952, and we met a man over the weekend who had it as a child.
We, dad’s children, got vaccinated for polio, Joy.
We did as well, Tim, shots at first. What a scary time that was.