you of diving
to get away from Zeroes one time.’
“‘At Dobodura,’ I chimed in.
“‘Yes. It was so heavy that it didn’t do well diving at lower altitudes. It was so
heavy up front with those two big motors that it was hard to pull out of a dive.
It was sort of like maneuvering with a cement truck.’
“He laughed weakly and so I thought it was okay to press him about the flat spin.
I asked and he nearly cut me off.
“‘It was very bad,’ he said.
“My heart sank with a serious look on his face that I might have brought bad memories
back to him. But it was too late and he went on.
“‘The plane was sort of rectangular is probably the best way to explain it,’ he said.
‘It had the two fuselages with a motor at the front of each, both hooked together
by a nacelle which held the pilot. Fifty-two feet wide but almost forty feet long,
I forget the exact length. Anyway, at low altitude, in maneuvering around, the plane
could get out of control and begin to spin flatly. I know that sounds crazy, a plane
spinning like a Frisbee. But unless you could get out of it, the plane would continue
to spin, losing altitude, until you crashed.’
“I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help but ask the obvious question. ‘Did it ever
happen to you?’
“‘Yes, twice,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I should have known better by the second
time. I was just a kid.’
“He paused for a while, obviously reflecting.
“‘The only way out of it was to, well—picture yourself spinning around quickly but
flatly. If it was a dark day, I never saw anyone get out of it. But if it was a bright
enough day that you were able to pick out an object on the horizon, and you could
gun the engines each time you spun around to that object. Gradually, the spin would
become an ellipse, and you could fly out of it.”
Claire looked up at the audience and smiled as most smiled back at her. “My parents
had a good life together. I am sorry for all of us that Daddy was hurt so much by
the war, and is not here rubbing and scratching our backs. But he got to see his
grandchildren and was loved very much. We were lucky to have had him in our lives
for as long as we did. We were luckier than many families whose loved ones never
came back.”
Mojarra
Dorance, Iowa, April 5, 1970
H arry Connors’ Kiwanis friends had specifically asked him to go to the town meeting,
and so he went, even though his wife, Dell, could not accompany him. Today’s topic
was the Vietnam War. The meeting was supposed to end with everyone making some kind
of resolution about whether the town should support it. He could think of a million
other things he’d rather discuss than America’s latest war halfway around the world.
In fact, cleaning the chicken coop at the farm would be more appealing. If he was
doing that, at least he would get to be outside on this sunny day.
Instead, here he was, in the library meeting room with its smell of mildew and sound
of buzzing fluorescent lights. Others began the discussion, and he sat quietly, having
no intention of saying anything.
“We must support our government,” Cal Werts said. “If the government calls, we must, must answer! It’s our duty as good American citizens, whether we personally agree
with the cause or not.”
Daryl Felton spoke next. “I can’t support this much. I don’t like us putting ourselves
in a foreign basket. If these people bought farm products or had any prospects of
being business customers any time in the future, maybe I could see it. Otherwise,
why should my boy go way over there? There’s nothing in it for us. Those people are
nothing to us. They don’t even like us.”
Bob Anderson, the local pharmacist, stood and spoke. “I suppose there is something
to going overseas. My mother-in-law grew up in what is now East Germany during the
war. She says communism is very bad. I know these Vietnam characters are in league
with the Soviets, so that is not good.”
Others spoke.
to get away from Zeroes one time.’
“‘At Dobodura,’ I chimed in.
“‘Yes. It was so heavy that it didn’t do well diving at lower altitudes. It was so
heavy up front with those two big motors that it was hard to pull out of a dive.
It was sort of like maneuvering with a cement truck.’
“He laughed weakly and so I thought it was okay to press him about the flat spin.
I asked and he nearly cut me off.
“‘It was very bad,’ he said.
“My heart sank with a serious look on his face that I might have brought bad memories
back to him. But it was too late and he went on.
“‘The plane was sort of rectangular is probably the best way to explain it,’ he said.
‘It had the two fuselages with a motor at the front of each, both hooked together
by a nacelle which held the pilot. Fifty-two feet wide but almost forty feet long,
I forget the exact length. Anyway, at low altitude, in maneuvering around, the plane
could get out of control and begin to spin flatly. I know that sounds crazy, a plane
spinning like a Frisbee. But unless you could get out of it, the plane would continue
to spin, losing altitude, until you crashed.’
“I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help but ask the obvious question. ‘Did it ever
happen to you?’
“‘Yes, twice,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I should have known better by the second
time. I was just a kid.’
“He paused for a while, obviously reflecting.
“‘The only way out of it was to, well—picture yourself spinning around quickly but
flatly. If it was a dark day, I never saw anyone get out of it. But if it was a bright
enough day that you were able to pick out an object on the horizon, and you could
gun the engines each time you spun around to that object. Gradually, the spin would
become an ellipse, and you could fly out of it.”
Claire looked up at the audience and smiled as most smiled back at her. “My parents
had a good life together. I am sorry for all of us that Daddy was hurt so much by
the war, and is not here rubbing and scratching our backs. But he got to see his
grandchildren and was loved very much. We were lucky to have had him in our lives
for as long as we did. We were luckier than many families whose loved ones never
came back.”
Mojarra
Dorance, Iowa, April 5, 1970
H arry Connors’ Kiwanis friends had specifically asked him to go to the town meeting,
and so he went, even though his wife, Dell, could not accompany him. Today’s topic
was the Vietnam War. The meeting was supposed to end with everyone making some kind
of resolution about whether the town should support it. He could think of a million
other things he’d rather discuss than America’s latest war halfway around the world.
In fact, cleaning the chicken coop at the farm would be more appealing. If he was
doing that, at least he would get to be outside on this sunny day.
Instead, here he was, in the library meeting room with its smell of mildew and sound
of buzzing fluorescent lights. Others began the discussion, and he sat quietly, having
no intention of saying anything.
“We must support our government,” Cal Werts said. “If the government calls, we must, must answer! It’s our duty as good American citizens, whether we personally agree
with the cause or not.”
Daryl Felton spoke next. “I can’t support this much. I don’t like us putting ourselves
in a foreign basket. If these people bought farm products or had any prospects of
being business customers any time in the future, maybe I could see it. Otherwise,
why should my boy go way over there? There’s nothing in it for us. Those people are
nothing to us. They don’t even like us.”
Bob Anderson, the local pharmacist, stood and spoke. “I suppose there is something
to going overseas. My mother-in-law grew up in what is now East Germany during the
war. She says communism is very bad. I know these Vietnam characters are in league
with the Soviets, so that is not good.”
Others spoke.
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