A Model Airplane Led Me to Dad

In May of 1985, with one semester of college behind me and the vacation months ahead, I had a host of activities to pursue. There was a research paper to complete and a test to take, among other things. I didn’t suspect that Heavenly Father had other plans for me.

One Saturday early in the summer, I attended the dedication of a model-airplane park with my husband, Joe. It was a beautiful day, and the park was full of friendly people, eager to share their hobby with us. One of the exhibitors had the airplane I most wanted to see fly—a scale model B-29 Flying Fortress. It drew me like a magnet, reminding me of my father’s service in World War II as an airplane armorer. So many times I had sat beside him, listening to stories, laughing with him, looking at pictures, mementoes, and coins from far-away countries. At times we sat together in silence and I watched his eyes fill with tears at some unspoken memory.

As I watched the exhibitor fly his little replica, I knew it was time to get out the box of jumbled pictures and memorabilia I had stored in the closet and organize it into a meaningful collection. And further, the Spirit told me I had better do it now. No more waiting.

The following Monday evening I spent several hours sorting through the box of pictures, hoping to recognize faces and match scenery in similar pictures, but nothing worked. Obviously I could not do this alone. I had forgotten too much. But where could I turn? I knew there were men with whom he had served during the war, but the only one I knew personally had passed away.

My limited knowledge could not begin to build the book I dreamed of for my sons, who had been too small when their grandfather died to remember him now. I wanted to provide them with the means to know him.

I went to bed frustrated and saddened that this work had not been done while my father was living. I lay in bed, praying and pleading with Heavenly Father to send someone to help me with this work. I was desperate, and all the while that insistent little voice was saying, “Do it now, Cheryl; don’t wait any longer.”

The next day I called the Veterans of Foreign Wars offices, both locally and nationally, hoping they could put me in touch with a reunion group from my father’s unit. One man after another told me I was trying to do the impossible.

By the middle of the afternoon I was beginning to believe it was impossible. But at three o’clock there was a knock at the front door. The gray-haired man at the door was just selling newspaper subscriptions, but immediately that insistent little voice prompted me to seek his help for my project. I felt silly trying to explain my dream to a total stranger, but for some reason he didn’t seem surprised. He encouraged me, explaining that he was a Navy veteran of the war; I invited him in to see my collection on the dining room table.

After a few minutes of pointing out familiar objects and giving me some history, he picked up a small brown notepad, where forty years ago my father had written the names and hometowns of a few young men with whom he had served. He pointed to the first name on the list and told me to call the newspaper in the man’s hometown, a tiny community in Nebraska, to place an advertisement asking for help locating the soldier.

I was doubtful. After all, forty years is a long time, and so many people move away from their childhood homes. But then I remembered my prayer and the prompting I had received to ask this man for help, and I placed the call.

I was not prepared for the newspaperman’s reaction to the soldier’s name. He said, “Well, I’m going to do myself out of an ad for the paper, but I can help you.” He knew both of the soldier’s brothers.

The first brother was not at home, but the second brother’s wife was, and I learned that my father’s friend was still living and that he had just undergone surgery for lung cancer. The insistent little voice pressing me to work quickly began to make sense now.

My father’s friend and I spent two hours on the phone remembering things he had almost forgotten. He had met my father in boot camp and all through the war they had shared a tent and meals, high comedy, and sobering tragedy.

At the conclusion of our conversation he told me he had dreaded the long months of inactivity that would have to be endured before he could return to work. Now he would spend those months writing down his memories for me, beginning with the day he met my father in Savannah, Georgia.

Inspiration from Heavenly Father led me to other materials. Joe found a box in the garage that contained copies of all the papers pertinent to my father’s Army Air Corps service, including letters of commendation and recommendation, as well as copies of official documents. The originals had all been destroyed a number of years before in a government records center fire. These were the only copies in existence. Also in the box were more letters and pictures, including the last letter I had written to my father before his death. I had often wished it had been saved.

Then a closet shelf yielded a box of twenty-year-old Christmas cards. One of these, a card from another of my father’s service buddies who still lived at the same address, really paid off. He was the photographer who had taken and developed most of the pictures I have. Another two hours on the telephone provided even more insights—and the promise of more pictures to add to my growing collection.

I will probably never completely understand the benefits of all these treasures. Already, many people have been touched. My two boys now know more about my father than I knew at their age. All the funny stories Dad told me when I was a child have been recorded, as have the explanations for the tears and nightmares he suffered. He never did tell me some of the sad stories that his friends were willing to recount.

These men, who have so generously shared their time and memories with me, have benefited too. They are now in touch with each other. When this family book is finished, they will receive copies for their own children, hopefully to spark new insights and strengthen their family ties as well. Just as my father and these men were linked forty years ago, our families are now joined in a new bond of common sharing.

Illustrated by Lee Shaw