From: jim sterner
One of the men I worked with at Mobay ( now Bayer ) told this story. His name was Bob Abernathy. He was in the 82nd Airborne and jumped on D-day in Normandy. When he landed, he broke his leg and couldn't walk. He crawled under the hedgerow ( which were very dense and wide ) and hid as long as he could. He was finally captured, and the Germans taking care of the prisoners were just keeping ahead of the allied advance. When they finally realized they had to do something to speed up, the German officer in charge pulled his side arm and started walking toward the prisoners. Bob said he put the pistol to the head of one of the prisoners and just stood there for a minute. He finally shook his head, lowered the pistol and turned around and walked back to the trucks and left all the prisoners there. That was the last action Bob saw. The leg was broken so badly, they had to ship him back to the US and he spent 14 months in and out of hospitals. He walked with a pronounced limp to the day he died. Thank you Bob.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The McAnallys, Reluctant Warriors - Part 2
...and then there was me.
It was January 1968. I was in a state of post adolescent depression. Two failed relationships, one lost athletic scholarship due to grades, a dead end job at a gas station, one half hearted attempt at returning to the football arena but failed to make the grades at a junior college that was a prerequisite, and a war in Viet Nam that didn't seem to want to go away. The only positive thing I had done in the last two years was to accumulate enough college hours to give me the status of a Junior if I ever did go back full time.
My draft status was a little iffy. I had a card in my pocket that said 2S, but the draft board didn't know I wasn't attending college right then and I expected a notice any day congratulating me on a 1A classification. I was so directionless though that I wish they would hurry up and send me a notice just to move things forward.
For some reason I still am not sure why, I decided that given the fact that I had two good college years under my belt, surly I could some how get another two, but when. If I got drafted into or joined the service by the time I got out I would have two whole years remaining and knowing myself like I did I was sure I would get side tracked and never complete my education. However, if I some how could eek out one more year, the one year remaining after my discharge would probably be doable. I devised a plan and went to see the Draft Board people.
I walked into the Draft Board office and went to see Charlotte. Every 18 year old boy in Independence knew her by name. She was the lady who made decisions about a young man's future. She didn't really make the decisions about who was classified as what, she just followed the rules governing the draft. I am sure she took no joy in being part of sending boys off to war.
"Charlotte," I said, "Here's the deal. You leave me alone for another year, let me get one more year of school under my belt, then you can have me."
"I don't know if we can do that,"she replied. "What was your name again?" I told her.
She walked over to a file cabinet searched through some cards, selected one, turned to me, handed me the card and said, "Here, you just saved the government six cents."
With my newly acquired 1A card and a feeling of sickness in my stomach I listlessly went to visit some friends at the Warrensburg Extensions Center to tell them my tale of woe. As I was walking down the hall I saw a sign on one of the doors that read, "You want to beat the draft?" I took another look and under the big words were something like "if so report to room 212 at 1400 this Tuesday." I did.
Central Missouri State College was just starting up an ROTC program. They needed Juniors and Seniors to comprise the senior cadre. My reasoning was that I was going to have to go to Viet Nam anyway it appeared so I might as well go as an officer so when I was shot at I would at least be making more money. Besides I would get to finish school and who knew, perhaps the war would be over by the time I was ready to go on active duty.
I took basic at Fort Benning, Georgia that summer, came back to CMSC, took the required classes, spent the next summer at Fort Riley, came back to CMSC, took the required classes and received my commission as a 2LT in the Infantry. Soon after that I received orders to report to Fort Benning for the Infantry Officers Basic Course the following January. I filled in for a teacher in Sedalia while I waited.
The army had contracted with several doctors in Sedalia to give pre- induction physicals. I happened to pick a doctor who had a child in my class. He gave me a proper physical, took me in his office and told me that that my sugar was at such a level that he could write the report either way. "Do you want to go or not?" he asked.
Many of my friends had gone, a few had been killed, there was a long line of family members who had served, I was now married, had a job at the school, and now all I had to do was to say no and I was out of any obligation and could always say it was for medical reasons. My pride and honor would remain in tack for the rest of the world. The doctor and I would be the only ones who knew.
"I cannot not go," I replied, " I have to."
Two weeks after my faithful decision and never wishing I had not been noble I received another letter from the Army. It said something like this: "We are sorry to inform you that your services as a full time Army Officers is no longer required. We have to many officers right now. You still have an obligation however to do one of the following..." One of those options was to join a National Guard unit. They had one in Sedalia. I walked in the door to see what they had to offer so as to fulfill my military requirement and walked back out the door 20 years and 9 months later.
It was January 1968. I was in a state of post adolescent depression. Two failed relationships, one lost athletic scholarship due to grades, a dead end job at a gas station, one half hearted attempt at returning to the football arena but failed to make the grades at a junior college that was a prerequisite, and a war in Viet Nam that didn't seem to want to go away. The only positive thing I had done in the last two years was to accumulate enough college hours to give me the status of a Junior if I ever did go back full time.
My draft status was a little iffy. I had a card in my pocket that said 2S, but the draft board didn't know I wasn't attending college right then and I expected a notice any day congratulating me on a 1A classification. I was so directionless though that I wish they would hurry up and send me a notice just to move things forward.
For some reason I still am not sure why, I decided that given the fact that I had two good college years under my belt, surly I could some how get another two, but when. If I got drafted into or joined the service by the time I got out I would have two whole years remaining and knowing myself like I did I was sure I would get side tracked and never complete my education. However, if I some how could eek out one more year, the one year remaining after my discharge would probably be doable. I devised a plan and went to see the Draft Board people.
I walked into the Draft Board office and went to see Charlotte. Every 18 year old boy in Independence knew her by name. She was the lady who made decisions about a young man's future. She didn't really make the decisions about who was classified as what, she just followed the rules governing the draft. I am sure she took no joy in being part of sending boys off to war.
"Charlotte," I said, "Here's the deal. You leave me alone for another year, let me get one more year of school under my belt, then you can have me."
"I don't know if we can do that,"she replied. "What was your name again?" I told her.
She walked over to a file cabinet searched through some cards, selected one, turned to me, handed me the card and said, "Here, you just saved the government six cents."
With my newly acquired 1A card and a feeling of sickness in my stomach I listlessly went to visit some friends at the Warrensburg Extensions Center to tell them my tale of woe. As I was walking down the hall I saw a sign on one of the doors that read, "You want to beat the draft?" I took another look and under the big words were something like "if so report to room 212 at 1400 this Tuesday." I did.
Central Missouri State College was just starting up an ROTC program. They needed Juniors and Seniors to comprise the senior cadre. My reasoning was that I was going to have to go to Viet Nam anyway it appeared so I might as well go as an officer so when I was shot at I would at least be making more money. Besides I would get to finish school and who knew, perhaps the war would be over by the time I was ready to go on active duty.
I took basic at Fort Benning, Georgia that summer, came back to CMSC, took the required classes, spent the next summer at Fort Riley, came back to CMSC, took the required classes and received my commission as a 2LT in the Infantry. Soon after that I received orders to report to Fort Benning for the Infantry Officers Basic Course the following January. I filled in for a teacher in Sedalia while I waited.
The army had contracted with several doctors in Sedalia to give pre- induction physicals. I happened to pick a doctor who had a child in my class. He gave me a proper physical, took me in his office and told me that that my sugar was at such a level that he could write the report either way. "Do you want to go or not?" he asked.
Many of my friends had gone, a few had been killed, there was a long line of family members who had served, I was now married, had a job at the school, and now all I had to do was to say no and I was out of any obligation and could always say it was for medical reasons. My pride and honor would remain in tack for the rest of the world. The doctor and I would be the only ones who knew.
"I cannot not go," I replied, " I have to."
Two weeks after my faithful decision and never wishing I had not been noble I received another letter from the Army. It said something like this: "We are sorry to inform you that your services as a full time Army Officers is no longer required. We have to many officers right now. You still have an obligation however to do one of the following..." One of those options was to join a National Guard unit. They had one in Sedalia. I walked in the door to see what they had to offer so as to fulfill my military requirement and walked back out the door 20 years and 9 months later.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The McAnallys, Reluctant Warriors- Part I
Pat,
Here are a few things that might interest you. First let me set at least one rule of engagement: Don't feel it necessary to respond to any thing I send you. Sure I would like to hear from you on several subjects that I will eventually get around to asking, but don't feel obligated to respond to my muses or some might say diatribe. I don't play golf, my bike riding is limited and my hobby is writing stuff for my own enjoyment. Now and then I send some stuff to people and they have to bare with me. The two items enclosed are part of one of my blogs.
The McAnally's, Reluctant Warriors - Part 1
From the best the family can tell Charles McAnally, Sr was born in Scotland in 1685 and came to American in 1693. He died in 1740 and was reportedly a farmer by trade. There is no record he ever fought in any war but being on the frontier he might have had a run in with an Indian or two.
He did have two sons, Charles, Jr. and John who did fight in the French and Indian War for the Virginia Colonial Militia, Charles, Jr as a captain and John of unknown rank fought in the Revolutionary War with the North Carolina Militia.
Charles had a son named Jesse who also fought for North Carolina. John had a son named David who was in the RW but seemed to break the tradition of North Carolina and was assigned as a guard of British prisoners, was a sergeant and served with General Mead and General Lafayette.
Later on there was a John McAnally who fought in the Mexican War, but no one seems to know what he did, where he was from, or who he was related to in the McAnally linage.
The one soldier the McAnally's point to with ah was Charles McAnally a captain in the Civil War. He won the Congressional Medal of Honor. The citation read "In hand to hand encounter with the enemy captured a flag, was wounded in action but continued in action until he received a second wound." This took place at Spotsylvania. He was a member of the 69th Penn. Vol. Inf. He must have seen a lot of action and received at least what we call now one friendly fire wound. His records show that in the early part of 1861 he was shot in the right leg as a result of two junior ranks having an altercation. Later in 1861 on a night patrol he was shot just below the right knee at Manson Hill, VA. Then in 1863 he received a head wound on July 3 at Gettysburg from a saber. He was again shot at Cold Harbor on June 1864 in the right leg and surgeons wanted to remove his leg but he talked them out of it. He was promoted to Captain in October of 1864 and in March 1865 he was presented with a sword by the men of his Regiment. He received a military pension until 1905.
At the same time there was another Charles McAnally, Sgt, who was with K Company, 37th Infantry, Confederate States of America. It is not known if either Charles faced each other in combat.
Although not a McAnally, Thomas Conley Copeland was a private in the Kansas Volunteer Infantry and fought at the battle of Lone Jack. He was my great great grandfather on my great grandmothers side. I have his discharge papers and his later commission in the Missouri Army National Guard.
There was a Thomas McAnally who fought with the 1st District of Columbia Volunteer Infantry, Co A during the Spanish American War and James McAnally was a member of American Expeditionary Force in WW I, both cousins of mine.
My grandfather, Joseph Conley McAnally, ran away from home and joined the US Calvary after WW I and spent his time riding horses in Wyoming and Montana. He did not like it and asked his dad to buy him out of the service, which great grandpa did for $1,500.
James McAnally is reported to have been on Wake Island but no one is sure if he is of our linage.
Dad was drafted and had no real desire to go but did of course and served in Korea and in the reserves for a couple of years.
And then there was me.
Here are a few things that might interest you. First let me set at least one rule of engagement: Don't feel it necessary to respond to any thing I send you. Sure I would like to hear from you on several subjects that I will eventually get around to asking, but don't feel obligated to respond to my muses or some might say diatribe. I don't play golf, my bike riding is limited and my hobby is writing stuff for my own enjoyment. Now and then I send some stuff to people and they have to bare with me. The two items enclosed are part of one of my blogs.
The McAnally's, Reluctant Warriors - Part 1
From the best the family can tell Charles McAnally, Sr was born in Scotland in 1685 and came to American in 1693. He died in 1740 and was reportedly a farmer by trade. There is no record he ever fought in any war but being on the frontier he might have had a run in with an Indian or two.
He did have two sons, Charles, Jr. and John who did fight in the French and Indian War for the Virginia Colonial Militia, Charles, Jr as a captain and John of unknown rank fought in the Revolutionary War with the North Carolina Militia.
Charles had a son named Jesse who also fought for North Carolina. John had a son named David who was in the RW but seemed to break the tradition of North Carolina and was assigned as a guard of British prisoners, was a sergeant and served with General Mead and General Lafayette.
Later on there was a John McAnally who fought in the Mexican War, but no one seems to know what he did, where he was from, or who he was related to in the McAnally linage.
The one soldier the McAnally's point to with ah was Charles McAnally a captain in the Civil War. He won the Congressional Medal of Honor. The citation read "In hand to hand encounter with the enemy captured a flag, was wounded in action but continued in action until he received a second wound." This took place at Spotsylvania. He was a member of the 69th Penn. Vol. Inf. He must have seen a lot of action and received at least what we call now one friendly fire wound. His records show that in the early part of 1861 he was shot in the right leg as a result of two junior ranks having an altercation. Later in 1861 on a night patrol he was shot just below the right knee at Manson Hill, VA. Then in 1863 he received a head wound on July 3 at Gettysburg from a saber. He was again shot at Cold Harbor on June 1864 in the right leg and surgeons wanted to remove his leg but he talked them out of it. He was promoted to Captain in October of 1864 and in March 1865 he was presented with a sword by the men of his Regiment. He received a military pension until 1905.
At the same time there was another Charles McAnally, Sgt, who was with K Company, 37th Infantry, Confederate States of America. It is not known if either Charles faced each other in combat.
Although not a McAnally, Thomas Conley Copeland was a private in the Kansas Volunteer Infantry and fought at the battle of Lone Jack. He was my great great grandfather on my great grandmothers side. I have his discharge papers and his later commission in the Missouri Army National Guard.
There was a Thomas McAnally who fought with the 1st District of Columbia Volunteer Infantry, Co A during the Spanish American War and James McAnally was a member of American Expeditionary Force in WW I, both cousins of mine.
My grandfather, Joseph Conley McAnally, ran away from home and joined the US Calvary after WW I and spent his time riding horses in Wyoming and Montana. He did not like it and asked his dad to buy him out of the service, which great grandpa did for $1,500.
James McAnally is reported to have been on Wake Island but no one is sure if he is of our linage.
Dad was drafted and had no real desire to go but did of course and served in Korea and in the reserves for a couple of years.
And then there was me.
Spy Dad
Dad left me two items when he died. One was a box of letters he had mailed home from the time he went into the army until he was discharged. The other was an envelop with letters from a woman who I shall call Marcia Smith. The letters dad sent home are interesting and when I read them it is sort of like visiting with him when he was 25 years old. Those letters will comprise a section of my blog at a later date.
The letters from Marcia however were the letters I had waited several years to review. There were about 12 letters. They were mailed the first of each month to Dad while he was in Korea. The letters are a little newsy, nothing romantic, just friendly little tid bits of information from back home. Marcia however lived in Eldon, Missouri and Dad of course was from Independence. Marcia was doing something very common back then, sort of a patriotic thing - writing the boys who were fighting the bad guys to keep them remembering what they were fighting for.
My name was mentioned a couple of times in the letters but mostly just in response to letters Dad had apparently sent her. For the most part the letters were humdrum, poorly written many times, awkward sentence structures, but I guess for a soldier far away any news about the home front is welcome. So why might you ask yourself had I been looking forward to reading these letters for several years.
When I retired from the military Dad told me that he had a box of letters with my name on it and when he died he wanted me to open it and read the contents. He then went on to tell me that there was a series of letters in the box from a Marcia Smith of Elden, Missouri and I was to pay special attention to those letters. Marcia he said was his "handler." He went on to tell me a story.
After receiving some special training by Naval Intelligence, Dad and some other men were sent to different parts of Korea. Their job if they happen to be captured was to supply information through letters handled by the Red Cross as to what was really happening in the POW camps. The information the army had been receiving about those camps were incomplete and confusing and together with the fact that there had been fewer escapes from prison camps than in any other war, they wanted to know why.
They gave him an address of Marcia Smith, 221 Elm Street, Eldon, Missouri. After he arrived in Korea he was supposed to write her, send information in code to keep from losing the skill he had committed to memory, and she in turn would write back in code answering questions he might have asked and asking new ones. They continued their correspondance for a year.
Dad said that the last letter he sent to Marcia said he was returning home the following month and would really like to meet her. She responded that she did not think that would be a very good idea because the boy friend she had now was the jealous type and it would just cause problems. Dad said he wrote back and told her he understood and it had been nice visiting with her and would send her a Christmas card or some such thing. She wrote one more letter back and said that that would not be a good idea either but she would make it a point to keep track of him and if she ever needed anything she would contact him. Dad dropped the issue, will almost.
When he got back to Independence one of the first things he did was to borrow a car and drive to Eldon. He found that 221 Elm Street did not exist.
Twenty years went by Dad was a chief flight instructor for Wilson Flying Service. One of his students was a local secret service agent who wanted to learn to fly so it would be easier to transfer to the border patrol. He said the service was sort of boring anymore. The agent said he just stood around and watched people and made pointless contacts for other agenicies. After one of the lesson the agent said he had a friend that wanted to meet Dad. Sure Dad said, where and when. The agent told dad that the parking lot at Wilson's would be fine and how about midnight that night.
Dad was a little taken aback, but went along with the plan. Dad did not recall or choose to tell me the conversation that took place that night but the up shot was that the guy he met asked Dad if he would be interested in running an airport for the firm he represented. Dad said he might be but where was it exactly he was talking about. The guy told Dad he could not tell him right then, but it was some place in southeast Asia. The guy told him they did not need an answer right then but did in a day or two. He would be in touch. "Oh, by the way," the guy said in parting, "Marcia says hi."
Dad turned down the job and never mentioned anything about it to anyone except my grandfather and me.
At Dad's funeral there were two retired FBI agents as honorary pallbearers and some flowers from some one that only signed the card, "Thanks, MS"
The letters from Marcia however were the letters I had waited several years to review. There were about 12 letters. They were mailed the first of each month to Dad while he was in Korea. The letters are a little newsy, nothing romantic, just friendly little tid bits of information from back home. Marcia however lived in Eldon, Missouri and Dad of course was from Independence. Marcia was doing something very common back then, sort of a patriotic thing - writing the boys who were fighting the bad guys to keep them remembering what they were fighting for.
My name was mentioned a couple of times in the letters but mostly just in response to letters Dad had apparently sent her. For the most part the letters were humdrum, poorly written many times, awkward sentence structures, but I guess for a soldier far away any news about the home front is welcome. So why might you ask yourself had I been looking forward to reading these letters for several years.
When I retired from the military Dad told me that he had a box of letters with my name on it and when he died he wanted me to open it and read the contents. He then went on to tell me that there was a series of letters in the box from a Marcia Smith of Elden, Missouri and I was to pay special attention to those letters. Marcia he said was his "handler." He went on to tell me a story.
After receiving some special training by Naval Intelligence, Dad and some other men were sent to different parts of Korea. Their job if they happen to be captured was to supply information through letters handled by the Red Cross as to what was really happening in the POW camps. The information the army had been receiving about those camps were incomplete and confusing and together with the fact that there had been fewer escapes from prison camps than in any other war, they wanted to know why.
They gave him an address of Marcia Smith, 221 Elm Street, Eldon, Missouri. After he arrived in Korea he was supposed to write her, send information in code to keep from losing the skill he had committed to memory, and she in turn would write back in code answering questions he might have asked and asking new ones. They continued their correspondance for a year.
Dad said that the last letter he sent to Marcia said he was returning home the following month and would really like to meet her. She responded that she did not think that would be a very good idea because the boy friend she had now was the jealous type and it would just cause problems. Dad said he wrote back and told her he understood and it had been nice visiting with her and would send her a Christmas card or some such thing. She wrote one more letter back and said that that would not be a good idea either but she would make it a point to keep track of him and if she ever needed anything she would contact him. Dad dropped the issue, will almost.
When he got back to Independence one of the first things he did was to borrow a car and drive to Eldon. He found that 221 Elm Street did not exist.
Twenty years went by Dad was a chief flight instructor for Wilson Flying Service. One of his students was a local secret service agent who wanted to learn to fly so it would be easier to transfer to the border patrol. He said the service was sort of boring anymore. The agent said he just stood around and watched people and made pointless contacts for other agenicies. After one of the lesson the agent said he had a friend that wanted to meet Dad. Sure Dad said, where and when. The agent told dad that the parking lot at Wilson's would be fine and how about midnight that night.
Dad was a little taken aback, but went along with the plan. Dad did not recall or choose to tell me the conversation that took place that night but the up shot was that the guy he met asked Dad if he would be interested in running an airport for the firm he represented. Dad said he might be but where was it exactly he was talking about. The guy told Dad he could not tell him right then, but it was some place in southeast Asia. The guy told him they did not need an answer right then but did in a day or two. He would be in touch. "Oh, by the way," the guy said in parting, "Marcia says hi."
Dad turned down the job and never mentioned anything about it to anyone except my grandfather and me.
At Dad's funeral there were two retired FBI agents as honorary pallbearers and some flowers from some one that only signed the card, "Thanks, MS"
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
911 - Alaska
The following is an edited version of a column that appeared in the Independence Examiner on January 17, 2004
Even up here 911 is a magic number
Conley McAnally
the Examiner
You have read about my friend and teaching partner George. George is a young man and very fit, however he is clumsy. Last year he fell off a snow-go while sitting in front of the post office and dislocated his shoulder. The local missionary/EMT set it. This year he was visited by the missionary again, not to save his soul but perhaps his life.
I was getting ready to go to my classroom one Saturday morning when the phone rang. It was George. He asked me if I could come over to his place sort of quickly. He lives in the trailer next to my semi subterranean dwelling so I was there in less than a minute. His back door was opened so I walked in and called out his name. I heard his voice coming from the kitchen and when I saw him he was holding a towel wrapped around his left hand which he held high above his head. He had cut his hand .
He said he wanted to look at the cut but when he looked at it the last time blood started spurting out all over the place and he wanted me around to make sure we could pack the wound if it had not coagulated yet. It was then I noticed that there was blood all over the sink, the floor, and kitchen table. As we started taking the towels off we soon realized that the cut had not clotted. Blood began running down his arm and spurting over my shoulder. We compressed the wound and stopped the bleeding.
I suggested we call Grant, the missionary but when I tried the number the call did not go through. We tried the clinic and the police station, still no luck. We figured something was wrong with the phone lines which was not abnormal.
Blood started running down George's arm so I abandoned my calling to apply pressure to the wound again and told George not to go into shock. He said he did not plan on it. He said he was more worried about the loss of blood.
I told him I thought he still had plenty.
George said this sounded like a 911. Neither of us knew if the service was provided here in Hooper Bay and if it did was it a local call or routed to Bethel and then back here, but I punched in the numbers anyway deciding not to speculate or discuss the matter further.
The 911 operator came on immediately, it was the Hooper Bay police dispatcher. Yes even Hooper Bay has 911 service. The call went something like this
Operator: Emergency
Me: This is Conley, George has just cut his hand and needs assistance immediately.
Operator: (She said something in Yup'ik that I could not understand.)
Me: What? Operator, are you sending help, we need it now.
Operator: How did he cut his hand.
Me: It does not matter how he cut his hand are you sending some one?
George yelled so the lady would hear that this was getting serious and we needed help now. In deed it was and we did, George's blood was now flowing down his arm.
Operator: I have contacted the officers already George (like she was talking to him and not me) they should me there any time now.
Me: Remember it is the trailer behind the old clinic next to the hallway leading to the maintenance shed behind my place, and come to the back door.
Operator: WILCO
No sooner had I gotten that out when a knock came at the door. "COME IN!" It was one of Hooper Bay's finest and right behind him came a second officer. They got out their equipment. One started to put gauze on the wound while the other contacted dispatch to get Grant over there. The dispatcher came pack and said that one of the officers would have to go get the missionary, his snow-go was being used by one of his kids. The situation was under control and the other officer relieved me from applying pressure to stop the bleeding.
Grant was there within five minutes and assisted in dressing the cut while making arraignments to get George transported to Bethel.
Now to wrap up some loose ends. George had just returned from his Christmas break that morning and he was trying to pry meat apart with a knife when it slipped and sliced the area between his thumb and index finger. The phone would not work because he had coded it before he left for Christmas and was to rattled to tell me how to decode the phone when I tried to make my calls for help, although he had done so when he called me.
The 911 system worked like a charm and the village police handled the situation in a very professional manner.
An officer and health aide accompanied George to Bethel by commercial carrier and they returned the next day no worse for the wear. There was no nerve damage and his hand would be fine in a day or two they told him. "Just don't strain the hand, watch for discoloration, and if there is pain take two aspirin and call us in the morning," the lady doctor in Bethel told him.
Just like being home.
Even up here 911 is a magic number
Conley McAnally
the Examiner
You have read about my friend and teaching partner George. George is a young man and very fit, however he is clumsy. Last year he fell off a snow-go while sitting in front of the post office and dislocated his shoulder. The local missionary/EMT set it. This year he was visited by the missionary again, not to save his soul but perhaps his life.
I was getting ready to go to my classroom one Saturday morning when the phone rang. It was George. He asked me if I could come over to his place sort of quickly. He lives in the trailer next to my semi subterranean dwelling so I was there in less than a minute. His back door was opened so I walked in and called out his name. I heard his voice coming from the kitchen and when I saw him he was holding a towel wrapped around his left hand which he held high above his head. He had cut his hand .
He said he wanted to look at the cut but when he looked at it the last time blood started spurting out all over the place and he wanted me around to make sure we could pack the wound if it had not coagulated yet. It was then I noticed that there was blood all over the sink, the floor, and kitchen table. As we started taking the towels off we soon realized that the cut had not clotted. Blood began running down his arm and spurting over my shoulder. We compressed the wound and stopped the bleeding.
I suggested we call Grant, the missionary but when I tried the number the call did not go through. We tried the clinic and the police station, still no luck. We figured something was wrong with the phone lines which was not abnormal.
Blood started running down George's arm so I abandoned my calling to apply pressure to the wound again and told George not to go into shock. He said he did not plan on it. He said he was more worried about the loss of blood.
I told him I thought he still had plenty.
George said this sounded like a 911. Neither of us knew if the service was provided here in Hooper Bay and if it did was it a local call or routed to Bethel and then back here, but I punched in the numbers anyway deciding not to speculate or discuss the matter further.
The 911 operator came on immediately, it was the Hooper Bay police dispatcher. Yes even Hooper Bay has 911 service. The call went something like this
Operator: Emergency
Me: This is Conley, George has just cut his hand and needs assistance immediately.
Operator: (She said something in Yup'ik that I could not understand.)
Me: What? Operator, are you sending help, we need it now.
Operator: How did he cut his hand.
Me: It does not matter how he cut his hand are you sending some one?
George yelled so the lady would hear that this was getting serious and we needed help now. In deed it was and we did, George's blood was now flowing down his arm.
Operator: I have contacted the officers already George (like she was talking to him and not me) they should me there any time now.
Me: Remember it is the trailer behind the old clinic next to the hallway leading to the maintenance shed behind my place, and come to the back door.
Operator: WILCO
No sooner had I gotten that out when a knock came at the door. "COME IN!" It was one of Hooper Bay's finest and right behind him came a second officer. They got out their equipment. One started to put gauze on the wound while the other contacted dispatch to get Grant over there. The dispatcher came pack and said that one of the officers would have to go get the missionary, his snow-go was being used by one of his kids. The situation was under control and the other officer relieved me from applying pressure to stop the bleeding.
Grant was there within five minutes and assisted in dressing the cut while making arraignments to get George transported to Bethel.
Now to wrap up some loose ends. George had just returned from his Christmas break that morning and he was trying to pry meat apart with a knife when it slipped and sliced the area between his thumb and index finger. The phone would not work because he had coded it before he left for Christmas and was to rattled to tell me how to decode the phone when I tried to make my calls for help, although he had done so when he called me.
The 911 system worked like a charm and the village police handled the situation in a very professional manner.
An officer and health aide accompanied George to Bethel by commercial carrier and they returned the next day no worse for the wear. There was no nerve damage and his hand would be fine in a day or two they told him. "Just don't strain the hand, watch for discoloration, and if there is pain take two aspirin and call us in the morning," the lady doctor in Bethel told him.
Just like being home.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Anonymous
Not often enough some people leave comments on one of my blogs. I appreciate that but seldom can I figure out who they are. A couple sign their name, others use a coded name but from what they say they seem to know me and I can almost figure it out. So far however there are two I am not sure about. One calls them self Papaed. I have that narrowed down to two, one woman and one man. The other signs Sortajkr. That also is narrowed down to one of each gender. I like the feed back and wish there was more, but I would like it more if I knew who they were. I guess they wish to remain anonymous. By the way Sortajkr, post away.
Crisp Lake Chronicles
The Crisp Lake Chronicle was an underground newspaper published in the early to late 1950's. It's circulation never mounted to much and the best I can determine from reading the now yellow toned pages it was a paper that printed all the news that was really unfit to print anywhere else.
Some might call it a gossip rag, others might say it was a collection of a bunch of stories that were meaningless to anyone other than the reporter, still others might say everything was made up and untrue. I on the other hand believe every word of what I read in the CLC and look at it as little slice of Americana.
What is really strange to me is that other than my grandfather's collection there does not seem to be any record of it ever existing. The Examiner has no mention of it in its archives, the Jackson County Historical Society has no record of it among their catalog of the Inner City News, nor does the Internet give it any mention. It is like a conspiracy. It is a mystery.
So I feel it is my obligation to resurrect some of the articles and place them from time to time in my blog. Social historians will applaud me, my readers will gain some in site as to what it was like back in the 50's living in and around Fairmount, Maywood, and even Englewood but even more so on Crisp Lake proper, and some might even be offended if they have a thin skin about their ancestors.
The big mystery however is that in all the papers I have perused so far there is not the slightest mention of who the reporter was or who actually was the publisher or distributor.
The few old timers left in the old neighborhood claim they have no knowledge of the publication and change the subject when questioned about an event that was claimed to have happened.
My grandfather left a note on the outside of the box the papers were in that said not to open until 40 years after his death. A note in side the box, just opened recently, says that anyone reading the contents could do anything they wated with the information contained in the CLC becasue most of the people mentioned would be dead or to old to read anyway.
First edition coming soon.
Some might call it a gossip rag, others might say it was a collection of a bunch of stories that were meaningless to anyone other than the reporter, still others might say everything was made up and untrue. I on the other hand believe every word of what I read in the CLC and look at it as little slice of Americana.
What is really strange to me is that other than my grandfather's collection there does not seem to be any record of it ever existing. The Examiner has no mention of it in its archives, the Jackson County Historical Society has no record of it among their catalog of the Inner City News, nor does the Internet give it any mention. It is like a conspiracy. It is a mystery.
So I feel it is my obligation to resurrect some of the articles and place them from time to time in my blog. Social historians will applaud me, my readers will gain some in site as to what it was like back in the 50's living in and around Fairmount, Maywood, and even Englewood but even more so on Crisp Lake proper, and some might even be offended if they have a thin skin about their ancestors.
The big mystery however is that in all the papers I have perused so far there is not the slightest mention of who the reporter was or who actually was the publisher or distributor.
The few old timers left in the old neighborhood claim they have no knowledge of the publication and change the subject when questioned about an event that was claimed to have happened.
My grandfather left a note on the outside of the box the papers were in that said not to open until 40 years after his death. A note in side the box, just opened recently, says that anyone reading the contents could do anything they wated with the information contained in the CLC becasue most of the people mentioned would be dead or to old to read anyway.
First edition coming soon.
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