We dreaded Christmas that year. It was 1944, and the war would never be over for our f***ly.
The telegram had arrived in August. Bob’s few personal possessions, the flag from his coffin, the plan of his burial site in the Philippine Islands, and a Distinguished Flying Cross had arrived one by one, adding to our agonizing grief.
Born on a Midwest prairie, my brother rode horseback to school but wanted to fly an airplane from the first day he saw one. By the time he was twenty-one, we were living in Seattle, Washington. When World WarⅡbroke out, Bob headed for the nearest Air Force recruitment office. Slightly built, skinny like his father, he was ten pounds underweight.
Undaunted, he persuaded mother to cook every fattening food she could think of. He ate before meals, between meals and after meals. We laughed and called him“lardo”.
At the Navy Cadet Office he stepped on the scale—still three pounds to go. He was desperate. His friends were leaving one after the other; his best buddy was already in the Marine Air Corps. The next morning, he ate a pound of greasy bacon, six eggs and five bananas, drank two gallons of milk, and, bloated like a pig, staggered back on their scale. He passed the weigh-in with eight ounces to spare.
When he was nominated Hot Pilot of primary training school in Pasco, Washington, and invol