Post by T/5. Joseph Shelton on Sept 2, 2010 19:54:23 GMT
This is Shelton/Jefferson. Decided to make a pilot character. Is it possible to use the same email? If so, consider the email below as the email for this new account. If not I’ll make a new email real quick.
Account Email: grungedoctor88@hotmail.com
Name: Rodger “Dutch” Schultz
Alignment: USAAF
Rank: Lieutenant
HISTORY
Rodger Schultz was born in the farmland of middle America on November 12, 1918 at his family’s home in Waterloo, Iowa. His parents were not wealthy, but between his father’s farm work and his mother’s secretarial job at the post office, they were able to make sufficient ends meet throughout most of the 1920s. Rodger himself would always lend a hand to his father around the property. Be it driving a plow, or tending to the chickens, he did his fair share, despite having never been asked.
Of course, he wasn’t alone in this family. Rodger was growing up with his younger sister, Clara, who would help their mother around the house, cleaning, knitting, cooking, learning the trades of the time. The two were very close, unlike most sibling rivalries, Rodger and Clara had an understanding that allowed them to get along, even as they grew older they were each other’s best friend.
He was never an athletic person. Not to say he was out of shape, but Rodger simply did not enjoy playing sports. Of course he would always talk baseball with his friends and father, he was more of the academic type. He loved to read books, solve problems, and learn what made anything and everything work. He had a very attentive mind, and was often summoned to help fix a broken tool or some sort.
Things were going well for Rodger. He was doing well in school, and was living the normal lifestyle of the early 20th Century American family. All this would change though. In 1929, an eleven year old Rodger would witness the most destructive event of the American economy to date. As Black Monday hit the Markets on October 28th. It was no surprise that due to the losing of stock and money, the Schultz family would soon lose their farm. And they did.
Rodger’s father began to work odd jobs around the city, going wherever the money was, along with thousands of other men providing for families. In newspapers there were articles that in California, an endless amount of jobs were available to all who came and gave labor. It was after much discussion between Mr. and Mrs. Schultz that Mr. Schultz would brave his way west in hopes of returning with the ability to once again provide for his family. He loaded up a few things to take with him, and said his goodbyes to Rodger as he drove off in the family car. It would be the last time Rodger ever saw his father.
Things seemed to start crashing down on Robert. He was the sole man of the house now, and had no idea how he would provide for his mother and sister. His mother would end up working as a farmhand throughout the community, with Clara at her side helping as well. Mrs. Schultz made it very clear that Rodger was to not get a job, but to continue his focus in education. Feeling bad for his sister’s inability to attend school, Rodger would stay up late with her, teaching Clara the same curriculum that he was learning in school. He felt good knowing that despite it would never be on paper, his younger sister would have an education.
As time dragged on, and the Depression worsened, it seemed that there was no end in sight. Rodger picked up baseball with his friends in high school. Something to do to keep his mind off all of the troubles at home and around the world. His freshman year he tried out for the school’s team as a pitcher, and impressed the coaches with his talent that even Rodger didn’t know he had. He wasn’t a fireball pitcher, but he had accuracy, and a deadly curveball to compliment a dastard forkball. He would start all four years of his high school career, earning a final record of 40-8 and over three hundred strikeouts.
Rodger didn’t slack academically either. He succeeded very well in arithmetic, English comprehension, and physics. Often he would make top marks in his class, earning nothing lower than a high B. During the junior science fair he constructed a device that allowed rainwater to be filtered for drinking. Something that his town ended up adopting for mass use in the homes that no longer had running water. He had become a hometown hero for this, amongst other things such as his pitching.
During his senior year in 1936, Rodger was approached by a college scout from Yale University. The scout offered him a scholarship to play baseball for the school, while at the same time he would be able to take classes and earn a degree in a field of his choice. It was a dream come true. Rodger couldn’t wait to inform his mother and sister of the news. And when he got home, all three shared a joyful tear together as they celebrated the success of Rodger and his moving up in the world. Rodger knew this was his ticket to make things right for his family. He called the scout the next day and accepted the scholarship.
College life was very strange. First off, the farm boy from Iowa was now in the big city and modernized east coast in New Haven, Connecticut. The classes were much harder, and despite some struggles, Rodger was able to hold on and make passing marks. While doing this he was also playing baseball. While he was never fully passionate about the sport like others, he enjoyed the time it gave him away from life. The ability to go outside everyday on the field and be a kid again was rewarding. It was a return to innocence that kept his head above water.
However, he was not the star he had once been in high school. He wasn’t a bust, but at the same time, no major league teams were looking at him. This didn’t bother Rodger because he never anticipated a career in professional baseball. He was here to get a degree, and all they asked of him was his right arm every couple of nights. A fair trade in his opinion. He would go on to have a more successful than not college baseball career, but after his final season, it was obvious that it was nothing more than a milked ride through school, but no one gave him grief for it.
It was 1941 now, Rodger had just graduated from Yale University. He took classes mostly relative to mathematics, physics, and science, and walked away from college with a degree in Aeronautical Engineering. What made him choose this path dates back to his childhood on the family farm. His father owned an old Curtiss biplane used in World War I. Mr. Schultz had purchased it for crop dusting and would often take Rodger up with him. And this is what Rodger had always been in love with, flying. After his father left home, he was never able to fly again, as he had no one to take him.
With this degree, Rodger intended to work for an airline company, or somewhere in aviation that would put him around planes. And it wasn’t long before he got his first job offer. In mid 1941, after sending out numerous job applications, Rodger was contacted by Trans World Airline. They offered him a spot to work as a maintenance pilot, where he would service and test worn down aircraft and then send them back out to the fleet once fixed. It was nearly a dream job, and he immediately accepted the offer.Rodger informed his mother and sister of the good news, and the three celebrated it with a home cooked roast that Mrs. Schultz had been preparing all day.
Later in the week, Rodger left home with a single briefcase. He was heading to Atlanta Georgia, where TWA held one of it’s main service hubs, and where Rodger would be spending the next few years of his life with his new career, or so he thought. It was now late 1941, Rodger was settled in a small home not far from his job, which was at the local airport. So far he found himself content. He kept in near daily contact with his mother and sister, between letters and phone calls they were able to stay in touch. Clara, who herself had now grown into a young woman of 21 had already been in college for a year, studying to become an accountant assistant. Rodger was proud that he and his sister had gotten out of the slump, and would now be able to care for their mother.
December quickly came around and Rodger began to make plans to go home for the holidays. Since he was working well, and had improved the numbers across the board for TWA, his supervisor had allowed him to go home for Christmas. He planned to leave on December 15th, and would return just after the new year. Since his coworkers were all leaving around the same time or sooner, they decided to have a small get together on Saturday the 7th. They met for a nice dinner at a local steakhouse where they shared stories from home, such as surviving the depression, moving out, education, and the occasional jab at the boss, who was not present, of course.
Eventually, the reveling ended, and they party had split from the steakhouse, having wished one another a merry Christmas and happy new year, and so Rodger headed for his home. It was nothing special. It was a small shotgun style home that had a den, kitchen, bedroom, and a bathroom. It was clean and well maintained, but one could easily see from the exterior that it was aged. Rodger arrived home from the party at around two in the morning, just about tipsy, he simply kicked off his shoes and nose dived into his bed. He was out not five seconds later, the radio having been left on since before he left was playing a soft swing melody.
The Sunday son rose, and then continued to rise into the early afternoon. Rodger was still sound asleep, snoring louder than a thunderstorm could clap. It was his first true encounter with alcohol the night before, and so he reacted the natural way. Of course, when the radio switched from some soft swing and jazz music to a news bulletin, even a comatose person could awake with what was said. ”We now interrupt your program to bring you this important news bulletin. This morning in Oahu, Hawaii, Japanese military forces attacked the military installation of Pearl Harbor by air. We are being told as of this time that many dozen ships have been sunk, and over three thousand military and civilian personnel are presumed dead. Please stay tuned as we bring you more information of this tragic event!”
Rodger’s eyes were wide awake by now. He was stunned. Fear began to run down his body. He was not living under a rock. He knew of the world events. The war in Europe, the tension in the Pacific. It was only a matter of time. And how long would it be before the mainland was struck? Rodger quickly jumped out of bed and with the clothes on from last night he made his way down to the corner where there was a phone booth.
Arriving at the phone booth it was no surprise that there was a line. Men and women of all ages gathered together, chattering up the events, crying, cursing, blaming. Rodger got in line behind another man about the same age as him. The two struck up conversation as Rodger nodded to him. ”I just heard the news on my radio, I never though this would happen.” “Well it has. America is in a war now. I’m calling up my mom to say my goodbyes. I’m going in the Army.” Rodger looked in awe. Here they were, not a day into the war and already young men were going off to fight.
Rodger and the other young man, who introduced himself as Samuel Callahan, or just “Sam,” continued to talk as they waited in the line. Sam had grown up in Atlanta, and was currently in college himself for a degree in healthcare. He wanted to be a medic in the Army now and do his part. He was angered that his country had been attacked and was ready to deliver his own blow. The two became fast friends during this conversation, and as Same went into the booth for his turn, Rodger waited attentively to hear what Sam would do next.
As Sam came out of the booth, he shook Rodger’s hand. ”Well if I don’t see ya again Rodge, good luck. Rodger shook back and wished Sam luck as he walked off in the direction of the recruiting station, and as Rodger entered the booth, he was overcome with the idea to enlist. Certainly he had never had the military in his options. But after the conversation with Sam for nearly the past hour, he felt it had somehow become an obligation, a duty to serve and protect America.
He thought about it more as he slowly inserted money and dialed up his mother. Why should he let the Japanese come and take everything he and millions of others had worked for? He would have none of that, and he decided right there that he too would enlist. He rang his mother to inform her of the news. Overcome with disparagement, she refused to speak to him and gave the phone to Clara. While she too did not approve of the idea, she supported the reasons, and after a short conversation, wished him luck as they said their goodbyes.
Rodger returned home to clean up before he left for the recruiting station. And to no surprise when he arrived there as well, there was another line to enter. A few heads up was Sam, who spotted Rodger and called him over to get in line with him. They greeted one another once more. ”Guess you figured you outta see what this big ol’ war thing is all about huh?” Same grinned as he patted Rodger on the back. Rodger nodded. ”Well, I’ve worked hard for what I have, and I’ll be damned of some yellow bastard is about to come take it from me. The two shared a laugh as they entered the doorway to the recruiting station.
The recruiter himself was overwhelmed. For the past few years he was lucky if he got a handful of enlistees to sign up, now he didn’t even have enough paper to enlist everyone. When it was finally Rodger’s turn to speak with the recruiter, Rodger explained his love for aviation, and his degree in aeronautical engineering. The recruiter was happy. The Army needed pilots badly, and Rodger was a sure fit. As the next few days went by, Rodger was kept busy with paperwork, medical exams, and filing resignation from his job as he prepared to leave for training.
The morning he was suppose to leave, Rodger made one last call home. His sister answered, she was weeping. ”Clara, what’s the matter? Is everything all right?” There was a moderate pause. ”Mom died.” A large pit sank into Rodger’s stomach. He was speechless, but after a few encouraging words to his baby sister, he informed her that he was shipping out, and once he was given leave he was sure to come spend time with her. He held on to his tears until he hung up, and then sank into the booth crying like no grown man had ever cried before.
Rodger finally collected himself, and with his suitcase, he headed for the bus depot. Once there he saw many other men his age, some younger and some even older, awaiting for buses that would bring them all across the country for training into the US military. As he waited for his bus, Rodger caught up with Sam, who informed Rodger that he would be shipping to the east coast for infantry training, and eventually be sent to the hospital corps. Rodger’s bus arrived. He wished Sam luck, who returned the wish, and he waved as he boarded it and walked down the aisle to an unoccupied seat. Sam walked off to his bus, and Rodger wondered if he would ever see him again.
Several days later, in late December, Rodger arrived at Kelly Airfield, San Antonio, Texas. For the next few weeks he would train here and earn is qualification as an Army Air Corps pilot. He was left off the bus and ushered into a uniform room where he was sized and issued sets of clothing and other items of necessity. After that he was assigned to a dorm with three other cadets in a building just across from the main hangar. Rodger settled in and spoke with the other three roommates of the dorm. They were your typical American youths who signed up to fight against tyranny, and Rodger got along with them well.
For his first week of aviation training, Rodger was seated in a PT-22 Recruit. It allowed for both he and an instructor to fly. Throughout the first week, he learned how to take off, bank, and land. It was simply skills that had to be honed before it grew out into the bigger picture. At the end of the week, Rodger flew solo and performed a patterned flight around the airfield to prove he could perform what he was taught so far, and he passed exceptionally.
For the next few weeks, Rodger would learn how to do more advanced maneuvers such as barrel rolls, loops, controlled spins, and recovering from a stall. He hit high marks with his instructors throughout his training and performed well. However, one cadet did not. On an afternoon flight, an element of aircraft were landing. One cadet was descending towards the runway, but had pushed the stick forward too much, and put himself into an unrecoverable dive. He accelerated too fast and ran into the ground, erupting into a large explosion. Rodger watched from a bird’s eye view as he was suppose to be the next to land.
After the many weeks of what was called “rookie” school, Rodger and the rest of his class had graduated to the next level of advanced flight. It was at this time where men were assigned optioned to qualify for single engine or multi-engine aircraft. Rodger opted for multi-engine. He worked better in a group, and chances are if he flew a bomber or transport aircraft he would have some form of human contact other than that of dog fighting with an enemy. Rodger was seated to an AT-9 Fledgling where he practiced flying in the multi-engine aircraft.
It was 1942 now. The war had been on for eight months, and in August Rodger qualified and graduated from flight school. From there he was commissioned into the United States Army Air Force as a First Lieutenant. In September he was given his first assignment order, and was instructed to ship out to England for immediate service in the European front, where he would pilot bombers for the USAAF.
Before heading east to New York for disembarkation, Rodger went back home to Iowa to say one final farewell to his sister. When arrived at the family home, he spent the next few hours talking with Clara. She had informed him that she dropped from college, and accepted a job at the local factory, working as a munitions specialist. It was a dangerous job, but it paid well, and boosted the town’s, even the state’s economy. Rodger was scared for her, but at the same time proud that she too was doing what should could to help the war effort.
The day had turned into dark, and Rodger bid goodbye to his sister as he headed off for the train station. He purchased a ticket to the next train out to New York, and several days later he was in New York City, having reported and was preparing to board a ship destined for England, and the war that awaited him. As they sailed out that evening, Rodger looked around at the sights. He watched sadly as the Statue of Liberty slowly grew smaller as the ship sailed out into the Atlantic.
He sat down and wondered for a while about many things. Would he come home alive? Would he come home at all? Will America live to see 1943? So many questions raced through his mind, but he finally put them to rest as he went below deck and claimed a bunk for sleep, something he had a trouble getting for a while now, and it wasn’t going to get better anytime soon…
WRITING SAMPLE
”I count… four chutes sir.” Rodger grunted to himself as he was given the news. Just minutes before a swarm of BF-109s had strafed both his bomber and another bomber limping home next to them. But there was a difference, the bomber that went down was an all rookie crew, assembled days before and had already gone down in flames. Ten more men lost to this God forsaken mess, Rodger thought to himself.
He couldn’t spend much time dwelling on this though, he had a crew to get home, and worrying over situations only made bad taste in everyone’s mouth. ”All right fellas, let’s keep our eyes peeled for targets. I don’t want the same thing to happened to us that just happened to the Miss Mary. Stay focused. It was silent for the most part after that. The crew kept a sharp lookout.
Rodger was piloting the new B-17F Flying Fortress, a small improvement over the E model, but an improvement none the less. Complimented with a crew of ten, and the range to make Germany and back while taking massive damage from both enemy aircraft and flak alike, it was no surprise as to why it earned the nickname “Flying Fortress.”
Still, the reputation of the plane didn’t rid of Rodger’s nerves. What if another swarm came over them? They were sure to buy it. At ten thousand feet and below freezing temperature, he began to sweat. His respiration rate increased, but he kept his composure for the sanity of his crew. He held a firm but controlled grip on the yoke. He swayed the bomber gently throughout the air currents, panning left to right and right to left and so forth, watching for fighters.
”Navigator, give me an update.” “Yes sir, we’re approximately one hundred miles from the coast of France, heading two-two-zero.” This made Rodger relax, they were almost at the Channel, once there they would be under fighter protection, something they didn’t have during the mission and cost them several crews. During the return trip, Rodger’s plane included had suffered damage and had to drop formation, the vertical rudder was giving him a fight and made it hard to yaw and keep pace with the group. They had dropped with another damaged aircraft, Miss Mary, who met her fate.
It was suppose to have been a milk run over a train yard in eastern France, and it turned out to be a bloodbath between the Luftwaffe and flak. But it was now over, or so Rodger had thought, and he thought too soon as one of his waist gunners shouted out. ”Bandits! Three o’clock low incoming! Look like 190s!” Rodger turned his head and looked out the window, he could see the specks of two aircraft approaching fast, and as they grew closer he could see the tracers light up.
Rounds passed over the cockpit, one hitting just behind his seat, making a crack and snap sound as it pierced the fuselage. There was nothing Rodger could do but keep watching as his crew went to work fighting off the vermin. The two FW-190s rose form the clouds and in an ascending pattern attacked the bomber from the left side waist. Rounds were exchanged, and even with the roaring of the engines, Rodger could her his men shooting off their .50 Cal machineguns, the burps and blasts of thunderous rounds being propelled at the enemy was both a scary and beautiful sound.
The 190s passed, mostly missing the bomber, and likewise the crew missing the fighters. Rodger and his crew kept a stern lookout, waiting to see if they would make another pass. There was no more hiding the fear, each crewman had their adrenaline working and the breathing elevated. It was a time for excitement, but not the kind you would enjoy, say at a carnival. The kind that you begin to realize you may actually die.
Rodger’s train of thought was broken when his tail gunner broke out over the mic. ”They’re comin’ around, seven high!” The sounds of the tail gunner’s rounds shooting off could be heard echoing over the comm system, as well as being heard all the way from the back as he shot of bursts to ward off the fighters. The right waist gunner attempted to get a bead but was unable to pivot far enough. Suddenly there was a massive bump and blast that came from the rear.
The bomber began to yaw left and dive down before Rodger regained control and leveled out. ”What the Hell was that?!” “Sir, it’s Johnson, he’s dead.” Rodger cursed himself. The 190s had lead on to the shots he was firing in the tail position and were able to knock him out with 20mm rounds. His compartment had been blown from the plane entirely and he was slumped back into the waist section with a gash into his chest. He died instantly.
This gave the German’s the perfect kill zone, as there was now no one to defend from the rear. Rodger knew this as well and he had figured pretty soon this would be their end. The top turret gunner spun to the six o’clock position. ”Awh shit sir here they come again! Six o’clock and fast!” Rodger braced his controls, as did his co-pilot, and nearly everyone else onboard who all figured that this would be it. The 190s came in and opened up on the bomber, but before they could get in range, both fighters immediately blew up in a ball of flame and spiraled to the ground.
Two P-51 Mustangs flew over Rodger’s bomber towards the smoke and debris of the falling 190s. Rodger turned back looking out the window in amazement, then turned back to his copilot and both began to cheer. It was then that Rodger realized they had reached the English Channel and were in friendly territory. The rest of the crew cheered with relief as the P-51s turned back around and formed up on either side of the bomber.
The Mustang on Rodger’s side grew close to the cockpit, Rodger leaned into his window and looked at the plane that had a red marked tail and a red nose. The Mustang pilot removed his mask and goggles, revealing that he was an African American pilot, of the 332nd Fighter Group, better known as the Tuskegee Airmen. The Mustang pilot gave a salute to Rodger before dawning his gear once more. Rodger smiled and snapped off a salute right back, a mutual sign of respect and thanks.
The Mustangs trailed Rodger and his crew all the way back over the Channel until they hit the coast, and from there the fighters parted way. Rodger’s crew would eventually make it back to their base, with the sad loss of Johnson, who was nineteen years old and was set to go home on leave the following day. Instead, a flag would go in his place…
Account Email: grungedoctor88@hotmail.com
Name: Rodger “Dutch” Schultz
Alignment: USAAF
Rank: Lieutenant
HISTORY
Rodger Schultz was born in the farmland of middle America on November 12, 1918 at his family’s home in Waterloo, Iowa. His parents were not wealthy, but between his father’s farm work and his mother’s secretarial job at the post office, they were able to make sufficient ends meet throughout most of the 1920s. Rodger himself would always lend a hand to his father around the property. Be it driving a plow, or tending to the chickens, he did his fair share, despite having never been asked.
Of course, he wasn’t alone in this family. Rodger was growing up with his younger sister, Clara, who would help their mother around the house, cleaning, knitting, cooking, learning the trades of the time. The two were very close, unlike most sibling rivalries, Rodger and Clara had an understanding that allowed them to get along, even as they grew older they were each other’s best friend.
He was never an athletic person. Not to say he was out of shape, but Rodger simply did not enjoy playing sports. Of course he would always talk baseball with his friends and father, he was more of the academic type. He loved to read books, solve problems, and learn what made anything and everything work. He had a very attentive mind, and was often summoned to help fix a broken tool or some sort.
Things were going well for Rodger. He was doing well in school, and was living the normal lifestyle of the early 20th Century American family. All this would change though. In 1929, an eleven year old Rodger would witness the most destructive event of the American economy to date. As Black Monday hit the Markets on October 28th. It was no surprise that due to the losing of stock and money, the Schultz family would soon lose their farm. And they did.
Rodger’s father began to work odd jobs around the city, going wherever the money was, along with thousands of other men providing for families. In newspapers there were articles that in California, an endless amount of jobs were available to all who came and gave labor. It was after much discussion between Mr. and Mrs. Schultz that Mr. Schultz would brave his way west in hopes of returning with the ability to once again provide for his family. He loaded up a few things to take with him, and said his goodbyes to Rodger as he drove off in the family car. It would be the last time Rodger ever saw his father.
Things seemed to start crashing down on Robert. He was the sole man of the house now, and had no idea how he would provide for his mother and sister. His mother would end up working as a farmhand throughout the community, with Clara at her side helping as well. Mrs. Schultz made it very clear that Rodger was to not get a job, but to continue his focus in education. Feeling bad for his sister’s inability to attend school, Rodger would stay up late with her, teaching Clara the same curriculum that he was learning in school. He felt good knowing that despite it would never be on paper, his younger sister would have an education.
As time dragged on, and the Depression worsened, it seemed that there was no end in sight. Rodger picked up baseball with his friends in high school. Something to do to keep his mind off all of the troubles at home and around the world. His freshman year he tried out for the school’s team as a pitcher, and impressed the coaches with his talent that even Rodger didn’t know he had. He wasn’t a fireball pitcher, but he had accuracy, and a deadly curveball to compliment a dastard forkball. He would start all four years of his high school career, earning a final record of 40-8 and over three hundred strikeouts.
Rodger didn’t slack academically either. He succeeded very well in arithmetic, English comprehension, and physics. Often he would make top marks in his class, earning nothing lower than a high B. During the junior science fair he constructed a device that allowed rainwater to be filtered for drinking. Something that his town ended up adopting for mass use in the homes that no longer had running water. He had become a hometown hero for this, amongst other things such as his pitching.
During his senior year in 1936, Rodger was approached by a college scout from Yale University. The scout offered him a scholarship to play baseball for the school, while at the same time he would be able to take classes and earn a degree in a field of his choice. It was a dream come true. Rodger couldn’t wait to inform his mother and sister of the news. And when he got home, all three shared a joyful tear together as they celebrated the success of Rodger and his moving up in the world. Rodger knew this was his ticket to make things right for his family. He called the scout the next day and accepted the scholarship.
College life was very strange. First off, the farm boy from Iowa was now in the big city and modernized east coast in New Haven, Connecticut. The classes were much harder, and despite some struggles, Rodger was able to hold on and make passing marks. While doing this he was also playing baseball. While he was never fully passionate about the sport like others, he enjoyed the time it gave him away from life. The ability to go outside everyday on the field and be a kid again was rewarding. It was a return to innocence that kept his head above water.
However, he was not the star he had once been in high school. He wasn’t a bust, but at the same time, no major league teams were looking at him. This didn’t bother Rodger because he never anticipated a career in professional baseball. He was here to get a degree, and all they asked of him was his right arm every couple of nights. A fair trade in his opinion. He would go on to have a more successful than not college baseball career, but after his final season, it was obvious that it was nothing more than a milked ride through school, but no one gave him grief for it.
It was 1941 now, Rodger had just graduated from Yale University. He took classes mostly relative to mathematics, physics, and science, and walked away from college with a degree in Aeronautical Engineering. What made him choose this path dates back to his childhood on the family farm. His father owned an old Curtiss biplane used in World War I. Mr. Schultz had purchased it for crop dusting and would often take Rodger up with him. And this is what Rodger had always been in love with, flying. After his father left home, he was never able to fly again, as he had no one to take him.
With this degree, Rodger intended to work for an airline company, or somewhere in aviation that would put him around planes. And it wasn’t long before he got his first job offer. In mid 1941, after sending out numerous job applications, Rodger was contacted by Trans World Airline. They offered him a spot to work as a maintenance pilot, where he would service and test worn down aircraft and then send them back out to the fleet once fixed. It was nearly a dream job, and he immediately accepted the offer.Rodger informed his mother and sister of the good news, and the three celebrated it with a home cooked roast that Mrs. Schultz had been preparing all day.
Later in the week, Rodger left home with a single briefcase. He was heading to Atlanta Georgia, where TWA held one of it’s main service hubs, and where Rodger would be spending the next few years of his life with his new career, or so he thought. It was now late 1941, Rodger was settled in a small home not far from his job, which was at the local airport. So far he found himself content. He kept in near daily contact with his mother and sister, between letters and phone calls they were able to stay in touch. Clara, who herself had now grown into a young woman of 21 had already been in college for a year, studying to become an accountant assistant. Rodger was proud that he and his sister had gotten out of the slump, and would now be able to care for their mother.
December quickly came around and Rodger began to make plans to go home for the holidays. Since he was working well, and had improved the numbers across the board for TWA, his supervisor had allowed him to go home for Christmas. He planned to leave on December 15th, and would return just after the new year. Since his coworkers were all leaving around the same time or sooner, they decided to have a small get together on Saturday the 7th. They met for a nice dinner at a local steakhouse where they shared stories from home, such as surviving the depression, moving out, education, and the occasional jab at the boss, who was not present, of course.
Eventually, the reveling ended, and they party had split from the steakhouse, having wished one another a merry Christmas and happy new year, and so Rodger headed for his home. It was nothing special. It was a small shotgun style home that had a den, kitchen, bedroom, and a bathroom. It was clean and well maintained, but one could easily see from the exterior that it was aged. Rodger arrived home from the party at around two in the morning, just about tipsy, he simply kicked off his shoes and nose dived into his bed. He was out not five seconds later, the radio having been left on since before he left was playing a soft swing melody.
The Sunday son rose, and then continued to rise into the early afternoon. Rodger was still sound asleep, snoring louder than a thunderstorm could clap. It was his first true encounter with alcohol the night before, and so he reacted the natural way. Of course, when the radio switched from some soft swing and jazz music to a news bulletin, even a comatose person could awake with what was said. ”We now interrupt your program to bring you this important news bulletin. This morning in Oahu, Hawaii, Japanese military forces attacked the military installation of Pearl Harbor by air. We are being told as of this time that many dozen ships have been sunk, and over three thousand military and civilian personnel are presumed dead. Please stay tuned as we bring you more information of this tragic event!”
Rodger’s eyes were wide awake by now. He was stunned. Fear began to run down his body. He was not living under a rock. He knew of the world events. The war in Europe, the tension in the Pacific. It was only a matter of time. And how long would it be before the mainland was struck? Rodger quickly jumped out of bed and with the clothes on from last night he made his way down to the corner where there was a phone booth.
Arriving at the phone booth it was no surprise that there was a line. Men and women of all ages gathered together, chattering up the events, crying, cursing, blaming. Rodger got in line behind another man about the same age as him. The two struck up conversation as Rodger nodded to him. ”I just heard the news on my radio, I never though this would happen.” “Well it has. America is in a war now. I’m calling up my mom to say my goodbyes. I’m going in the Army.” Rodger looked in awe. Here they were, not a day into the war and already young men were going off to fight.
Rodger and the other young man, who introduced himself as Samuel Callahan, or just “Sam,” continued to talk as they waited in the line. Sam had grown up in Atlanta, and was currently in college himself for a degree in healthcare. He wanted to be a medic in the Army now and do his part. He was angered that his country had been attacked and was ready to deliver his own blow. The two became fast friends during this conversation, and as Same went into the booth for his turn, Rodger waited attentively to hear what Sam would do next.
As Sam came out of the booth, he shook Rodger’s hand. ”Well if I don’t see ya again Rodge, good luck. Rodger shook back and wished Sam luck as he walked off in the direction of the recruiting station, and as Rodger entered the booth, he was overcome with the idea to enlist. Certainly he had never had the military in his options. But after the conversation with Sam for nearly the past hour, he felt it had somehow become an obligation, a duty to serve and protect America.
He thought about it more as he slowly inserted money and dialed up his mother. Why should he let the Japanese come and take everything he and millions of others had worked for? He would have none of that, and he decided right there that he too would enlist. He rang his mother to inform her of the news. Overcome with disparagement, she refused to speak to him and gave the phone to Clara. While she too did not approve of the idea, she supported the reasons, and after a short conversation, wished him luck as they said their goodbyes.
Rodger returned home to clean up before he left for the recruiting station. And to no surprise when he arrived there as well, there was another line to enter. A few heads up was Sam, who spotted Rodger and called him over to get in line with him. They greeted one another once more. ”Guess you figured you outta see what this big ol’ war thing is all about huh?” Same grinned as he patted Rodger on the back. Rodger nodded. ”Well, I’ve worked hard for what I have, and I’ll be damned of some yellow bastard is about to come take it from me. The two shared a laugh as they entered the doorway to the recruiting station.
The recruiter himself was overwhelmed. For the past few years he was lucky if he got a handful of enlistees to sign up, now he didn’t even have enough paper to enlist everyone. When it was finally Rodger’s turn to speak with the recruiter, Rodger explained his love for aviation, and his degree in aeronautical engineering. The recruiter was happy. The Army needed pilots badly, and Rodger was a sure fit. As the next few days went by, Rodger was kept busy with paperwork, medical exams, and filing resignation from his job as he prepared to leave for training.
The morning he was suppose to leave, Rodger made one last call home. His sister answered, she was weeping. ”Clara, what’s the matter? Is everything all right?” There was a moderate pause. ”Mom died.” A large pit sank into Rodger’s stomach. He was speechless, but after a few encouraging words to his baby sister, he informed her that he was shipping out, and once he was given leave he was sure to come spend time with her. He held on to his tears until he hung up, and then sank into the booth crying like no grown man had ever cried before.
Rodger finally collected himself, and with his suitcase, he headed for the bus depot. Once there he saw many other men his age, some younger and some even older, awaiting for buses that would bring them all across the country for training into the US military. As he waited for his bus, Rodger caught up with Sam, who informed Rodger that he would be shipping to the east coast for infantry training, and eventually be sent to the hospital corps. Rodger’s bus arrived. He wished Sam luck, who returned the wish, and he waved as he boarded it and walked down the aisle to an unoccupied seat. Sam walked off to his bus, and Rodger wondered if he would ever see him again.
Several days later, in late December, Rodger arrived at Kelly Airfield, San Antonio, Texas. For the next few weeks he would train here and earn is qualification as an Army Air Corps pilot. He was left off the bus and ushered into a uniform room where he was sized and issued sets of clothing and other items of necessity. After that he was assigned to a dorm with three other cadets in a building just across from the main hangar. Rodger settled in and spoke with the other three roommates of the dorm. They were your typical American youths who signed up to fight against tyranny, and Rodger got along with them well.
For his first week of aviation training, Rodger was seated in a PT-22 Recruit. It allowed for both he and an instructor to fly. Throughout the first week, he learned how to take off, bank, and land. It was simply skills that had to be honed before it grew out into the bigger picture. At the end of the week, Rodger flew solo and performed a patterned flight around the airfield to prove he could perform what he was taught so far, and he passed exceptionally.
For the next few weeks, Rodger would learn how to do more advanced maneuvers such as barrel rolls, loops, controlled spins, and recovering from a stall. He hit high marks with his instructors throughout his training and performed well. However, one cadet did not. On an afternoon flight, an element of aircraft were landing. One cadet was descending towards the runway, but had pushed the stick forward too much, and put himself into an unrecoverable dive. He accelerated too fast and ran into the ground, erupting into a large explosion. Rodger watched from a bird’s eye view as he was suppose to be the next to land.
After the many weeks of what was called “rookie” school, Rodger and the rest of his class had graduated to the next level of advanced flight. It was at this time where men were assigned optioned to qualify for single engine or multi-engine aircraft. Rodger opted for multi-engine. He worked better in a group, and chances are if he flew a bomber or transport aircraft he would have some form of human contact other than that of dog fighting with an enemy. Rodger was seated to an AT-9 Fledgling where he practiced flying in the multi-engine aircraft.
It was 1942 now. The war had been on for eight months, and in August Rodger qualified and graduated from flight school. From there he was commissioned into the United States Army Air Force as a First Lieutenant. In September he was given his first assignment order, and was instructed to ship out to England for immediate service in the European front, where he would pilot bombers for the USAAF.
Before heading east to New York for disembarkation, Rodger went back home to Iowa to say one final farewell to his sister. When arrived at the family home, he spent the next few hours talking with Clara. She had informed him that she dropped from college, and accepted a job at the local factory, working as a munitions specialist. It was a dangerous job, but it paid well, and boosted the town’s, even the state’s economy. Rodger was scared for her, but at the same time proud that she too was doing what should could to help the war effort.
The day had turned into dark, and Rodger bid goodbye to his sister as he headed off for the train station. He purchased a ticket to the next train out to New York, and several days later he was in New York City, having reported and was preparing to board a ship destined for England, and the war that awaited him. As they sailed out that evening, Rodger looked around at the sights. He watched sadly as the Statue of Liberty slowly grew smaller as the ship sailed out into the Atlantic.
He sat down and wondered for a while about many things. Would he come home alive? Would he come home at all? Will America live to see 1943? So many questions raced through his mind, but he finally put them to rest as he went below deck and claimed a bunk for sleep, something he had a trouble getting for a while now, and it wasn’t going to get better anytime soon…
WRITING SAMPLE
”I count… four chutes sir.” Rodger grunted to himself as he was given the news. Just minutes before a swarm of BF-109s had strafed both his bomber and another bomber limping home next to them. But there was a difference, the bomber that went down was an all rookie crew, assembled days before and had already gone down in flames. Ten more men lost to this God forsaken mess, Rodger thought to himself.
He couldn’t spend much time dwelling on this though, he had a crew to get home, and worrying over situations only made bad taste in everyone’s mouth. ”All right fellas, let’s keep our eyes peeled for targets. I don’t want the same thing to happened to us that just happened to the Miss Mary. Stay focused. It was silent for the most part after that. The crew kept a sharp lookout.
Rodger was piloting the new B-17F Flying Fortress, a small improvement over the E model, but an improvement none the less. Complimented with a crew of ten, and the range to make Germany and back while taking massive damage from both enemy aircraft and flak alike, it was no surprise as to why it earned the nickname “Flying Fortress.”
Still, the reputation of the plane didn’t rid of Rodger’s nerves. What if another swarm came over them? They were sure to buy it. At ten thousand feet and below freezing temperature, he began to sweat. His respiration rate increased, but he kept his composure for the sanity of his crew. He held a firm but controlled grip on the yoke. He swayed the bomber gently throughout the air currents, panning left to right and right to left and so forth, watching for fighters.
”Navigator, give me an update.” “Yes sir, we’re approximately one hundred miles from the coast of France, heading two-two-zero.” This made Rodger relax, they were almost at the Channel, once there they would be under fighter protection, something they didn’t have during the mission and cost them several crews. During the return trip, Rodger’s plane included had suffered damage and had to drop formation, the vertical rudder was giving him a fight and made it hard to yaw and keep pace with the group. They had dropped with another damaged aircraft, Miss Mary, who met her fate.
It was suppose to have been a milk run over a train yard in eastern France, and it turned out to be a bloodbath between the Luftwaffe and flak. But it was now over, or so Rodger had thought, and he thought too soon as one of his waist gunners shouted out. ”Bandits! Three o’clock low incoming! Look like 190s!” Rodger turned his head and looked out the window, he could see the specks of two aircraft approaching fast, and as they grew closer he could see the tracers light up.
Rounds passed over the cockpit, one hitting just behind his seat, making a crack and snap sound as it pierced the fuselage. There was nothing Rodger could do but keep watching as his crew went to work fighting off the vermin. The two FW-190s rose form the clouds and in an ascending pattern attacked the bomber from the left side waist. Rounds were exchanged, and even with the roaring of the engines, Rodger could her his men shooting off their .50 Cal machineguns, the burps and blasts of thunderous rounds being propelled at the enemy was both a scary and beautiful sound.
The 190s passed, mostly missing the bomber, and likewise the crew missing the fighters. Rodger and his crew kept a stern lookout, waiting to see if they would make another pass. There was no more hiding the fear, each crewman had their adrenaline working and the breathing elevated. It was a time for excitement, but not the kind you would enjoy, say at a carnival. The kind that you begin to realize you may actually die.
Rodger’s train of thought was broken when his tail gunner broke out over the mic. ”They’re comin’ around, seven high!” The sounds of the tail gunner’s rounds shooting off could be heard echoing over the comm system, as well as being heard all the way from the back as he shot of bursts to ward off the fighters. The right waist gunner attempted to get a bead but was unable to pivot far enough. Suddenly there was a massive bump and blast that came from the rear.
The bomber began to yaw left and dive down before Rodger regained control and leveled out. ”What the Hell was that?!” “Sir, it’s Johnson, he’s dead.” Rodger cursed himself. The 190s had lead on to the shots he was firing in the tail position and were able to knock him out with 20mm rounds. His compartment had been blown from the plane entirely and he was slumped back into the waist section with a gash into his chest. He died instantly.
This gave the German’s the perfect kill zone, as there was now no one to defend from the rear. Rodger knew this as well and he had figured pretty soon this would be their end. The top turret gunner spun to the six o’clock position. ”Awh shit sir here they come again! Six o’clock and fast!” Rodger braced his controls, as did his co-pilot, and nearly everyone else onboard who all figured that this would be it. The 190s came in and opened up on the bomber, but before they could get in range, both fighters immediately blew up in a ball of flame and spiraled to the ground.
Two P-51 Mustangs flew over Rodger’s bomber towards the smoke and debris of the falling 190s. Rodger turned back looking out the window in amazement, then turned back to his copilot and both began to cheer. It was then that Rodger realized they had reached the English Channel and were in friendly territory. The rest of the crew cheered with relief as the P-51s turned back around and formed up on either side of the bomber.
The Mustang on Rodger’s side grew close to the cockpit, Rodger leaned into his window and looked at the plane that had a red marked tail and a red nose. The Mustang pilot removed his mask and goggles, revealing that he was an African American pilot, of the 332nd Fighter Group, better known as the Tuskegee Airmen. The Mustang pilot gave a salute to Rodger before dawning his gear once more. Rodger smiled and snapped off a salute right back, a mutual sign of respect and thanks.
The Mustangs trailed Rodger and his crew all the way back over the Channel until they hit the coast, and from there the fighters parted way. Rodger’s crew would eventually make it back to their base, with the sad loss of Johnson, who was nineteen years old and was set to go home on leave the following day. Instead, a flag would go in his place…
