One pamphlet reminds Fort Wayne citizens that should they find themselves in a blackout, they are to remain calm, obey all traffic signals, and assist the infirm, the frightened, and the lost.
And remember, the pamphlet chides, “a blackout or air raid warning is a warning and not a promise of one.”
Q. What usually happens when an incendiary bomb strikes a home?
A. It will penetrate the roof of any ordinary constructed home. The force of the contact will ignite it and the chemicals within the bomb itself will start working. It will generate heat at about 4700 degrees Fahrenheit. At that heat almost anything will burn.
Q. A lot of questions have arisen on air raids. What would you suggest as a first step in protecting yourself from an air raid?
A. Every person should select in his home a place that would be suitable for occupancy during an air raid. It has been suggested that a basement room is preferable for this purpose.
The Q&A also recommends that a radio, table, chairs, books, and magazines be kept in the basement, as there is no telling how long the bombing might continue. Newspapers described basements filled with water and nonperishable food; men preparing to darken the city at a moment’s notice; air wardens stationed at the top of the Lincoln Tower, scanning the skies. Posters plastered to telephone poles and trolley cars, reminding citizens “Loose lips sink ships.”
If the blackouts were done properly, even the posters would disappear.
Most blackouts were announced in advance, but not always.
One flyer reads:
BLACK OUT
SUNDAY NIGHT
MAY 24, 1942
FROM 10 PM TO 10:15 PM
PLEASE FOLLOW THIS ONE RULE:
TURN OFF ALL LIGHTS DURING THIS PERIOD!
Yet in late May, the flyers were replaced with a confidential memo, one in which Carter Bowser of Fort Wayne’s Command Control Center informed the Fort Wayne Police Department of a surprise blackout scheduled for June 4, 1942, from 9:30 PM until 9:45 PM. Bowser hoped the unannounced blackout might better simulate the conditions of a true bombing, might strike fear into Fort Wayne’s citizenry by keeping them on full alert.
On June 4, a siren rang and light bulb filaments throughout the city rattled and died away. The trolleys stopped in the streets, their lights dimmed, while cars killed their engines. When Colonel Robert Harsh of the Office of Civilian Defense came to inspect Fort Wayne’s preparedness, he left quite impressed by the city’s ability to turn itself invisible, returning the land to fallow fields, the city to grids on a map.
A month later, an instructional film entitled Bombs over Fort Wayne premiered at the Murat Temple Theatre on New Jersey Street in Indianapolis. Though the sixteen-millimeter film is lost, the original script remains.
NARRATOR: It’s a warm spring night in the city where three rivers meet. Late theatre-goers and workers have long since departed for their homes. A lone policeman patrols his beat. Far off—an automobile horn shatters the stillness of the night.
Then—silence, the city settling in for a night of rest.
Moments later, the calm of the Fort Wayne night is disrupted by the German air strike.
CONTROLLER: High explosive bombs at Calhoun and Pontiac! Casualties approximately ten. Fire in three buildings. Electric wire down.
POLICE: Enemy aircraft crashed through high tension wires at Delaware and Alabama. Some persons still in plane, some thrown out. Approximately six persons injured.
Incendiary bombs explode at the corner of Berry and Union as messenger boys are sent sprinting through streets.
“Several enemy escaped from the plane and seen going east!” actors cry. “Several unexploded bombs scatter in vicinity. Some smell of gas!”
Bomb squads and decontamination teams enter the scene. Officers in riot gear chase after the six downed Germans as they scatter past the Embassy Theatre, their swastikas reflecting on their aviation suits.
By movie’s end, it’s clear that Fort Wayne’s quick thinking and preparedness has saved the city.
As the house lights come up the narrator notes: “You’ve observed the drama of self-defense.”
Fort Wayne citizens deemed the film a success, and Commander Bowser encouraged representatives from the Office of Civil Defense in Washington, D.C., to buy the rights to the film and screen it elsewhere.
James Landis, the director of Civil Defense, congratulated Bowser on a “very excellent job” before informing him that they would not be purchasing the film but wished Fort Wayne and its movie the best of luck.
Q. What precautions can a person take and what can be used to combat an incendiary bomb?
A. Sand is the most efficient material which can be used to smother such a bomb. Water can be sprayed, but not poured in a steady stream on the bomb first to avoid the possibility of the fire spreading. Then the sand should be poured over the bomb until it is entirely covered. It can then be picked up in a shovel and placed in a partially filled bucket. A bucket with about six inches of sand in it will be satisfactory. The bucket can be carried out by using the handle of the shovel thrust through the handle of the bucket.
If I had been alive during the blackouts, I would have lived in District 5. My warden would have been Donald H. Jones of 3424 N. Washington Road. He would have called me the day prior to a blackout to remind me to close my blinds, extinguish all light, do my part to obliterate us from the aerial eyes of the Luftwaffe. He would have informed me not to strike a single match, and that if I needed to smoke—if I needed to calm my nerves—then I should have the courtesy to strike my light in a hallway far from the windows.
People still speak of the Civil Defense demonstration held in Hamilton Park so many years before. How the Civil Defense representative struck a single match from the outfield of the baseball diamond and how the citizens’ faces erupted in firelight. How you could read the street sign: Poinsette.
Today, just a few hundred feet from that baseball diamond, a plaque reads “In honor of all who served in the armed forces of the Second World War from the Third Civilian Defense District.”
I would have been in the fifth district. I have yet to find our plaque.
Q. To sum up the situation, what would you say would be most essential then for the protection of a home?
A. A hose of approximately 50 feet in length. A bucket, a long handled shovel and a supply of sand are the most essential requirements.
As other cities and manufacturers became aware of Fort Wayne’s bombing problem, Fort Wayne mayor Harry Baals began receiving literature on the latest anti-bomb technology in order to safeguard the city from foreign attacks.
For just $2.50, one could purchase a Bomb-Quench.
“Bomb-Quench may be used with complete ease by anyone in home or factory” claims the brochure. “Simply remove top from the tube carton, sprinkle free flowing Bomb-Quench over the burning bomb or magnesium fire.”
Or if Fort Wayne citizens preferred, they could invest in the Bomb-Snatcher, an orange metal scoop that stifled unexploded bombs.
“With the Bomb-Snatcher, removal of burning bombs is speedy and safe,” the pamphlet promises.
However, the people of Fort Wayne were far more interested in simply buying bombs themselves. A dozen practice incendiary bombs could be purchased for just over seven dollars.
“Our Bomb is low in cost and its action similar to a real one,” the pamphlet assures prospective buyers. “Dispel the fear which nearly all persons have of an Incendiary Bomb by giving them an opportunity to see these PRACTICE INCENDIARY BOMBS demonstrated and actually allowing them to practice with one.”
Intrigued, Commander Bowser wrote the Baltimore Fire Works Company: “Will you please advice [sic] us if you have available for demonstration purposes any small incendiary bombs. Also, quote us prices, quantities and delivery date.”
There is no evidence Fort Wayne ever purchased a bomb, nor is there evidence we ever experienced one.
A few years back, while driving along Je
fferson Boulevard, I momentarily lost sight of the city’s one and only skyscraper. Thankfully, it remained intact—just hidden in the fog.
Q. Do you feel that because of our inland location, the possibility of an air raid is very remote and that all these preparations are in vain?
A. I certainly do not want to say such a raid is impossible here, nor do I want to say that it is sure to come. I do however know that if we are raided these precautions and this training program will be invaluable. You don’t carry fire insurance on your home because you are sure you will have a fire. You carry it for protection when it might be needed.
If you look hard enough in Lindenwood Cemetery, eventually you’ll stumble across the gravestone of Victor F. Rea, the man responsible for creating the Rea Magnet Wire Company and bringing Hitler’s name to every citizen’s lips. If you look harder still, you’ll find Ryan Woodward’s grave as well, a slab of perfectly polished black marble, photos of him and his family laser-etched into the stone. Fourteen flags surround the monument, and even though the burial took place in 2007, at last glance there were still fresh roses resting their petaled heads against his name.
I wonder what room we were in at Lindley Elementary when Ryan and I first learned of Hitler, learned what a bomb was, what small arms were, wondering if we would ever die by them and if so, who would remember our names.
The day Truman announced the end of the war—August 14, 1945—the Fort Wayne newspapers were on strike. Airplanes buzzed over the city, though they did not drop bombs.
They dropped leaflets.
JAPAN SURRENDERS! TUNE INTO WGL FOR NEWS.
According to local newspapers, Fort Wayne’s children crouched over the fallen materials and struggled to make out the words. When they finally did—sounding out every last syllable—the children ran up and down Bowser Avenue banging pots and pans, no longer fearing even fear itself.
On Calhoun Street, cars honked as bells rang from the spared church steeples, while not far away, the GE symbol re-lit the sky.
For the first time in a long time, Fort Wayne’s newspaper’s had good news to report
Q. If we were to be subjected to a bombing attack, what type bombs would probably be used against us?
A. We would first, in all probability, be bombed by Incendiary Bombs.
But we were not.
We were just prepared for it.
You, too, have observed the drama of self-defense.
The Year of the Great
Forgetting
TEMPERATURE UNKNOWN
The fever strikes, and we, too, are struck by it, my wife and I suddenly jarred awake by the same cold sweat that’s worked into Henry’s small frame. In his eighteen months (541 days), this is the first of these sweats, and therefore the scariest. Mainly because it is without cause, an unexpected overture to an illness we can’t yet see.
All of this takes place a thousand or so miles from our home, in a cabin in the woods in the Poconos. We’d found ourselves there at my mother’s suggestion. “A nice halfway point,” she’d argued, “so we can spend a little quality time together.” I agreed to the trip, not because the Poconos were a halfway point by any measure, but because I’d recently endured an existential crisis brought on by the purchase of a minivan, and a road trip, I figured, might help me acclimate to my new life in the slow lane.
Once the decision was made, I immediately began poring over maps, a maniacal Magellan hell-bent on arranging a 2,800-mile road trip from Wisconsin to the east coast. As a result of my overzealousness, what began as a three-night stay in the Poconos quickly morphed into what we’d later call a “cross-your-legs-because-I’m-not-pulling-over” death march, complete with stops in Hartford, Salem, and Niagara Falls. We had no vested interest in any of these places, but I was lured by the open road.
We are the proud-ish owners of a minivan, I reminded myself. Shouldn’t we at least see what this baby can do?
What that baby did was safely transport us to a resort in the Poconos, which I will politely describe as “rustic.” Perhaps I am being polite even to call it a resort. The place was a shadow of its former grandeur, a towering farmhouse surrounded by paper-thin cabins, each in a unique state of disarray. We occupied one such cabin when Henry’s cries burst through the night, stirring the surrounding wildlife, or at least my parents in the next cabin over.
Exhausted from the drive, I remained in my stupor throughout his first wave of wails, trapped in a half sleep that, for eighteen months, I’d persuaded myself was all the sleep I needed. Meanwhile, Meredith—for whom sleep has become a hypothetical—walks with her arms outstretched toward the crib, my zombie bride tripping over suitcases and still-wet swimsuits on her way to our burning boy.
She presses a hand to him, and he sizzles.
“He’s hot,” she whispers.
“How hot?” I ask.
“Hot-hot,” she says. “Scary hot.”
There they are again—the words that stir me awake. Suddenly I am groping for the thermometer, running my hands over countertops and patting the carpet. I frisk suitcases, unzip zippers in the dark, turn inside out every last sock on the off chance the thermometer is hiding.
The thermometer, apparently, is hiding. At least from me.
“So what now?” I ask. “Do we turn on the light?”
“Do you want him up for the next three hours?”
The tone of her voice indicates that we do not, so I try a new tack: relying on the glow of my cell phone screen to sweep the room for the thermometer.
“Just . . . forget it,” Meredith shouts over his wailing. “Grab a wet washcloth, would you?”
Washcloth, I think, washcloth, washcloth . . .
I repeat the word all the way to the bathroom, then flick on the light, startling myself with my reflection.
Jesus! I think, staring hard at the sallow-faced creature staring back. Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?
But much like sleep, vacations, too, have become hypotheticals—another concept my wife and I once knew but now know better.
I turn the faucet and watch the washcloth bloom in my hands.
Meanwhile, just a wall away, Henry continues his ear-splitting vibrato. My blood pressure rises as he moves up the scale, until at last he hits a pitch I never knew possible. In that moment—as he holds his note—what I want most in the world is to take cover beneath the cool side of my pillow. But since I’m the father and this banshee is allegedly my son, I know my role is to provide protection, not take it.
Washcloth in hand, I bypass my pillow and start the walk toward his crib.
Why can’t this be something simple? I wonder. A bee sting or a bear attack? Something we know how to fix.
103.1
The following morning, Meredith taps her hand to the glass of a Walgreens as the employee unlocks the door.
“Good morning,” the employee says.
It isn’t. Our boy is feverish, after all, and we are in need of a thermometer.
Meanwhile, in my own attempt to keep his body cool, Henry and I search for deer in the windblown field directly behind the cabin.
“We’re looking for deer,” I say, waiting for him to parrot it back.
“Deya,” he says.
“Deer,” I correct.
“Deya,” he says again.
This goes on for quite some time.
My parents exit their own cabin, and suddenly half the resort knows of Henry’s condition.
“He’ll be fine,” I assure every well-wishing stranger. “Just a fever, nothing more.”
By the time Meredith returns, we have seen no deer, though I have undergone any number of religious conversions, promising everything but my firstborn in exchange for my firstborn. I cash in my karma, then pray to all the smiting gods that they might take their smiting elsewhere. I barter, I bargain, I beg. I swear off every last vice that I know.
As I carry Henry back into the cabin, as we insert the thermometer into his rectum, it becomes clear that my praye
rs have missed their mark.
Our hearts sink as the numbers continue to climb.
99 . . . 100 . . . 101 . . . 102 . . . 103.1 . . .
Henry laughs as the thermometer beeps, while Meredith and I look to one another.
And then, the afterthought amid all of this:
“Hey,” I say, “happy five-year anniversary.”
99.3
Suddenly, like an Old Testament miracle, our prayers are answered. By mid-afternoon the fever has broken, his temperature dropping to near normal. There is no explanation for the change. I have sacrificed no rams upon any altars. In fact, we have done nothing but wet washcloths and search for deer and hurl our prayers to the sky. Thankfully, one of the prayers seemed to have stuck, though it prompted a new fear: Which promise to God do I now need to make good on?
During Henry’s afternoon nap we grow bold, Meredith and I charging my mother with babysitting duty while we slip off to a nearby waterfall we’d discovered in the woods.
The previous night, as I searched on hands and knees for the thermometer, I’d considered carrying Henry to those falls. At 3:00 AM it seemed logical, imperative even—no better way to break the fever than by drowning it in a stream. Thankfully, sounder minds prevailed, and rather than a nighttime hike down a ravine with my son, we made do with the washcloth instead.
Now Meredith and I take that walk without him, slipping down the slope until our sandals return to flat ground. I unpack the wine and cheese and chocolate atop a mossy rock and we clink plastic cups to our marriage.
“Let’s make a wish,” Meredith says, “for anything in the world.”
We close our eyes, take a sip, and wish for 98.6.
99.5
Thanks to my white-knuckled driving (not to mention my high tolerance for backseat screeching), we make it to every last stop on the itinerary. In Hartford, Henry’s screaming gets him kicked out of the Mark Twain house (“A regular Huck Finn,” I joke). He fares better in Salem, where we remove ourselves on our own accord from the good ship Friendship docked in the harbor.
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