Boyd

by Robert Coram

  The second incident was no less powerful. Even though by 1944 the Army was drafting men in their late 30s, Bill, John’s older brother, was twenty-seven and still at home. Bill had tried jobs as an elevator operator, laborer, and security guard. He had quit or been fired from every job. He became depressed that he was not one of the hundreds of other young men from Erie who went away to the war. The family told everyone he could not serve because he had a heart murmur. The truth was something quite different.

  The illness that had been festering for years exploded on Saturday, April 1, 1944, when Bill, with no provocation, struck his mother. The next evening he became quite agitated and jumped through a window, cutting his arm and hand so badly that he was taken to the hospital for stitches. Two people were required to hold him in bed and administer sedatives.

  His medical records show that on Monday he said he had radar in his teeth. He told hospital workers, “I want to go to see the Pope. I’d turn Catholic if he could help me. I want to go by the way of India.” Later that day he complained of a terrible headache and said, “I want to see a doctor. I’m begging for mercy. You have me cornered.” Various sedatives were administered and then he was admitted to Warren State Hospital, a mental institution east of Erie. He died there May 3 and was buried in a single plot in the Erie Cemetery. His death certificate says he died after a one-day bout with terminal bronchopneumonia brought on by acute catatonic excitement, and that the excitement was due to dementia praecox of more than four years’ duration. In current parlance, Bill was schizophrenic.

  Bill’s medical records indicate that his maternal grandmother and an uncle both had mental problems and that there was a sister who was “nervous.” Although she is not named, this sister was probably Marion.

  After Bill died, representatives from Warren State Hospital came to the Boyd home and asked Elsie if anyone else in the family had mental illness, if there were anyone else who should be institutionalized. In the 1940s mental illness was an unbearable stigma. And the shock of people from the mental hospital knocking on her door and asking about mental illness in her family was almost too much for Elsie. Her children were ordered never to mention the visit to a living soul. If anyone asked, Bill died of pneumonia. That was it. No one in Erie knew the truth. Even Jack Arbuckle and Chet Reichert said they never knew what happened to Bill.

  At the same time his family was going through such deep personal pain, John was experiencing for the first time in his life the glory of being a superior athlete, of doing something well. During his junior and senior years, he made five letters in swimming and water polo. His swim team won the state championship during his senior season. He placed second in the state in the 220-yard freestyle the same year. He was captain of the water polo team.

  No one in his family came to the swim meets. Fathers of other boys sat in the bleachers and cheered. After the meets those fathers slapped their sons on the shoulders and congratulated them. John’s victories were solitary and hollow.

  John rarely dated in high school. He had little money for dates or social activities. Most of his clothes were still hand-me-downs. His mother told him none of this mattered. Again and again she stressed that if he worked hard and had integrity that one day he would rise above those who snickered at his poverty, ridiculed his clothes, and thought they were superior to him. This would have to be John’s consolation. And he took it to heart. During the summers, he and Chet Reichert would paddle their canoe across the bay in all kinds of weather, and John would talk constantly of how he had to prove himself out in the world. He was determined to excel although he did not yet know in what area. He only knew that he had to do something better than anyone had ever done it before. He had to show people in Erie that he was somebody.

  John knew from the time he entered high school that he would be drafted during his senior year, and he did not want to go into the Army. He was not one to slog out a battle on the ground. On October 30, 1944, when he was a junior in high school, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps. The terms of his enlistment were for the duration of the war plus six months. He would not report for duty until near the end of his senior year.

  By then he had been hammered on the anvil of life far harder than had most young men his age. Whatever the world had to offer could be no worse than what he already had endured. He was ready. He stood six feet tall and weighed 164 pounds. His friends called him “J. B.” His high school annual described him as “the strong silent type,” “stouthearted,” and the “merman.”

  John missed one of the major rites of passage: he did not attend his high school graduation. America was at war and on April 16, 1945, he answered the call; he reported for duty with the Air Corps.

  On his enlistment papers he listed his civilian occupation as “lifeguard.”

  Chapter Two

  The Big Jock and the Presbytreian

  BOYD arrived late for his first war.

  From Erie he went to basic training at Sheppard Field in Texas, where he applied for the aviation cadet program, a rigid course whereby young enlisted men train to be a pilot and, upon graduation, are awarded both a commission and the wings of a pilot. He was rejected because of “low aptitude.”

  After basic training he was ordered to Lowry Field in Colorado to be trained as a mechanic for aircraft turrets, but World War II ended that summer and there no longer was a need for such a specialty. Nevertheless, the inexorable momentum of the military was still geared to sending young men overseas; Boyd—after months at a staging area in Arizona—went to Japan as part of the occupation force. He arrived on January 3, 1946, and was assigned to the 8th Squadron of the 49th Fighter Group. His military records show that less than two months later, in order “to meet service requirements,” he became a swimming instructor. As a member of the Air Corps Far Eastern Swim Team, Boyd spent his time paddling around indoor heated pools and participating in swim meets around Japan. It was an inauspicious introduction to war for the man who one day would be considered the ultimate warrior.

  Little else is known of Boyd’s brief service as an enlisted man. About the only thing that has survived is a story he often told, a story where the John Boyd of fact and the John Boyd of legend begin to merge, the first of the countless “Boyd stories” that accumulated over the years. The winter of 1945–1946 was particularly cold and wet in Japan. On the former Japanese air base where Boyd was stationed, officers lived in warm quarters, slept in beds, and ate hot food, while enlisted ranks lived in tents, slept on the ground, and ate K rations. Large wooden hangars suitable for barracks-type housing stood empty and unused. Fed up with this situation, Boyd led a revolt. He and his fellow soldiers tore down two hangars and used the wood to build fires so they could stay warm. Soon after, the Army inventoried base property and discovered the hangars had gone missing. Boyd was identified as the leader of the perpetrators and brought up on charges. A court-martial loomed. Officers believed this would be the quick and uncontested trial of an enlisted man who clearly was guilty. But Private Boyd went on the attack and turned the pending court-martial into a referendum on officer leadership and responsibility. He asked the investigating officer if the Army’s general orders were in effect at the time he used wood from the hangars to build fires. When he was told that of course the general orders were in effect, he said one of the general orders stated that the first responsibility of an officer was to take care of his men. Officers were not doing that, not if enlisted personnel were sleeping on the ground while suitable quarters stood empty. Boyd said that if the court-martial proceeded, he would raise the issue of officer responsibility with higher authorities.

  The charges were dropped. The U.S. military had lost its first runin with Boyd. In later years Boyd often told this story, especially to Pentagon subordinates who idolized him. Among the Acolytes, Boyd’s most dedicated followers, the story achieved almost ecclesiastical weight. Boyd also told the story to newspaper reporters with the added fillip: “If they had court-martialed me, then they wouldn’t have
had to put up with me later on.”

  But when Boyd was interviewed by the Office of Air Force History for the Oral History Program, he did not tell this story. One can only speculate as to why. During the lengthy interview, he told other stories in which he portrayed himself as a frequent violator of Air Force regulations. But he did not mention destroying the hangars, although, at bottom, both his reason for doing so and the victory he achieved would certainly be worthy of note. Perhaps this was because the idea of enlisted men tearing down two hangars and burning the wood without the knowledge of officers is difficult to believe. It would take weeks, and the fires certainly would be noticed. And why tear them down at all? If the hangars were suitable as barracks, why didn’t Boyd and his followers simply move into them? And it can only be called blackmail if Boyd threatened to raise the issue of officers’ responsibility to their men with higher authorities. Historically the military has not caved in to blackmail from privates.

  The Air Corps did not keep records of threatened courts-martial. But Boyd’s Acolytes are unwavering in their belief the story is true. They say Boyd’s stories always remained consistent and that had Boyd been fabricating them, little details would have changed over time.

  In any case, the story reveals—especially if it is not true—how Boyd saw himself and would continue to see himself: the man of principle battling superiors devoid of principle; the idealist fighting those of higher rank who have shirked their responsibilities; the man who puts it all on the line and, after receiving threat of dire consequences, prevails. His principles win out over his opposition’s lack of principles. It is just as his mother said.

  Boyd was discharged on January 7, 1947, about two weeks before his twentieth birthday. His military records show he served two years and two months, but this includes the six months from when he first enlisted on October 30, 1944—when he was still a junior in high school—until he reported for duty the following April. His active duty time was about twenty months.

  Boyd grew an inch and gained weight during his time in Japan. His discharge papers show that he now stood 6’1” and weighed 180 pounds. When he arrived home, his mother was amazed at how husky he had become. One of the first people Boyd looked up upon returning to Erie was Frank Pettinato. They probably talked about Pettinato’s promotion; he now was chief lifeguard at the Peninsula. And since Boyd was eligible for the GI Bill—a government-financed college education—it is almost certain that Pettinato both encouraged him to go to college and counseled him about which college to attend. They might also have talked about where Boyd could resume his swimming. The bay was frozen but Boyd swam often at the YMCA at 10th and Peach Street in downtown Erie. And only weeks after he returned from Japan, he traveled with the Erie Aquatic Club to Pittsburgh and swam against the famed University of Michigan swimming team. Boyd was the star. He won the 50-yard event in 26.2 seconds and was runner-up in the 100-yard senior freestyle.

  When summer came, Boyd returned to his job at the Peninsula, now as assistant chief lifeguard. He spent much of his time patrolling the beaches with Pettinato. Frank Pettinato Jr. was seven years old that summer and remembers that when he came to the beach his father always spoke of Boyd in the most glowing terms. At home his father frequently told Frank Jr. he should grow up to be like Boyd.

  When summer ended, Boyd left for the University of Iowa to study economics. He picked Iowa because of David Armbruster, the legendary swimming coach who established swimming as a sport at Iowa in 1917 and who was credited with developing the butterfly stroke and the flip turn. As far back as 1927, Armbruster persuaded the university to build a 50-meter pool. He wrote a textbook called “Competitive Swimming and Diving” and turned more than three dozen swimmers and divers into All-Americans. His swimmers regularly set national intercollegiate records.

  One of the more humbling aspects of higher education, both in athletics and in academics, is when a student finds that just because he trailed clouds of glory in high school does not mean he will do the same in college. If Boyd went out for the swim team when the season began in January 1948, he did not make it. The next year at Iowa he found himself competing against the legendary Wally Ris, who began breaking swim records in 1947 and won an Olympic gold medal in 1948. His specialty was the 100-meter and the 220-yard freestyle—Boyd’s events.

  In 1950, after Ris graduated, Boyd made the varsity team. In later years when Boyd talked about his experiences as a swimmer at Iowa, he always said Coach Armbruster “played favorites.” Boyd had been a favorite of Art Weibel and was the favorite of Frank Pettinato. But at Iowa he was not picked out of the crowd. His bitterness toward his college experience was such that for the rest of his life he referred sarcastically to Iowa as “the corn college” and insisted, “I don’t know why I went there. I got nothing out of it.”

  John Boyd met Mary Ethelyn Bruce when both were juniors. She was a prim and petite brunette from Ottumwa, Iowa, and made no secret of the fact she was at college to find a husband. Boyd and Mary met at the Veterans Club. She was there with one of Boyd’s fraternity brothers. Mary must have made more of an impression on Boyd than Boyd made on her because when he called a few days later asking for a date, she didn’t remember him. After searching through the annual and finding his picture, she decided he was “not bad looking” and agreed to meet him.

  In the beginning it seemed they had much in common.

  Both had worked as lifeguards. Both came from families of five children—three boys and two girls. Both had mothers who were German Presbyterians, widows who were strong and domineering women. Both came from families that, because of the death of a father, had money problems.

  Mary had no trouble finding out all there was to know about Boyd. He told her that she looked like Jeanette MacDonald and then talked mostly of himself. He told her of Japan and how he led a revolt against the officers. He told her of being a champion swimmer back in Erie and he told her of the great Frank Pettinato. He told her how close his family was and how loyal they all were to one another. He said, “In my family we had a tough life. But it didn’t bother me. I am not a whiner. I move on.” And when he talked he talked loudly and waved his arms and embellished the simplest of stories and made the world new and interesting and exciting.

  Iowa was overflowing with older men who had been in the war and there were so many to choose from. But Boyd was different. He made life an adventure. His enthusiasm and joie de vivre mesmerized her. Soon she was dating no one else. Slowly, she told Boyd the story of her life. She was the fifth child of Elizabeth and Albert Bruce. Her mother, Elizabeth Bonar, grew up on an Iowa farm and married Albert Weyer Bruce, a mechanic. Albert was a gentle man whose wants were few. He wanted to work on cars and he wanted to please his wife. But he found he could not do both.

  Elizabeth was the antipode of Albert, as hard and dominating as he was soft and accommodating. She had seen enough dirt and grime on the farm and she wanted a different life for herself and for her children. She wanted her family to have a certain social standing in Ottumwa. She wanted Albert to clean the grease from his fingernails and become an executive. Under her ceaseless prodding, he became a consultant and then a superintendent in a company that manufactured equipment for poultry processing plants—equipment that stripped feathers from chickens. And there he was an unhappy man. He did not want to be an executive, even a low-level executive; he yearned to be a mechanic. He died of a heart attack when Mary was eleven and his widow wondered for years if she was the reason. “I wonder if I pushed him too hard,” she sometimes said.

  These moments of introspection were rare for Mrs. Bruce. She was a woman who had to be in charge. The poultry processing plant sent her monthly checks, but it was not enough to raise five children. She moved the children to the unheated attic and turned the Bruce home into a boarding house that she ran with the efficiency of a military operation.

  Mrs. Bruce dictated Mary’s life to such a degree that Mary had few opinions of her own. She thought whatever her mother
wanted her to think. She was a passive person, one of those who stands still and waits to see what life has in store. She almost never argued with anyone; if there was a disagreement, she nodded and agreed but then dug in her heels in small passive-aggressive ways.

  When Mary graduated from high school, she attended Parsons College, a small religious school in Fairfield, Iowa. She was there for only a year before transferring to the larger, man-rich University of Iowa, where she majored in home economics. And because she felt she was misunderstood, because she felt there was something wrong in her thinking and how she looked at the world, many of her electives were in psychology.

  “Actually, I majored in ‘looking for a husband,’” she said. She knew exactly what she wanted. Because her two favorite older brothers were not athletic and not popular, she wanted to marry what she termed a “big jock.” She thought an athlete would be easy and accommodating and that after graduation he might become a coach and they could lead a simple life in a small Iowa town. She would be a member of the local Presbyterian church and sing in the choir and life would be uncomplicated.

  Boyd fit the bill. He was tall and handsome and dark-haired, just like her brothers. But he was an athlete and very popular as well. She did not question the depth of his faith or whether or not he lived his religion as she did. She was a good Presbyterian and thought he was the same. For her, the world was black and white, good and bad, right and wrong. There were only absolutes, rigid lines that could never be crossed. She looked upon Boyd and put him into a neat and tightly wrapped little box.

  The only part that didn’t fit her image of him as a “big jock” was that he read so much. He always carried books, not just class books, but books on history and war and philosophy. Mary shrugged this off and considered it a rather quaint affectation. And then there was the military thing. At the beginning of his junior year, Boyd signed up for the Air Force Reserve Officers Training Course. He said it was purely financial, as he needed the monthly twenty-eight dollars that ROTC students received. Whatever his reason, he took to ROTC with a passion. He barked orders and took charge of virtually every gathering until the other ROTC students began calling him “Captain Boyd.” He was becoming much more assertive, what the military calls a “take-charge guy.” He was coming into his own as a man.