Sh-Boom Read online

  ALSO BY DON POTTER

  The Adman

  Murder on Madison Avenue

  Spin Masters

  9 Murder Mysteries

  Deadly Honeymoon

  9 Murder Mysteries, Volume 2

  This book is fictional and a product of the author’s imagination. References to people, places and things are solely to create a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Apart from brief extracts used for reviews, no part of this book may be used or reproduced for any reason without prior written consent of the author.

  Copyright 2019: Donald L. Potter

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 9781543987645

  Sh-Boom is dedicated to the Pre-Boomers and early Baby Boomers, who experienced, first hand, much or all the events of the 50 year period portrayed in this novel - 1941 through 1991. From World War II to the tumultuous ‘60s to the prosperous ‘80s we saw the country at its best and worst. Although we are now past the age of retirement, few of us will forget when television came into our homes, the constant fear of Communism, the birth of Rock and Roll, the race to outer space, the assassination of national leaders, and the riots in the streets of our cities. All this occurred long before the advent of the Internet, Smart phones, Google, Facebook and the other high tech conveniences of today. Yet, somehow, we survived and accomplished many things throughout our lives. In many ways Sh-Boom is all our stories.

  Table of Contents

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  1

  Everything in the Fleming family’s life is altered when the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor - even the way young Bobby Fleming plays.

  * * *

  I suppose my family, the Flemings, was pretty much like any other family in the Pittsburgh suburb of Mount Lebanon. I really only had my playmates’ homes to go on. Their houses were pretty much the same shapes, as were their parents and the furniture. Inside and outside their homes were different colors and they smelled a little different too, not bad just different. So, no big differences except for the churches the families in the neighborhood attended.

  We were Presbyterian and went to Sunday school and church every week unless someone was sick. After church my big brother Jimmy, who was ten years old and twice my age, and I usually played in the woods a couple of blocks from our house until it was time for an early dinner served promptly a four o’clock. Grandma and Grandpa Campbell, mom’s parents, where usually there as well.

  “Make sure you boys bundle up. Put on your scarves and gloves. It’s getting cold out there,” Mom said as we got ready to leave for the woods. “Stay out of the street, don’t play with sticks you could put an eye out, and don’t get dirty. Remember to be home in time to wash up before we sit down to dinner at four o’clock sharp.”

  The kitchen and storm doors quickly closed behind us as we scurried to get away before Mom issued more instructions, which we had heard many times before.

  “Why do we eat early on Sunday?” I asked Jimmy on the way to the woods.

  “’Cause,” my brother said.

  “Oh,” I accepted his explanation as usual, because Jimmy knew a lot of stuff. With him to watch over me I got to do more things – like play in the woods. We were running around, playing Cowboys and Indians with our friends, when our sister Peggy turned up.

  “You have to come home,” she said. Peggy was thirteen and could be real bossy sometimes.

  “It’s not time,” Jimmy answered.

  “Dad says you have to. Right now!”

  “Why?”

  “Something really bad happened,” Peggy said and ran back to our house. We followed.

  Mom, Dad and Grandma were sitting around the big console radio in the living room, staring at it like they were hypnotized, when we burst in. Grandpa was in the kitchen fixing himself a highball. He liked highballs a lot.

  “What’s up?” Jimmy asked.

  “Quiet,” Dad said in his most serious voice.

  “But what’s-” I was cut off by my mother.

  “Robert, be quiet,” she said without looking at me.

  Everyone called me Bobby when things were okay, but when either parent referred to me as Robert it meant I did something wrong and was in trouble. So I shut up. My curiosity would have to wait but not for long.

  “Pearl Harbor was bombed,” Grandpa Campbell snapped when he walked back in the living room with his drink and leaned close to the radio.

  “Where’s that?” I asked.

  “Hawaii,” Dad said.

  “How far is that from Pittsburgh?”

  “A long way, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

  “So why is everyone all upset?”

  “I’m trying to hear this. Be quiet or go upstairs and play,” Grandpa grumbled.

  “Hawaii is a possession of the United States,” Dad said. “The Japanese attacked our naval fleet, our airfields and army posts. This is a very serious situation. Looks like our country will be going to war.”

  “Wow,” Jimmy said, while Grandpa grumbled some more.

  I had no idea what was going on, but my brother’s reaction told me this was a big deal.

  The next day President Roosevelt declared that our country was at war with Japan and made a speech about December 7, 1941 being “a date which will live in infamy.” Within a week my two older cousins enlisted. One joined the Army and the other went in the Navy. Young men on our street and from church signed up, too. The draft began to take the rest of them. I could not think of anything in my young life that was as big and exciting as going to war.

  Jimmy and I, and all the other kids in the neighborhood, stopped playing Cowboys and Indians. From then on we were soldiers.

  2

  The country gears up for war and there are casualties close to home. Most folks willingly make sacrifices to support the war effort. And Bobby wonders why his candy is rationed.

  * * *

  The glow of the Bessemer furnaces at night and the never-ending soot raining down from the clouds of smoke generated by the steel mills and other area factories reminded us that Pittsburgh was totally involved in the war effort. So you’d think my Grandpa, who worked at the Jones & Laughlin steel plant, would be happy since everyone was working again after a decade of suffering through the Great Depression. But he wasn’t, not even after a couple of highballs.

  “Th
e rich ain’t suffering the way the working man is,” he would complain. “Those with money can get all the gas and tires they need and drive anywhere they want, while the working man has to take the streetcar to work.”

  Grandpa always complained about money. He seemed especially worried about those who had more than he had. I guess my dad was not considered one of the bad guys since he was married to one of Grandpa’s daughters. But I could tell that Dad, being a graduate of Carnegie Tech and an engineer, did not always agree with Grandpa. One time I overhead him on the phone telling someone that Grandpa Campbell was afraid of education and never encouraged his children to go to college. Dad said he would not have met Mom if she had not worked as a secretary in the engineering department at Westinghouse. I was glad they got married, because they were the best parents a kid could hope for.

  Other than Grandpa, nobody seemed to complain much about the shortages caused by the war. They just seemed to accept it and did their part. Just once I heard my Mom say, “I got a run in my last pair of stockings.”

  Dad laughed. “Since gas is rationed we can’t go anywhere, anyway.”

  The war made candy and bubble gum scarce. I didn’t understand why, but I put my ration of gum on the bedpost at night. It took about five minutes the next day to soften up the gum. Guess that’s what you have to do with a war going on.

  It seemed like everything was being rationed, butter was one of them. Mom had a job for me to do whenever she baked. I would sit on the back step and squeeze a little color capsule into the packet of oleo margarine then massage it until the ugly gray mass looked something like the color of butter. It was a weird chore, but the pies and cakes mom made tasted good to me.

  Vegetables were scarce too. Dad, like so many other people, planted a big Victory Garden in the backyard. My brother and I had to tend to it over the next two summers. Jimmy made me do the weeding while he sat back and watched me work. He did the watering when I finished. I hated weeding but loved playing in the garden with my lead toy soldiers and tin trucks once things started to grow. My brother and I stacked up papers and crushed cans for the paper and metal drives that were ongoing during the war. I sold war bonds to relatives, neighbors, as well as people at church and won an award for my efforts.

  Newspapers and radio newscasts provided daily accounts of the fighting in Europe and the Pacific. I didn’t listen to the news and was not reading newspapers or magazines then, but there were plenty of pictures along with the movie newsreels to keep me informed about America’s efforts in places like Salerno, Bastogne, Guadalcanal, and Iwo Jima.

  Several houses on our street displayed little red, white and blue banners in their front windows. A dark blue star was for each person in the family serving in the military. Some families had two or more stars on their banner. A silver star meant someone had been wounded. And a gold one indicated that a son had given his life fighting for his country.

  The Tomczaks across the street lost their eighteen-year-old son, Frankie. He was a star football player and went into the service right out of high school in ‘42. A few months later he was dead. I would never see Frankie again. That was a weird thought.

  A memorial service was held at the local Catholic Church. Everyone who knew him attended. The mass was long. People cried throughout the service, including some men.

  One day my dad and I stood atop Mount Washington waiting for the Duquesne Incline car to arrive. We looked around at all the smokestacks along the Monongahela River. Dad said, “The people of this city should be proud for our part in the war.”

  “Why aren’t you in the Army?” I asked.

  “I’m too old,” my father replied.

  “You’re not old like Grandpa. And he said he was ready to go fight both the Nazis and the Japs.”

  “The military is a young man’s job. Most of those who enlisted or were drafted are under 25, like my brother’s kids. Your cousins were 19 and 21 when they joined up. I’m in my thirties, so Uncle Sam doesn’t want me, but that hasn’t kept me from being involved on the home front.”

  “You mean being an air raid warden? Are you in charge of the paper bombs they drop when we can’t turn on the lights?”

  “Air raid warden is only part of it. I’m on the committee to protect Pittsburgh.”

  I later found out Dad was part of a group of men responsible for overseeing the evacuation of the city in case of an enemy attack on our mills and factories.

  “What else?”

  “My job as an engineer with Westinghouse is considered important to the war effort.”

  “Why?”

  “Westinghouse makes radar and other electronics used by the military. And it’s a good thing, because the company had financial difficulties during the Depression years and could have been in real trouble if the war hadn’t bailed us out.”

  I had no idea what he meant, but I did know that the Depression meant a lot of people lost their jobs and nobody had much money to spend.

  “You do other things too, right?” I asked.

  “Yes, I also volunteered for several other civil defense assignments in our community. And your mother prepares gift packages at church and at school for the boys serving overseas. Your grandmother helps, too.”

  “And Grandpa?”

  “He likes to talk about the war.”

  “What about your mom and dad?”

  “Even though they retired to Florida, I’m sure they’re doing their part. Why don’t you ask about it next time they call?”

  “I will if somebody gives me a chance to talk.”

  The incline came to a halt. We ended the conversation and got on for the short trip down the side of the hill across the river from downtown Pittsburgh, were we had lunch and then went to the Joseph Horne department store and bought a model airplane kit.

  We no sooner got back home when the phone rang.

  “It’s your brother,” Mom said and handed the phone to my father.

  “What’s up, Wayne?” Dad asked. There was a long pause.

  “Oh, no,” my father exclaimed. “Is he going to be all right? Is there anything I can do? Our prayers are with you, and please let us know when you find out more.”

  “What happened?” Mom asked when he hung up the phone.

  “Billy was wounded when a bomb hit his ship. Several sailors were killed. He suffered shrapnel wounds and some burns. He’ll be in the hospital for awhile.”

  “His parents must be a wreck.”

  “They’re grateful he’s alive.”

  “Will Uncle Wayne put a silver star on the flag in his window?” I asked.

  “Go play in your room,” Mom said in her do-it-now voice.

  I took the model plane kit Dad bought me and went upstairs. Billy being wounded intensified my feelings that no one was doing anything important unless they were fighting in the war. I wanted to talk more about this, maybe I could ask Billy about his thoughts when he got home from the hospital.

  In the meantime, I felt safe because there were so many men fighting for those of us at home. Apart from the war there were things that worried me, like getting sick. Stuff was going around and kids at school were catching things like Whooping Cough, Scarlet Fever, Ring Worm and, worst of all, the crippling disease of Polio.

  Luckily I dodged all of these. But I did get Measles and Chicken Pox. Praying every night for me not to get any of the bad ones must have worked.

  3

  Germany surrenders. Japan does not. And Grandpa starts a fight.

  * * *

  When the Germans surrendered, the schools in Pittsburgh closed for the day and Mom prepared a huge dinner to celebrate. Uncle Wayne, his wife and cousin Billy were there. My other cousin was stationed in England where he had been flying bombing missions over Europe. Billy did not want to be called Billy any more. From now on he was Bill. He had a noticeable limp from when he was wounded. Other than that, he looked okay to me but he never again was the fun loving guy I reme
mber before he left to fight in the war.

  My mother’s parents came over too. Grandpa Campbell and my father’s brother, Uncle Wayne, did not get along very well. Both men were native Pittsburghers of Scotch-Irish decent and Presbyterian; aside from that, they had little in common. Dad said it was because ferrous and non-ferrous metals did not mix. The dislike was obvious when Grandpa from J&L Steel came in contact with Uncle Wayne of ALCOA, even though one worked on the floor of the plant and the other was a salesman. Blue collar Pittsburghers had a disdain for white collar folks, because the former did not think the latter worked in the true sense of the word.

  That night started out differently, with grandpa being nice to Billy, I mean Bill.

  “How about a cold Fort Pitt beer?” Grandpa asked.

  “No thanks,” Bill replied. “I’ll have pop. Got any Cokes in the ice box?”

  “Can’t imagine why you wouldn’t have a drink on a night like this? It’s time to celebrate.”

  “How about you, Wayne, want a Fort Pitt and maybe a shot of whiskey to go with it?” Grandpa asked.

  “Can’t stand that beer,” Uncle Wayne answered. “A highball will be fine.”

  “Yinz wouldn’t know a good beer if ya tasted it. Real working men like me say, ‘Fort Pitt – that’s it.’ Those other beers are for the ladies and the guys in the aluminum business.”

  The gloves were off, at least for Grandpa. As I later learned, this became a problem whenever he drank too much. At such times, Grandpa would intersperse the word “yinz” along with other local working-man language into the conversation. My brother and I thought he was fun to watch. The grownups didn’t.

  Memorial Day was a bigger deal than ever that year. Some of the troops started to come home from Europe and we were winning the war in the Pacific. Hopes were high for peace at last.

  I got to ride my tricked-out bike around the neighborhood. It was decorated with red, white and blue crepe paper wrapped over the handlebars and woven through the spokes. I used one of Mom’s clothespins to attach an old playing card to the front wheel. It sounded as if the bike had a motor. At least I thought so. Independence Day offered great hope to all Americans in 1945. Turned out that he July 4th fireworks celebration was a precursor to the surrender of Japan, which came a little over a month later. I was nearly nine years and the country had been at war for almost half my entire life. So I felt the anticipation in the air and experienced the relief that came with the reality of V-J Day in mid-August. Dropping the atom bomb on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki resulted in the death of over one hundred thousand people, but it was viewed as a necessary evil in order to reduce casualties on both sides rather than let the fighting continue onto the Japanese mainland. I didn’t quite understand it all, but I realized the use of the A-bomb brought a swift end to WWII.