Richard (it was
about that time we started calling him “Dick” as they did at school) and Rex
still had two or three weeks of school left, so I had time to explore the town
on my own. I usually walked because Dick
had not said I could use his bicycle; however, if I wanted to go quite a way I
sometimes took it anyway—making sure to get it back before he got home.
I got acquainted
with downtown Vancouver then, one sunny day, wandered through the Army post,
Vancouver Barracks, where a division of infantry and the 7th cavalry
were stationed. Down between the
Barracks and the river there was a small airfield. Part of it, called Pearson Field, was used by
the Army Air Corps for some small bombers but part of it was private and I was irresistibly
drawn to the collection of ancient biplanes and some homebuilt aircraft housed
in a few small wooden hangars. I vowed
again that someday I would fly airplanes.
I was also
frequently drawn to the waterfront along the broad river. I watched the remaining big stern wheel
steamboats thrashing up the river against the current and the pompously
chuffing little tugboats maneuvering rafts of logs that arrived at the DuBois
sawmill.
I was not a
frustrated Mark Twain—I had no particular desire to be on either the steamers
or the tugboats. I did not realize, in
fact, that the maritime world held an attraction for me until Navy Day weekend
that year of 1937 when several Navy warships came up the Columbia River. A cruiser and two or three destroyers went on
up the Willamette River to tie up at Portland.
One destroyer tied up at a dock at the Vancouver waterfront.
I watched the
destroyer come in and sat on the bollard most of the afternoon watching the
activities of the white-clad sailors on the deck. I envied them and wanted to be in one of
those snazzy uniforms with a cocky white hat and flapping collar. I even came back after supper that evening
and watched from the dock with some other youngsters while they showed a movie
for the crew on the open fantail. It was
a gangster film.
My feelings about
the Navy solidified that weekend when the Navy ships were open for public
tours. I bummed a quarter from my mother
for the fare and rode the interurban street car from Vancouver across the
Interstate Bridge and into downtown Portland.
(The interurban streetcar was replaced by bus service in 1938.)
I waited in lines
and toured every one of the Navy ships, marveling at the immaculate grey
paintwork, gleaming brass, and the big guns.
I especially envied the naval officers in their crisp white uniforms and
gold-braided peaked caps. The desire to
wear a Navy uniform was perhaps even more strong than my desire to fly.
