Dem
47
GOP
53
Today is a reminiscence from M.G. in Boulder, CO:
A Depression kid, my dad, Virgil Grotzky, had one chance at a scholarship, but lost out to a classmate who had spent his time in a tuberculosis sanitarium reading an encyclopedia. Virgil needed to take the next job offered and became a stockboy at Woolworth's in Dodge City, KS. At a meeting with the district manager, in response to the manager's newest policy proposal, the new kid said, "Well, that sounds like a good idea." The manager turned to him and said, "Son, if I say it, it is a good idea." Lesson learned. Thereafter the kid had a friend in a high place.
Woolworth's had a policy that said, "If you are offered a promotion, take it. Do otherwise, and you won't get another chance." Dad rose through the ranks, but was not offered opportunities that came up in places like East Poison Spider, ID. Finally he got his break—an assistant manager's position in Longmont, CO. He'd never been around mountains, but he had heard that mountains had no dust storms. Good enough.
The war came and the army came looking for Virgil in Kansas. Somehow, no one thought to tell them that he was living in another state. It took a while, but the army did finally catch up with him. He went home to say good-bye to his family. While he was there, he called the pretty, shy girl who worked at the Longmont Woolworth's candy counter and proposed. Annabeth Cohagan agreed and got to the clerk's office as they were closing. The clerk, accustomed to wartime weddings, unlocked the door for her and gave her the needed marriage license.
Virgil aced basic with the help of a sergeant who saw his potential. They trained with broomsticks because there was a shortage of guns. Virgil did not hide his thoughts about that. The lieutenant was sure the know-it-all kid couldn't handle a gun; the sergeant bet (literally) on my dad. Virgil had spent summers on the family homestead during a rabbit plague—the sergeant won the bet and helped him get into OTC. His unit was headed for North Africa, but dad wanted nothing more to do with dry, hot, flat places and declared that, like all Coloradans, he was an accomplished skier. He was transferred to the ski paratroops.
The next problem was figuring out how to attach skis to his boots. He made it down the first mountain in one piece and began looking for alternatives. The Army Air Force was looking for pilots. Clearly flying a plane beat jumping out of one. He collected his car and his wife and drove to Arizona to learn to fly.
In 1944, he was sent to England, where he piloted or co-piloted his required missions without losing a plane or crew member. Until '44, flying a B-17 over Germany was close to suicidal, but by '44, the P-51 Mustang, which combined a very maneuverable American fighter plane with a British-made Rolls-Royce engine and enlarged gas tanks, was being manufactured in large enough numbers that they could accompany the heavy bombers on their missions. In the meantime, the German air force was running out of fighter pilots. The bombing missions were never safe, but they were much safer. Given that Dad was home for Christmas of 1944, he was probably in Europe for D-Day, but he never mentioned it.
Once again, he collected wife and car and then drove to California for R&R near a base in Santa Monica before "being given the opportunity" to serve in the Pacific. The commanding officer from the base summoned dad to his office: "I see that you trained with the infantry, so, thank god, you're not one of those fly-boys." My father remembered his former district manager's advice—if someone above you says something, agree with it. He agreed. "Now it says here that you used to be an assistant manager at Woolworth's, so you know about inventory control and supply and that sort of thing?" "Yessir." "We happen to need someone with those skills here—if you'd be interested?" "Yessir!" My dad said later, "I'd have shined his shoes if he'd asked."
My dad spent the rest of the war in safe, warm California, with his car and a wife who would stand in line for an hour to buy him a few pieces of (rationed) See's chocolate. When the base was closed, he drove back to Colorado with his wife and 5-week-old daughter to see what life had to offer next.
Virgil built a house for his family with the help of his own father, learned to plaster by doing his own plaster work, and went into the business with two friends. He studied to become a chemist, then became an electron microscopist. Virgil and Annabeth were married for 66 years. He never skied or piloted a plane again. He lived to be 91, and for his last 20 years his oldest daughter kept him supplied with See's.
Thanks, M.G. (Z)