Technical Sgt. Raymond R. (Rudy) Carriker

In Caney’s Washington Grade School we fourth graders, destined to become the first generation of Americans to pass from childhood to adolescence in a world totally committed to war, found our school days changed within the time of a few heartbeats.  We began bringing dimes to school one day each week to buy "Savings Stamps" at ten cents apiece.  We licked them and stuck them in government-provided booklets.  When we had filled the booklets we took them to the Post Office and traded them for a “War Bond” that would be worth $25.00 in ten years.  I don't know how many of us kept those bonds until maturity.  Not being frugal I cashed mine in long before they came of age.

Our mothers saved the grease left after frying bacon, sausage, and whatever other meat produced fat.  We took countless jars of pungent grease to school.  Our teachers collected them and sent them somewhere, to make . . . . .what?   No one ever told us.  We learned how to knit in art class.  Knitting happily, we turned hundreds of yards of yarn into little 6 X  6-inch woolen squares.   Our teachers said “Red Cross Ladies” would take our squares, piece them together, and make Afghans to warm the laps of "our boys" who were, by this time, being sent home to hospitals.  We sang patriotic songs in music class, played war games at recess and learned to say and spell names like Guadalcanal, Bastogne, Anzio, Okinawa, and Ludwigshaven.  We watched the older guys put on uniforms and leave.  We learned that not all of them returned.

One early Spring day in 1944 when my parents were out and about our telephone rang.  I answered it expecting some kind of parental admonishment or “order” to do some chore.  In the course of the next few moments I engaged in a conversation that changed my life forever.  The man who answered my “Hello,” said, “This is Mr. Anderson at the Santa Fe Depot.  Are your parents home?”   I told him I was the only one home to which he responded, “I have a telegram here for your dad.  Can someone come and get it?”  Western Union Telegrams were the mid-century’s substitute for faxes, e-mail, and texting.  After I told him I didn’t know exactly where my parents were or when they’d be home I asked him if he could read the telegram to me over the phone.  He told me he couldn’t, that someone had to come and get it.  Even though I was only 12 years old, after three years of living in wartime America I was war-wise enough to know that no smartly uniformed Sergeant came to the door to notify parents when their son was Killed or Missing in Action as happened in later wars.  Parents received such news in terse telegrams from “The War Department.”  Not knowing when my Mother and Dad would be home and realizing that this telegram was important I told the Western Union Operator that I would come and get it.  My parents were home when I returned with the telegram.  Dad opened the envelope, read it without saying anything, then handed it to Mother.  There were tears in his eyes.  I knew. . .
The telegram read:

“The Secretary of War regrets to inform you that your son, Technical Sergeant Raymond R. Carriker, Army Serial Number 38318506, has been reported as Missing in Action since April 1, 1944.  No further information at this time.  Please accept the sympathy of a grateful country.  You will be informed when we have further information.”

A WWII B-24 "Liberator" Bomber

and one

Going Down after taking a direct hit

From German Anti-Aircraft Fire

A pall descended over our family.  Over the next several weeks my parents’ moods alternated between dark sorrow and hopeful anticipation, Then the War Department’s next telegram came.  My brother, my quintessential “big brother” who had taken me under his wing from my earliest memory, had been Killed in Action. The pall became a permanent shroud enveloping all of us, but especially my parents.  They were never the same.  Nor was I.