Sometime in the early 50’s, Leo Fortier’s uncle was a member of the Civil Air Patrol, so Leo knew all about enemy aircraft. He said that his uncle had an assigned time every week, where he would sit on the roof of his house and watch for enemy planes flying over.
“The attack could come at any time, so we have to be vigilant,” Leo said.
I asked him was vigilant meant. “I don’t know, but it’s important,” he answered.
One summer day, we were out on the St. Peter’s School playground playing 500. This is a game where one guy hits fly balls to kids in the outfield. If you catch a fly ball with one hand, you get 200 points. If you use two hands, you only get 100 points. Catch the ball on one hop, 75 points. Two hops, 50 points and grounders were 25 points. If you drop a fly ball, trying to catch it one-handed, you forfeit 200 points.
The first fielder to get 500 points wins and then he gets to bat. The first batter goes to the field and the game starts over. Each person was responsible for his own score, so there was plenty of arguing over just what the real score was.
Well, on this particular afternoon, a really big plane with four propellors (two on each wing) was flying really low right over the playground. Leo told us guys (Davey Cournoyer, Carl Olson and me) that the plane was a Russian bomber and we would all be toast in the next five minutes. There was nothing we could do about it since nobody in North St. Paul had a bomb shelter.
About this time, maybe 1954, we had regular air raid drills and fire drills at school. During fire drills, we walked out of school and crossed the street. We waited there, in front of the church, until the bell rang and we could file back into school without a word being spoken. For some reason, fire drills only occurred on nice Spring and Fall days.
The air raid drills were different. Sister Evangelista came over the loud speaker and shouted, “Air raid drill! Get under your desk immediately. Duck And Cover!”
We all jumped up, crawled under our desks with our heads facing forward and our butts in the air. We were told to lock our hands over our heads and close our eyes until we got the all clear from the loud speaker. I did everything right but I didn’t close my eyes because I could see Germaine Pierre’s white underpants straight ahead, where her uniform dress was hiked up.
The same year, there was a new house on the corner of Prosperity and Carpenter Avenues, across from the Jewish cemetery, and it was supposed to have a bomb shelter in the basement. We drove by the house every other Sunday on our way to our Grandma’s house for dinner. Every time we went by that corner, I would ask my did if we were going to get a bomb shelter.
Dad knew better than to say no, so he would answer, “Maybe someday.”
I would ask him what food and soda pop we would have in it. “Can we invite some people to stay with us?”
“This is just for our family,” he would say.
Then I would beg him to let Leo Fortier come and stay with us. He would hear about how Leo’s uncle was in the Civil Air patrol, and he’d say, “OK. Leo can come, but that’s all.”
When I asked if Leo’s mother could join us, his answer was, “She’s the last person in the world who would get into our bomb shelter.”
By this time we were almost to our grandmother’s house and the conversation was over until the next Sunday, in two more weeks, when it started all over again.
I remember thinking what an undignified way to die – with your head down and your butt sticking up.
A great piece of writing.
I remember these drills that lasted into my high school years. But I don’t think I had any idea how serious the cause was. My friends and I would whisper in the hallways by the lockers until the all clear. I don’t think we thought we would really die.