Grandfather Stories Hal Wilder, Jr. World War II 485th Bomb Group Bomber Pilot The Great Depression American History Life Stories Munich FLAK life history brain injury rehabilitation sailing

About the stories
How did they come to be ?

In the beginning there was a conversation, a nostalgic conversation. Galen Wiggans had come for a short visit. Galen and I had been thrown together as Aviation Cadets, by the tyranny of the alphabet. There were four of us; Wiggans, Wilder, Wiley and Williams, aka Galen, Hal, Woody and Bert.   After several changes of station, Woody and Bert had gone separately along other trails, But Galen and I were together for a full nine months, an age in the Second Air Force Training Command.
After the War ended, Rosie and I lived in Northeastern Illinois, Galen and Arlee moved about the West following jobs in the oil industry, I believe. But finally they were visiting in our retirement home in Camarillo, California. After over fifty years we were finally attempting to catch up.
That was a 3-day conversation, and for a change, my son was actually listening. After Galen had left, it was “Gee, Dad, I wish you’d write that down”. The result was Grandfather Stories, then More Grandfather Stories and now Still More Grandfather Stories is building in a file on my hard drive. You see, once I began writing it’s been like filling a bottomless pit. Each time I write about something from my life, doors open in my mind and I recall what happened next, and next, and . . .
For Instance . . . I just remembered this . . .
During the 1st week of February, 1945 we made an 8-hour trip to Regensburg, Germany. For several years Gunners there had been practicing on the Eighth Air force, who paid them several visits. They had become very good at their work. Regensburg was closer to Italy than England, so now it was our turn. We were flying at 20,000 feet, where it is always cold. In February it was 50 degrees below zero.
It’s hard to describe in written words the sound of an 88 mm shell exploding nearby. It’s something between a bang and a crack. But suddenly there was a 3-inch hole in my side of the plexiglas windshield, and I had a lapful of fragments. But no wounds, even my jacket was unscathed. We were still in formation, approaching the target.

Wind chill is figured by multiplying temperature times wind speed.   We were flying at some 240 miles per hour.   But I had an Oxygen mask and goggles covering my face, earphones covering my ears.   Later they checked me over for frost bite, and marveled that there was none.
Two hours later, over the Adriatic, the whole formation was down to 9500 feet, where it was all of zero degrees and we could go off oxygen. Another ninety minutes and we were on the ground where it was 50 degrees, but I was still shivering.
I have never complained about the heat since.
This account does not appear in either of my published books. I just remembered. How could I have forgotten ?

TThis Stuff Is Dangerous !

In 1942 at the Iowa Ordnance Plant, we were producing various items of heavy ammunition for the Army. In Building 22 we were producing detonating fuzes to be fitted to the nose of bombs and projectiles. Three long tables, four feet wide and twenty feet long were occupied by women and girls, seated facing each other and not quite elbow to elbow. Each pair of ladies facing each other performed the same process. #1 and 1A began the process with a new tray of 25 aluminum fuze bodies. They placed a detonator .1875 “ diameter ,375“ long, at the bottom of a drilled cavity in each body, then pushed the tray to her neighbor.   # 2 and 2A added a tiny slug of compressed black powder. # 3 and 3A then added a tiny disc of fulminate of mercury. # 4 and 4 A then inserted an aluminum disc that had to be seated firmly with a hand press, to secure the contents of the cavity, a very delicate operation. The tray moved along, station to station and table to table until some fifty operations had been performed. At the end there were 25 M-52 Fuzes for 81mm trench mortar shells.
                There had been a limit set by the Safety Dept determining how much explosive could be in the building at any one time. As crates of finished fuzes were sent to the shipping room, the foreman would call for a new supply of powder. The powder magazine was a separate building, presided over by a Powder Man. He had a cart, an open-top box about 24” x 24” x 10”, set on 3 wheels; 2 bicycle wheels and a smaller one that swiveled. When more powder was needed, he put it in that box and wheeled it up. He did that every time, every day, but once. One day, during the day shift, he broke routine, and discovered why the routine had been established. As he passed through the doorway from his ramp, he dropped the carton of lead azide detonators. When it hit the concrete floor, they all did their thing, they went bang! as we used to say, all at once, with a brilliant flash, and a loud cracking sound.
    Sammy wasn’t hurt. But he stood there in his shoes, but otherwise naked. And scared.
    Fred, the foreman removed his jacket and handed it to Sammy, who was now the center of attention. Production stopped. The fire truck arrived.   There was no fire to cope with. Following preplanned emergency procedure, an ambulance arrived. They had nothing to do, so they took Sammy to the plant Hospital. And everybody began to prepare reports. As Senior Shift Inspector, I had to report the event’s effect on the process. I could only write that it stopped.
     We didn’t see Sammy again for about two weeks. A new man took over Sammy’s duties. Then Sammy returned with a new assignment; Safety Man. As long as I worked there, ‘til mid January, Sammy performed his new duties in a truly conscientious manner.

A message from Hal More from the Early Years There was a war going on The StoryTeller's Stories Reviews and excerpts Beyond the stories The Bottom Line Hal's books Grandfather Stories is now available in two formats; the spiral-bound black and white original book, or glossy, colored, paperback Lulu version. Inside the books are alike as to page size and layout. Serious readers interested in the History of the time have indicated a preference for the spiral-bound form. The price of either remains at $25.00 + shipping & handling It has been said that “those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it.” Certainly, one thing leads to another. Events that have happened in the past affect events later on. I am certain that my life was affected by my father’s close association with Uncle Eddie Rickenbacker. There were so few Pilots in those days that they all knew each other. After War I whenever one of them passed through Chicago, he would call Dad, and be invited out for dinner or the weekend. Thus I grew up knowing the movers and shakers of the Army Air Corps of a later day. We children were expected to remain at the dinner table until every one had finished. Dinner conversation was rich when it flowed between such people as Maj. Hap Arnold, Mr. Billy Mitchell, and Uncle Eddie Rickenbacker. Billy Mitchell and Eddie Rickenbacker	Who Is Hal Wilder ? Like you, I’m just an ordinary fellow who has lived through quite extraordinary times; lived to write about them. I was born at an interesting time. June 1918. At that time my father was in Brittany, France, serving as the Commandant of Training at a field near Issoudon. There they were teaching Artillery officers to trust aerial observers. His commanding Officer was Maj. Carl Spaatz. The Field Adjutant was Capt. Eddie Rickenbacker, whom I grew up knowing as “Uncle Rick”. Ours has been spoken of as the greatest generation. If we were, perhaps it was the strengthening effect of the Great Depression that may have conditioned us. Now, as an old man, I have compiled my reminiscences of an interesting life. Growing up in America during that Great Depression and before World War Two, was unlike anything since. My story, Grandfather Stories, is broken into several parts because my life has seen so very much. All this seems to have led me to become a Bomber Pilot in the 15th Air Force during WWII
	About the stories How did they come to be ? In the beginning there was a conversation, a nostalgic conversation. Galen Wiggans had come for a short visit. Galen and I had been thrown together as Aviation Cadets, by the tyranny of the alphabet. There were four of us; Wiggans, Wilder, Wiley and Williams, aka Galen, Hal, Woody and Bert. After several changes of station, Woody and Bert had gone separately along other trails, But Galen and I were together for a full nine months, an age in the Second Air Force Training Command. After the War ended, Rosie and I lived in Northeastern Illinois, Galen and Arlee moved about the West following jobs in the oil industry, I believe. But finally they were visiting in our retirement home in Camarillo, California. After over fifty years we were finally attempting to catch up. That was a 3-day conversation, and for a change, my son was actually listening. After Galen had left, it was “Gee, Dad, I wish you’d write that down”. The result was Grandfather Stories, then More Grandfather Stories and now Still More Grandfather Stories is building in a file on my hard drive. You see, once I began writing it’s been like filling a bottomless pit. Each time I write about something from my life, doors open in my mind and I recall what happened next, and next, and . . . For Instance . . . I just remembered this . . . During the 1st week of February, 1945 we made an 8-hour trip to Regensburg, Germany. For several years Gunners there had been practicing on the Eighth Air force, who paid them several visits. They had become very good at their work. Regensburg was closer to Italy than England, so now it was our turn. We were flying at 20,000 feet, where it is always cold. In February it was 50 degrees below zero. It’s hard to describe in written words the sound of an 88 mm shell exploding nearby. It’s something between a bang and a crack. But suddenly there was a 3-inch hole in my side of the plexiglas windshield, and I had a lapful of fragments. But no wounds, even my jacket was unscathed. We were still in formation, approaching the target. Wind chill is figured by multiplying temperature times wind speed. We were flying at some 240 miles per hour. But I had an Oxygen mask and goggles covering my face, earphones covering my ears. Later they checked me over for frost bite, and marveled that there was none. Two hours later, over the Adriatic, the whole formation was down to 9500 feet, where it was all of zero degrees and we could go off oxygen. Another ninety minutes and we were on the ground where it was 50 degrees, but I was still shivering. I have never complained about the heat since. This account does not appear in either of my published books. I just remembered. How could I have forgotten ? TThis Stuff Is Dangerous ! In 1942 at the Iowa Ordnance Plant, we were producing various items of heavy ammunition for the Army. In Building 22 we were producing detonating fuzes to be fitted to the nose of bombs and projectiles. Three long tables, four feet wide and twenty feet long were occupied by women and girls, seated facing each other and not quite elbow to elbow. Each pair of ladies facing each other performed the same process. #1 and 1A began the process with a new tray of 25 aluminum fuze bodies. They placed a detonator .1875 “ diameter ,375“ long, at the bottom of a drilled cavity in each body, then pushed the tray to her neighbor. # 2 and 2A added a tiny slug of compressed black powder. # 3 and 3A then added a tiny disc of fulminate of mercury. # 4 and 4 A then inserted an aluminum disc that had to be seated firmly with a hand press, to secure the contents of the cavity, a very delicate operation. The tray moved along, station to station and table to table until some fifty operations had been performed. At the end there were 25 M-52 Fuzes for 81mm trench mortar shells. There had been a limit set by the Safety Dept determining how much explosive could be in the building at any one time. As crates of finished fuzes were sent to the shipping room, the foreman would call for a new supply of powder. The powder magazine was a separate building, presided over by a Powder Man. He had a cart, an open-top box about 24” x 24” x 10”, set on 3 wheels; 2 bicycle wheels and a smaller one that swiveled. When more powder was needed, he put it in that box and wheeled it up. He did that every time, every day, but once. One day, during the day shift, he broke routine, and discovered why the routine had been established. As he passed through the doorway from his ramp, he dropped the carton of lead azide detonators. When it hit the concrete floor, they all did their thing, they went bang! as we used to say, all at once, with a brilliant flash, and a loud cracking sound. Sammy wasn’t hurt. But he stood there in his shoes, but otherwise naked. And scared. Fred, the foreman removed his jacket and handed it to Sammy, who was now the center of attention. Production stopped. The fire truck arrived. There was no fire to cope with. Following preplanned emergency procedure, an ambulance arrived. They had nothing to do, so they took Sammy to the plant Hospital. And everybody began to prepare reports. As Senior Shift Inspector, I had to report the event’s effect on the process. I could only write that it stopped. We didn’t see Sammy again for about two weeks. A new man took over Sammy’s duties. Then Sammy returned with a new assignment; Safety Man. As long as I worked there, ‘til mid January, Sammy performed his new duties in a truly conscientious manner.
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