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My father was twenty years old when the United States entered World War II. He never saw active combat, fortunately, but he did serve with the 39th Squadron, 6th Bomb Group in 1945 on the Northern Marianas Island of Tinian. He worked on B-29 Superfortress radios, as part of the Army Air Force ground crew on Tinian. I pieced together his tattered photographs to tell his story. He never talked about the war to me or my siblings, and my mother is too deep in the fog of dementia to help us with the memories now. My father drowned in 1986 as he and my mother were working their way by car through Canada to Alaska. This file is a copy of the scrapbook of my father in his early 20s, when he gave his prime years so willingly and nonchalantly to his country.
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