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Journey Through Time
By Ralph R. Bradley
Journey Through Time
By Ralph R. Bradley
Contents
Introduction i
Chapter 1 – The Beginning 1
Chapter 2 – The Beginning of Learning 7
Chapter 3 – Averting Starvation 11
Chapter 4 – First Adventure 15
Chapter 5 – Stupidity 19
Chapter 6 – Perseverance Pays Off 21
Chapter 7 – Learning to Work 25
Chapter 8 – Learning to Play 27
Chapter 9 – Learning to Fight 33
Chapter 10 – Teaching Others How to Fight 37
Chapter 11 – Shipping Out 41
Chapter 12 – Not Ceylon 45
Chapter 13 – Japan Surrenders 51
Chapter 14 – On the Way to Calcutta 55
Chapter 15 – Welcome Home 61
Chapter 16 – New Beginnings 63
Chapter 17 – The Unnamed Chapter 67
Chapter 18 – Separating Fact from Fiction 71
Chapter 19 – Searching for Hidden Treasures 77
Chapter 20 – Exploring in Colorado and Utah 81
Chapter 21 – Entering The Canyon Lands 85
Chapter 22 – Expensive Deceit 91
Chapter 23 – The Cattle Drive 95
Chapter 24 – Mining in the San Juans 103
Chapter 25 – Personal Observations 107
Chapter 26 – Religious Observations 111
Introduction
T his is a book about survival through the hard times, and living life to the fullest during the good times. It is about adventures
during the Great Depression, World War II, mining and prospecting in the 1950s and ‘60s in America and Mexico, and
lessons on how to deal with the obstacles that inevitably come your way. Practicing positive thinking is a common theme throughout
these interesting stories.
During the Great Depression, there was a time when he and his family had to split. His father died, leaving five children and his
widow to survive on their own. His mother had to take a job as a live-in housekeeper; his younger sister had to take a job as a live-in
babysitter; his older sister got married. He was sixteen years old and homeless.
On a cold February morning, he walked to eight different factories, looking for work. The last location was the only one that
took an application. The foreman went out, found where he was staying, and offered him a job. “Do you need any money to hold
you over until your first paycheck?” Ralph had eleven cents and a subway token. He told himself, “I will never let myself be this
way again.”
Journey Through Time is the true story of the life and times of Ralph R. Bradley, from 1917 through 2008.
i
Ralph Bradley
1922(?)
Chapter 1 – The Beginning
Y esterday, January 11th 2006, I celebrated my 89th birthday. Today, January 12th 2006, I began a narration of the events and
happenings of the intervening years, which affected not only my life, but society in general. I have seen a lot of history made;
I have helped make history.
In discussing some of the events with friends and acquaintances along the way, I have been told on numerous occasions that I
should write a book. I always accepted these remarks as a subtle form of flattery. Now that I have reached my current age, with no
more worlds to conquer or projects to complete, I find myself reminiscing about what happened in the years gone by.
I want to dedicate this effort to my wonderful and beloved Mother, Viola Bradley. Born on December 20, 1880, she would have
been ninety six years old if she had lived 21 more days. She was a devout Christian girl, fiercely loyal to God and country. Whatever
good there is in me, I owe to her.
My mother lived her young life with her parents, one brother, and three sisters on a remote farm in southern Indiana. Life and
travel were primitive at best. It was long before the advent of electricity and automobiles. Perhaps once a month they would load
their wagons with chicken and eggs, butter, fresh garden vegetables, wheat and corn, an occasional cow or pig, and go to the town
of Linton. The twenty mile journey was to barter for the necessities: tools, kerosene, coffee, tea, spices, needles, thread, cloth for
making clothes, shoes, boots, and coats. There was also a grain mill where the owner would grind their wheat into flour, and corn
into cornmeal, for a percentage of the end product. Mother learned to play the piano, and saved a little money from things she
personally made or raised. Then as the ambitious, gutsy young lady that she was, she bought a ticket on the train bound for the big
city of Indianapolis and a future as yet unknown. She was betting on her ability to support herself giving piano lessons.
There she met my father, John Bradley. He was a big, good-natured Irishman working in Stegemeirs restaurant, the largest and
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2 | Ralph Bradley
most popular restaurant in downtown Indianapolis. He came from a prosperous farming community in Boone County, Indiana,
and yearned to have a farm of his own. They married and my eldest sister, Mary Thelma, was born on August 5, 1908. My oldest
brother Paul Edward followed on December 1, 1910.
Father missed the farm life so much that mother agreed to give it a try. They packed up the family belongings and moved into a
house with one of her sisters on the south side of Linton. It did not take too long before father saw how unhappy his wife was and
decided to return to Indianapolis. Mother and the children returned by train and father drove a horse and wagon, hauling what
possessions they had the one hundred mile trip back to Indianapolis. It took him two days to make the trip.
Father was well liked by the proprietor and customers of Stegemeirs. They were so pleased to see him back, he was immediately
hired and promoted to the position of Head Waiter, where he worked until he fell victim to cancer and died in 1925. Father was a
good man, who was proud of and loved his family of three boys, two girls, and a fine woman for a wife.
One of the earliest entries in my bank of memories is the pandemic flu of 1918 which killed more than 50 million people while
World War I was raging. We were living in the equivalent of four rooms. They were arranged in a “shotgun style” which had been
converted from a grocery store. At that time, I was the youngest of three boys and one girl and I pretty much ruled the roost. In a
dim room, lit by kerosene lamps, were two cousins in their mid-20s (one of them wearing an Army uniform), mother, and the local
doctor, who in those days made house calls. The doctor was giving flu shots. I had a dim view of this and I considered it unnecessary
torture. I wanted no part of it. I slipped out of the house and hid in the barn. Eventually, I was found and returned to the torture
room, uttering violent objections. I had good lungs in those days.
In the same time frame, we had a neighbor who deserted from the Army. I clearly recall seeing Military Police surrounding his
house and taking him away in handcuffs. Desertion in time of war carried severe penalties, including the firing squad. I never heard
of or saw him again. In those early days it seems all our social activities involved the Pentecostal Church. The Pastor, or frequent
evangelists, hung large, impressive mural-type printings on canvas. They inevitably depicted fierce looking Arab warriors with
long beards and flowing robes, swinging long, curled sabers from the backs of their swift white horses. All of this was from Persia
and the Orient. They would preach fire and brimstone sermons about the end of the world. I must admit, some of them scared the
bejeebers out of me. The family would put me in a little wagon and walk and pull me to church every Sunday, sometimes even in
midweek. Many times Sunday was an all day affair with pitch in dinners where we would not return home until after dark.
From the very beginning, I was a precocious and inquisitive little boy whose guardian angel watched over him throughout
his life. But I also had my moments of irregularity. When feeling colicky, or suffering from a stubbed toe or an empty feeling
of loneliness, I would climb into mother’s lap and ask her to sing to me. The song she always sang was indelibly imbedded in my
memory. It was a gentle tune with meaningful lyrics called “Take Your Burden to the Lord and Leave It There”.
Journey Through Time | 3
Verse 1:
If the world from you withholds all its silver and its gold
and you have to get along with meager fair.
Just remember in his word how he feeds the little birds.
Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there.
Chorus:
Leave it there, leave it there.
If you trust and never doubt he will surely bring you out.
Verse 2:
When your body suffers pain
and your health you can’t regain
and your troubles seem like more than you can bear.
Jesus knows the pain you feel.
He can save and he can heal.
Repeat Chorus:
Leave it there, leave it there.
If you trust and never doubt he will surely bring you out.
Last Verse:
When your days of youth are gone
and old age is creeping on
and your soul is almost sinking in despair.
He will never leave you then but go with you to the end.
Mother was a gentle lady, and those lyrics were so typical of her life and her spirit, I requested someone sing it at her funeral. It
seems everyone that knew her loved her.
On January 26, 1921, I was displaced from my position of prominence in the family. Mother gave birth to a squally, messy, little
girl. After a few days of this disgraceful disturbance, I suffered my first financial defeat. I tried to sell the little Noisemaker for a
quarter - quite a lot of money in those days. It created a lot of interest, but I could get no takers. After the furor calmed down, I
4 | Ralph Bradley
must admit she improved with age. In fact I might go so far as to say that she became a vivacious, beautiful blonde. But more about
that later.
As our family grew in size we needed more room than the converted grocery store provided. So, in 1921, we moved to a larger
home with a full basement and coal furnace, located next door to a very dear friend of ours from church. We lived there long
enough for all the members of the family to refer to it in later years as “the old home place”.
By the time I was four years old I could listen to, understand, and reason with the talk going on around me. Father used tobacco
and mother was fussing at him to quit. One day I heard him tell her he would. So, being daddy’s little helper, I went upstairs and
took all of his tobacco off the dresser, and out of the drawers, and proceeded to throw it out the window into the back yard. Then
I went downstairs, feeling very good about myself. I announced what I had done. Mother smiled and patted me on the head. Dad
frowned and patted me on the backside with a rather different fervor. He said he really meant to quit, but not just then, which
didn’t make any sense to me. I raised such a ruckus over being patted so vigorously on the back side that the big brute gave me a
nickel to go get some ice cream and ease his conscience, which I proceeded to do with a concealed smile. I knew I had his number.
We thought we were quite modern in those days. Everybody had a refrigerator and a four-cornered ice card. Each corner was
numbered: 25, 50, 75, or 100. We would put our card in the front window with whichever size ice chunks we wanted at the top.
There were several icemen, each with their own colored card to identify their customers. The iceman would drive up; his horse and
wagon loaded with one hundred pound slabs of ice under a canvas. He would look at the card in our window and, whatever size was
at the top of the card, he would chip off a corresponding piece of ice. He would pick up the chipped-off piece with pincher tongs,
throw it up on his shoulder, and bring it inside and put it in the icebox. He was always a pretty husky man. While he was in the
house, the street kids would get slivers and chunks of ice from under the tarp and follow the wagon to the next stop. A cold chunk
of ice to chew on was quite a treat on a hot summer day.
A similar practice was followed by the milk wagon. Each driver would have his own company box on the front porch of his
customers and, if the customer wanted anything extra from their normal delivery, they would leave a note in a bottle in their milk
box. The milk wagons all carried butter, eggs, milk, and cream. In the wintertime, if there was snow on the streets, several kids
would tie their sleds on the back of the milk wagon and go for a ride. Sometimes on the weekends, with three or more going for a
ride, the front sled would be tied to the wagon and the others tied sled to sled. We didn’t have any money, but we made our own fun.
I remember one particular morning I was running a little bit late for the “snow milk train”. I pulled on my shoes without lacing
them up, grabbed my coat and sled, and made it just in time to tie on to my brother’s sled. We had been enjoying the miserable cold
for a couple of hours. I was cold and my feet were hurting, so my brother and I unhitched our sleds and went into a shoe repair shop
to warm up beside their big, coal heating stove. There we discovered why my feet were hurting. I had been in such a hurry while
dressing, I put my shoes on the wrong feet.
I was around five years old when I was introduced to what later became a very important and enjoyable part of my life. Our next-
door neighbor was a railroader with a good job, a nice home, and a great big, shiny, black Buick touring car in his garage. Every
Sunday he would back it out of the garage, polish it, and park it in front of the house. One day he and a friend were preparing to go
fishing and he invited me to go along. I was thrilled with just the invitation to ride in that car. When we arrived at the fishing hole,
it was the most delightful spot I had ever seen. The swift flowing stream spilled over logs and into a large, placid pool of water. I did
not do any fishing, but I was fascinated by the whole scene, and just watched what later was to become my favorite sport.
A year or so later the big boys started taking me fishing with them. They would give me a long, light, cane pole with a line,
bobber, and hook. They seemed amused just to watch me. At this point in time, standing behind me in this endeavor was dangerous
territory. As soon as the bobber went under the water, the line, pole, and fish, (if any) went flying over my shoulder, usually ending
up in a tree. I was very energetic about this sport. Once in a while I caught a bluegill or sunfish, -- “big time” for me.
Viola Bradley
Ralph’s Mother
1970 (?)
Chapter 2 – The Beginning of Learning
I know that playing with lettered, wooden blocks on the floor, and leafing through picture books helped me learn to read at an
early age. By the time I reached the fourth grade I was an avid reader. On Friday afternoons at three thirty in the local library,
a pleasant lady had a story- telling hour. Lots of boys and girls sat in front of her. The stories were always interesting and, after
she finished, the children would select books to take home with them. At this point my selections were mostly about cowboys and
Indians. I was also beginning to get interested in the Civil War. In the second or third grade, I made friends with two little girls
my age. One was a giggly little blonde named Mary Alice, and the other a sultry brunette, very pretty, with a constant, sweet smile,
named June Schmidt. We became a trio. Every evening when classes were dismissed, we walked and talked together, somewhat
oblivious to the throng of other children around us. We would walk about a block and a half before the girls split off in separate
directions and I would proceed straight ahead.
There were two schools about one and a half miles apart. They split the districts down the center of the street where I lived,
forcing me to change schools and separating me from my little friends. I was unhappy for a while, but soon I learned I could not
always have my way. Before I changed schools, my third grade teacher made an impression on me, that has stayed through the years.
The school was having some big event in the auditorium with students, teachers, and some parents. I was sitting there, taking it
all in, when much to my astonishment, my third grade teacher Miss Marone appeared onstage, dressed in the most beautiful gold
evening gown I had ever dreamed of. She proceeded to play a huge, gold colored harp. A vision of beauty and beautiful music I felt
should be reserved for heaven.
About a year after I changed schools we were studying a different subject every hour. I felt a glow of satisfaction every time I
learned something new. In our reading hour the teacher would sometimes read for half an hour and then throw the subject open
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for debate. This was very interesting. She also encouraged us to get books from the library and have a full hour debate about what
we had read, what was the most interesting to the student, and which part was the most important. As you can imagine, we had
some lively discussions. One boy’s interest was the introduction of airplanes and particularly Baron Kurt Von Richtofon, Ace of
Aces in the German Air Force in World War I. We became so engrossed in our subjects that we would sometimes go to his house
after school to continue our discussion.
Most evenings after dinner, a dozen or more children would gather under a street light to play games for a couple of hours. One
game we played a lot was called “Duck on Davey.” Davey was a rock about 12 inches wide. Each player had a “Duck”, which was a
rock of any size that he could throw 15 - 20 feet. Through a process of elimination we would decide who would be ‘it”, or “guard” to
start the game. That person would set his duck on “the Davey”, which was placed directly under the streetlight. The other players
would back off to a chalk line about 15 feet on either side of “the Davey”. The guard would stand aside while the others threw their
ducks, trying to knock his duck off of the davey. When one of the players was successful in knocking the duck off of the davey, the
guard would rush in and grab his duck, replacing it on the davey and then try to tag any of the players who had not grabbed their
duck and retreated to the chalk line. Any such person so tagged then became guard. One night we were getting ready to play but I
could not find a duck. I found a large rock and carried it to the curb. Standing on the curb I raised the stone chin high and slammed
it toward the street pavement. In doing so, I lost my balance and fell forward, with a hefty chunk or rock coming down on my right
big toe. When I took my sock off, my toenail came off with it. And yes, it hurt.
We engaged in all kinds of activities. Directly across the street from our house were several vacant lots with a ravine running
down the center. Two or three other boys and I decided it needed a cave. We scrounged whatever tools we could and started digging
a tunnel in the side of an embankment. It soon flared out into about a six-by-six foot room with a six-foot ceiling. We would build
a fire in the cave and sit there, crying from the smoke, thinking about what a good time we were having. We were quite ingenious
in our projects.
It was while I was engaged in such activities that father became ill and I was sent to live with a cousin in southern Linton. I was
too young to realize the seriousness of the situation. One thing that I learned in their barnyard was to ride a horse, bareback, out
into the pasture. I would go back to the barn and slide off of his back just before he would have scraped me off on the entrance to
his stall. A couple of times my cousin wanted me to go to a grocery store about a mile up the road. I would ask permission to ride
the horse, and it was always all right with her. I would ride him in, but have to lead him home. My little butt had a sizable piece of
skin rubbed off at my tailbone and I soon lost interest in bareback riding. In June of my eighth year father passed away. After the
funeral I was sent to live on a farm with an aunt and uncle about ten miles south of Linton.
I had seen so little of father that I did not realize the scope of my loss. To keep me occupied, my uncle put me to work as soon as
I arrived. We carried drinking water from a pump at a well about one hundred feet away across a gravel road. Our only neighbor
had an older boy and three girls nine to twelve years old, who shared the same well.
My uncle gave me a section of the garden where I could plant and cultivate whatever I chose. I became both proud and fascinated
to see the seeds I had planted peep through the soil. A big cornfield was across the dirt road from our small farmhouse. There, my
uncle taught me how to handle a riding sulky plow and a plow horse. It wasn’t too long before I was in the field alone with the plow
and horse all day. When lunch was ready my aunt would hang a white sheet on the porch as a signal for me to come in.
My Uncle also had two rifles, which he taught me how to shoot. One was a .22 caliber pump gun, and the other a .32 caliber
carbine. One day we went hunting. I was carrying the carbine when a rabbit popped up and I nailed it about fifty feet away. I was
so excited that I dropped the carbine at my uncle’s feet, grabbed the rabbit by the back feet, and took off running for the house
yelling “Aunt Mag, look what I got!” It was a thrill only a young boy could feel. I could use either gun that I wanted and my uncle
was a good instructor. Usually I chose the .22 caliber pump because it fit just a little better against my shoulder. Once when I fired
at something, the shell failed to go off. I snapped the hammer several times but the shell was a dud and refused to fire. Neither
would it eject when I pumped the mechanism. But I still liked to carry it wherever I went. I guess by this time I was in the initial
stages of becoming a gun lover.
Our front door, like that of our neighbor, was never locked. They stood open most of the time in the summer, and we would
come and go in each other’s houses as we pleased. One day I was in their front room, sitting on a sofa facing the front screen. The
door was standing open. Across the road, beside their barn, was a tall structure called a coal tipple, which was used to hoist coal
out of the mine. I was having a conversation with myself, saying that if there was a squirrel on the top edge of that tipple I would
take a real fine bead on it and squeeze the trigger. Absent mindedly I did, and the shell shot a hole through the screen door. I had
never been so startled in my young life. I raced home, put the rifle in the corner, then sat there, pondering my stupidity. But I had
learned a powerful lesson. Never point a gun at anything unless you intend to shoot it. And never take for granted that a gun is not
loaded and ready to shoot. The hole in the screen was so small that no one ever noticed it, except for me, every time I went in the
door. Two extremely important lessons I’ve never forgotten.
Having nobody to play with at our house, I spent quite a bit of time with the girls when I was not working. One particular day I
was there alone with the eleven year old and she said, “Let’s go to bed.” I replied, “I’m not sleepy,” but she kept saying it. “Let’s go to
bed.” Finally I said okay and she slipped under the sheets. I crawled on top of them feeling kind of dumb. Then I started bouncing
on the springs. I propped up on my elbow and stared at her, as if to say, “now what?” In an exasperated tone she growled “Ahhhh”
and hit the floor. I couldn’t figure out what that was all about and went home.
As summer waned, my family decided it was time to get some shoes on me and return me to the city life. I never knew how he did
it, but my older brother acquired a used Model T Ford touring car, and he and mother drove down to retrieve me from the farm.
It was dirt roads all the way, except for twenty-five miles or so from Martinsville to Indianapolis, which was paved with bricks.
Mother would slow him down if he exceeded twenty five miles per hour. So began a phase of my life that was rather uneventful
until I was about ten years old.
I got a paper route of about twenty five customers, which I delivered each day after school and on Saturdays. Friday and
Saturday I would collect eleven cents per customer, keep three cents, and turn the rest over to the station manager when I picked
up the papers. Early on Sunday morning I also picked up a load of Indianapolis Sunday Star newspapers in my wagon. They were
heavy but I hawked them through the neighborhood to a few regular customers. When something extraordinary happened, the
Indianapolis News would come out with an Extra edition, which I would sell day or night. One Extra I will never forget told of
when Charles Lindbergh flew his “Spirit of St. Louis” airplane across the Atlantic Ocean and landed in France. I sold them well
into the night.
Eventually, I saved enough money to buy a bicycle. There were two drug stores about six city blocks apart, owned by the same
people. They hired me to deliver orders after school, commuting back and forth to earn 5 cents per delivery. One evening after dark,
I was approaching one of the stores and a man driving a car made a sudden left turn, knocking me about ten feet up an embankment
into a yard. My right leg was bungled up to the point that the local doctor had to sew my kneecap so tight I couldn’t bend it. The
following day, just to prove how tough I was (and probably to show off my stitches), I walked stiff legged the nine blocks to school.
In the afternoon, one of my classes was up on the second floor. After class I was coming down the stairs and forgot about my
stitches. I bent my knee, pulling them all out. By the time I got home, my leg was red and swollen. Mother called the doctor. He
10 | Ralph Bradley
arrived and took a look at it. With an air of bravado, I said “Are you going to have to lance it?” Never dreaming that was exactly
what he was preparing to do. He merely said, “Yes,” and to my pain and dismay he started cutting. It was swollen so badly that the
skin split open when he perforated it with the scalpel. The next day he came back and packed the incision with long strips of gauze
so it would drain. This hurt much worse than the original incision and he repeated the process, every day, for several days. It was
three weeks before I could return to school with a much more subdued attitude than I had exhibited before. I still bear the scars
of that ordeal today.
My oldest brother, Paul, had obtained a violin and my other brother Lee had a trumpet. A local music teacher, Mr. Hume, was
giving them weekly lessons. He gave me a piccolo so I could be included. Lee also had a ukulele he would strum and sing and I
began that too, and learned to do both quite well. Our music lessons were shifted to Mr. Hume’s studio downtown, which required
me to ride the streetcar. My piccolo was two pieces, one piece sliding inside of the other. On a trip to My Hume’s studio I lost half
of it through a small hole in the carrying case. This was replaced by a flute with a crack in it, which I tried to fill with soap. It soon
became apparent I had a talent for music when I acquired a clarinet and then a saxophone. I graduated from the ukulele to the
guitar, on which I could play and sing almost any song I heard.
While all this went on, I had also become very interested in the movies. My favorite characters were Tom Mix, Hoot Gibson,
Ken Maynard, Buck Rogers, and Tim McCoy. They were always rescuing fair maidens in distress. In the preceding three years I
had become closely associated with three neighborhood boys. We did everything together. What escapade one did not think up
the others did. Seeds of wanderlust were implanted in my mind; I would lie in bed at night and hear the distant scream of a train
whistle as it rushed through the night. That sound would stir my imagination like the lure of a siren call, or the elusive will-o’ of
the wisp.
Places of mystery clouded my dreams. We haunted the railroad yards a lot and began a series of events that, if I had been the
father of me, I would have gone berserk knowing about. Our first major adventure was when one of the boys and I decided to take
a trip on a freight train. We located a string of cars with an engine primed to depart and asked the engineer where he was going.
“First stop, Mattoon Illinois,” he said.
We went about twenty cars down the line and climbed on top, sitting and clutching the side by side foot rails that ran the length
of the car. Pretty soon the train started with a jolt and we were on our way. About an hour passed. We were getting pretty wind
blown and a gentle mist soon turned into a steady rain. Somewhere along the line we went through a tunnel. By this point the fun
had left and our adventure became an ordeal. We reached Mattoon before daylight and climbed down, looking like a couple of
drowned, soot-smeared rats. It was cold and we walked up a side street until we found an empty house with an open door. We went
in, and sat, shivering until daylight.
About six a.m. we started walking. We reached a gas service station and told the attendant of our plight. He let us warm up,
gave us something to eat, and told us there would be a train heading back that afternoon. We stayed inside until almost noon, and
then walked back to the freight yard. A switch engine was moving cars around and the engineer told us it would be pulling out
around six p.m. We waited until the switch engine disconnected and a larger engine hooked up. This time we asked the engineer if
he was going to Indianapolis, and whether he would he stop there. He said “yes” and directed us to an empty car. We arrived after
midnight, a couple of tired, hungry, dirty boys whose adventure had not turned out as planned.
Chapter 3 – Averting Starvation
I was in the eighth grade by now. We were just boys and girls. No in-betweens, no closets to come out of, no sex lessons. We were
just wholesome boys and girls on the brink of entering the maelstrom of teenage life. Sitting in the desk in front of mine was a
very special, pretty, blonde girl of German descent. Her name was Helen Weinhardt. She had long yellow hair with natural curls
that would occasionally just be too tempting to resist. I would have to gently tug on one. She would run her hand down her hair
but not look around; I never did it to torment her, I was just letting her know I was there and appreciated her pretty curls. We
became very good friends. She had the sweetest most endearing smile and dimples. We developed a very special bond - just real
good friends who liked to be together.
In a house adjoining the school lived a nice lady, probably in her mid-thirties, who liked young people and liked to entertain
them in her home. Helen and four or five girls went to this house after school a couple of times a week. She would always ask me
to come along. We enjoyed being together sharing this very special friendship. Well, actually, I had a crush on her younger sister
who was also fair and blonde with a very statuesque figure, but I was too bashful to let it be known.
About three or four blocks down the street from where I lived there was a boy three years older than me or my friends but some
sort of a distant relative to them. At our age, a three year age difference commanded a certain amount of respect, so we received him
as wise and worldly. He told us that he had a friend in Ohio who owned some kind of exotic resort and if we could just get there we
would be greeted by a royal reception. We got some maps together and decided that we could hop a freight train that would take
us within fifty miles of the resort. From there, we could figure out how to complete our journey.
We proceeded to do just that, but arrived at the end of our freight ride after dark, thinking we could hitch the rest of the way.
We were wrong. Nobody in their right mind would pick up four ragtag boys after dark. After debating the situation, we went to
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the bus station and inquired which bus would take us to, or at least near, our destination, and what time it left. With no money to
buy tickets, we stayed out of sight until the bus pulled out of the station. Then, with a burst of speed, we caught up with the bus and
jumped onto the rear bumper, holding on to a bar running across the back about shoulder high. It was probably the dumbest thing
we could have done because the moving bus created a vacuum behind it, swirling the exhaust fumes and dirt all around us. Hanging
on for dear life, we rode to the station. Then our wise friend and guide could not find any landmarks to follow. He was completely
lost. Consequently we turned around and used the same mode of travel to reach home. Four very tired, bedraggled, disillusioned,
hungry boys, with another adventure gone wrong.
Soon, school was over and we had our graduation ceremony. Then everybody split. Helen and her family moved to St. Louis,
where they had relatives, and summer was at hand. Helen took my address and we corresponded for awhile, but then became too
engrossed in our new lives to continue writing. I was progressing reasonably well. I began playing my saxophone in mother’s church
band and singing gospel music. I also played my guitar on special occasions. I became acquainted with an evangelist who was a
friend of mother. He had a daughter with some kind of a digestive condition that required her to drink goat milk. The evangelist’s
name was Mulford; we called him Brother Mulford. He had a big, red, Nubian milk goat and asked if I could care for it. We worked
out an arrangement where I would keep it in a stall in our garage and milk it twice a day. He would furnish the necessary goat food
and pick up the milk. This was a big favor for him and he was very appreciative of my assistance.
Along with his ministry work, he also sold a very special reference bible called the Thompson Chain Reference Bible. Anyone
studying a particular subject could glance at the margin where in red letters, other chapters and verses on the same subject were
listed. One day he asked mother if he could take me with him and his father-in-law on a crusade throughout the state of West
Virginia. He liked my singing and guitar work and thought it would break the ice, so to speak, when he went from church to church
preaching and selling Bibles. She was quite pleased with the idea, thinking it would be a good experience for me. I did research on
the chain reference system until I was well versed in it. Then we headed for Charleston, West Virginia. He went from church to
church, regardless of the denomination, making the necessary arrangements with the Pastor of each church as a guest speaker. He
never mentioned any particular doctrine which might conflict with that of any particular belief. Accompanied by my guitar, I had
a pretty broad range of gospel numbers that pleased the audience and put them in a receptive mood before he followed me on the
program. Of course being as young as I was (thirteen or fourteen) didn’t hurt either. After a few hits and misses, I was approached
in a friendly way as we mingled with the members after the service had concluded. Apparently I had a more acceptable presentation
because, when we returned to Indianapolis, I had sold more Bibles than both of them combined. The publisher, Mr. Kirkbride,
thought he had a rising star in me and was very disappointed when I decided it was not my cup of tea.
About that time I became what I later called a capitalist without capital. I was taking notice of the affluent life style. I was never
envious or jealous of people with wealth. In fact, if they were wealthy I liked to see it show. I liked to see the big, beautiful, shiny
cars, or the spacious homes with swimming pools and inhabitants wearing pretty clothes. I think there was a little voice inside of
me saying some day, some day, if they can do it, maybe, just maybe…
We were in the clutches of the Great Depression when the main worry of many parents was, “where is the next meal coming
from?” It was so prevalent that one out of every three or four households had no source of income. One of my friends had gotten
a job in a bakery making donuts, rolls, and pastries for restaurants. The owner seemed to like me and would let me hang around
in the bakery watching him do different operations, but always staying out of the way of the workers. Across the street from the
bakery was a fire station. Every evening about four o’clock, a long line of men would form to get a bucket of soup and a loaf of bread
to feed their family that night. It was a sorrowful sight. Men worked all day in the firehouse cooking food from foodstuff furnished
by the city. Hence the phrase “soup line”. How depressed those unfortunate men were. Through no fault of their own, they were
reduced to such desperate measures. That was the welfare of the day.
Back at the bakery, a truck driver would start loading a panel truck with shelves from top to bottom with boxes of fresh baked
goods ready for delivery. He had a special delivery route he followed every night. When the truck was loaded I would climb in and
work the route with him, starting about five o’clock. He only delivered to restaurants and cafeterias, all of which had glass cases
on the counter tops to display and protect the goods. He would take out what had not been sold, replacing it with fresh product.
When we would get in from making the deliveries, he would put all of the second-day material in boxes and give them to me to
take home. Anything that dried out before we consumed it, we would steam to reactivate its edibility. It played an important part
in our survival.
I have tried to keep events in chronological order but I will have to backtrack a little. I know that I caused mother more worry
than all the rest of the children combined, and the reason had to be in me and my personality. She had two rules that applied to me.
First, as a twig is bent, so shall a tree grow. At times I know I defied her attempts to keep this twig straight. It was not intentional,
but I seemed to have a different driving force than the other children. Second, spare the rod and spoil the child. That was her
primary belief, and I agree with her. If I deliberately did something I had been told not to do she would take a switch to my bare
legs and make me dance steps that I hadn’t practiced.
I remember one particular time one of my friends and I did something I knew was wrong. When we got home in the afternoon
and told her what we had done, she told me to go out in the backyard and get a switch. I thought I would appeal to her sympathy,
so I cut what could be considered a club with stingers on it. I was just sure that her heart would melt and she would not use it. Boy,
was I wrong. Sometimes she would swing at me and I would duck, letting the switch connect with my friend. If a movie had been
made of us two boys, jumping around a room with a switch in hot pursuit, it would have made a good comedy. If that happened
in today’s pussyfooting society, she would have been jailed and I would have gone to a foster home instead of taking a giant step
toward becoming a man of integrity with a healthy respect for the law.
I don’t know why it is that parents today don’t realize that, to their child, they are the law. If they promise a punishment and they
do not administer it, they have failed their child. This teaches that the law can be evaded. If those parents prohibit a schoolteacher
from punishing their child, they have compounded the problem. The child has evaded the law again. Later on in life that child
comes in contact with the real law, which will not be evaded, and the groundwork for a life of crime has come full circle. Spare the
rod and spoil the child. While I’m on this subject, I’m going to jump ahead fifteen years when my sister had to raise her four boys
alone. She joined a lame brained group that called themselves the Psychology Class. They were promoting a philosophy that said
not to punish a child, but rather let them express themselves. She had one handsome boy who was so successful in evading the law
that he wound up in prison for two years. He was my nephew and he respected me. I worked with him when he was released. He
straightened up and became a successful engineer. I’m totally disgusted with today’s limp-wristed society.
Chapter 4 – First Adventure
T o get back to my early teens and the boy in the foregoing episode, I decided to hop a westbound freight train for another
exploit. In those days the depression was full-blown. Men were riding freight trains in all directions in hopes of finding work
somewhere. This time I had something in mind. We selected a train bound for St. Louis. The railroad engineers and conductors
were very sympathetic to men on the move and gave information as to where and when a train was going. We found an empty car
and rode all the way in. I had brought along Helen’s address, and when we showed up on her doorstep, she nearly fainted. After the
surprise wore off, they invited us to stay for dinner, after which, they asked where we planned to spend the night. There was a big,
empty factory across the street from their house, and we had already decided upon it. They would have no part of that plan: they
made us pallets on the floor in their front room.
The next day Helen had to go to work as a babysitter, but she gave us the address and asked us to come see her that afternoon.
After a nice long visit we left to catch a bus. She walked out with us. When the bus stopped, for the first and only time, she kissed
me. Tears were streaming down her face. There was very sincere affection both ways. Although I still think of her often and hope
she had a good life, I never saw or heard from her again. We caught an eastbound freight and arrived home none the worse for
wear. By this time, mother was more or less convinced I could take care of myself. The next time I headed for the freight yard and
California, she stood on the porch and waved goodbye, not crying, but smiling. When I had first started riding the freight trains,
I saw some of the men do something that looked quite dangerous. Every boxcar had an iron ladder on the side, running from the
bottom of the car to the top, which brakemen and conductors frequently used. I had seen men running along beside a fast-moving
car and jump to the ladder, grabbing the crossbars with both hands and feet. I had made a rule for myself that my feet would never
leave the ground unless I had a solid grip on something.
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16 | Ralph Bradley
As my journey progressed, somewhere along the line I connected with a milk run train that stopped at what seemed to be every
four or five miles. As an appendage to the engine was what is referred to as the coal tender, convenient for the fireman. Across the
back of the coal tender was a step about ten-inches-wide, about a foot above the track, with a solid bar handrail about chest high.
This was used by the brakeman when changing switches on the track. On this particular train, I was riding on this step. When
the train would slow for a stop I would jump off and circle around the station and hop on again when it started moving. At one
particular stop I misjudged the speed of the engine and grabbed the handrail with both hands, but missed the step with my feet. I
was dragged, straddling the track, until I pulled myself up onto the step. If I had not observed my self-imposed rule, I would be a
statistic today! This time I got as far as Wichita, Kansas, and had found a small shack in the freight yard with a coal stove throwing
out plenty of heat. Here, the brakemen would come in to get warm. I was tired; I hung my coat on a nail over my head and dropped
off to sleep. When I awoke an hour or so later, two men who had been asleep when I arrived were gone and so was my coat, along
with what little emergency money I had. It was a bad scene and I decided to go home.
Fortunately, I met a nicely dressed young man, about ten years older than myself, who was heading east too. We decided to travel
together. When we located a train going east there were no empty cars we could find. So we climbed up on top of a refrigerator car.
There were doors on top at one end where they would put ice when the cargo required it. At least we were out of the weather inside
the ice compartment. I don’t remember where we switched trains, but the one we transferred to had an empty car, we climbed into.
There were four other riders in the car. We went to the opposite end of the car from the other men. They were a rough looking
bunch, and about a half hour after the train started to move they all got to their feet and began moving towards us. They got to
within about ten feet when my newfound friend got to his feet and pulled a gun I was totally unaware he had. He leveled it and told
them to get back to their end of the car and stay there, or he would make them jump out of the moving car. He was stern enough
and used language they understood. They backed off and did not bother us anymore. We climbed out of the car when it stopped in
St. Louis. We split up here, as he we going south and I was going east, to Indianapolis. I was sorry we had to part ways, as he seemed
like a real gentleman. I caught my train and arrived in Indianapolis with no more events or problems.
In this era a good friend of my brother had a 410-gauge Stevens’s single shot shotgun that fired a shell about the size of my little
finger. It had less than half the load of a 12-gauge, and he loaned it to me. Unlike a 12-gauge (where you could follow a rabbit as it
was running and pick your shot), with the 410, if you were going to hit a running rabbit you had to snap shoot, which I learned to
do rather well. In other words, I was a crack shot. When a rabbit jumped and was running, I would cock the hammer as I brought
it to my shoulder, bringing my aim to bear at the spot I had mentally calculated and fired. This was all one motion. It had to be fast
and accurate. Bring it to my shoulder and fire in one movement.
I would hitchhike with the gun broken open so that anyone could tell it was empty. I usually went to a relative’s family farm
in Boone County, where there were lots of rabbits and pheasants. They were always glad to see me and would want me to stay
overnight, which I frequently did, bringing home at least six or eight rabbits. Except for the one incident when I shot a hole through
the screen door, I always knew what I was shooting at and very seldom missed. There was a time when I did not have money to buy
ammunition. So I would go to neighbors and take orders for rabbits if they would pay me a quarter in advance to buy the shells.
They use to get quite a kick out of my confidence, but I never failed.
Mother was working nights downtown, cleaning offices in the Bankers’ Trust Building. She rented one side of a duplex close
enough to the high school that I could walk the one mile to and from school. The first half-semester, I plainly goofed off and
daydreamed through the entire period, cutting school a few times to go fishing. Consequently, my grades were about as low as they
could go. The dean of the math department called me into her office and read me the Riot Act, saying she knew I could do better.
Perhaps I was missing discipline. Because the dean taught a class in mathematics, I asked her if she would transfer me into her
class. The next grading period I made straight A’s. Again she called me into her office and, in a scolding tone, said, “Now Ralph
Bradley, just look at what you can do when you try.” I was pleased to hear her remarks but still a little ashamed with my conduct
on the first go-around.
The Depression was getting worse, and money was hard to come by. We got into a situation where we could not pay the rent
and buy coal for the stoves. We took what seemed to be the only way out. We split. Mother took a job as a live-in housekeeper. My
eleven-year-old sister went the same way as a live-in babysitter. I quit school and was literally homeless. For a while, the parents of
one of my friends let me stay with them. The father was a carpenter contractor who stayed busy enough to always have food on the
table, but this was an intolerable situation for me. My older sister’s husband’ had become an itinerate Pentecostal preacher, and
landed a position as Pastor of a small church congregation in a kind of string-town village on a gravel country road about sixty-five
or seventy miles south of Indianapolis. The pay was adequate, if not plentiful, and I hitchhiked down there to stay with them a
while. My only chore was to carry a bucket about 200-yards to a pasture and feed and milk the cow twice a day. I spent most of my
remaining time squirrel hunting in the dense woods there. My brother had become the company electrician for an expanding chain
of grocery stores and recommended me for a job in their produce warehouse. This position was only one night a week (Friday), at
a rate of $2.00 per night. It was very hard work for a sixteen-year old boy, but I was very pleased to get it. I would hitchhike back
and forth, but at least I had money to buy ammunition to hunt.
There was a stone quarry beside the road I would pass coming and going. Thinking I might get more days of work to go with my
Friday night job, I stopped in. They told me I could start either that day or the next. I really don’t remember the sequence, but I
was sure proud of myself. I showed up for work and was shown what to do in the bottom of the quarry pit. Boy, it was hot, heavy,
hard work. In the afternoon, I noticed several men walking around the upper perimeter of the quarry, carrying what looked like
rifles. When I asked of the foreman who they were and what they were doing, he explained they were guards, and the bulk of the
employees were on strike. That was not exactly the kind of situation I had in mind when I had stopped there, so at the end of the
shift I left and never returned. I don’t remember whether I was paid for the labor of one day or not.
At this point I want to regress about three years in time, when after supper each evening, all the kids in the neighborhood would
gather to play some kind of game, or just mingle and horseplay, till somebody thought of something better to do. There were two
boys about five years older, one from our neighborhood, and the other from six or seven blocks away. They were on the tough side
and consequently were looked up to by the younger boys. One night they were planning some sort of caper to get money by less
than honest means. They asked me if I would go along. Not wanting to appear to be fearful I said yes. The next evening when they
were ready to leave I discovered that one of them was carrying a gun. That caused me to have second thoughts. I thought, if we do
what I think they are going to do and get caught, mother would be absolutely devastated. So at the last minute, I refused to go with
them. I do not know what they did that night, but several years later I read in the newspaper one of them had been executed in the
electric chair and the other had been sentenced to life in prison. Mother’s influence had paid off.
Now, back to when I was sixteen years old. While I was hitchhiking back and forth to my one-night-a-week job, I have to
reiterate it was a hard job for a sixteen-year-old boy. I would arrive for work at eleven o’clock on Friday night, joined by about eight
other men in the produce warehouse. We would be gathering different items from various locations in the large warehouse, and
stack them strategically near the door where delivery trucks could pull up beside them in the morning for a 5am loading. The two
heaviest loads to contend with were the large crates of iced heal lettuce, and the one hundred pound bags of potatoes. The crates,
I would hoist to my chest and then bend my knees. With an extra push I could get it onto the tailgate of the truck. The bags of
18 | Ralph Bradley
potatoes, I would load the same way. There were three trucks loaded with orders for five or six stores each. When they were ready
to pull out, I would be assigned to one to go along and unload at the designated stores. That took two or three hours and, when we
returned, we would go to the freight yards to unload more produce and deliver it to the warehouse for future delivery. We usually
finished up about eleven a.m. making it a twelve hour shift. After resting up, the rest of the week was spent hunting, or meeting
with a couple of boys from the church to practice singing and playing our guitars for special song events in church. We had fun and
people seamed to enjoy our music.
On one occasion, I was in Indianapolis visiting with one of the boys of our clique of four. We decided to find a house we could
gain entrance to and raid the refrigerator and pick up anything else that we might find of value. It was a Sunday evening and I knew
of a family of means that attended the same church as mother. I knew they would not be at home. To make a long story short, doors
were never locked in those days, so we gained entrance and, after raiding the refrigerator, roamed through the rest of the house.
They had a boy my age and size and I found what appeared to be a new blue suit. Not ever having had anything like that I took it
and we left. A few days later I began to realize what I had done and my conscience was eating at me and interfering with my sleep.
Finally, I could tolerate it no longer and told my brother-in-law, the preacher, what I had done and asked how I could make amends.
After giving it some thought, he said I should return the suit and confess.
I was so humiliated and ashamed I felt as though I would absolutely die. But I knew I could not live with the guilt and would
have to do as he said. He agreed to go with me. My friend had to go, too, which ended our friendship. He didn’t have such qualms
about our deeds. The injured parties were very kind to me and told me to keep the suit, which just made me feel worse. One good
thing that came out of this episode was that I learned I had a conscience that would not permit me to ever be dishonest again.
The preacher mentioned it in an indirect way in a sermon one night. He said the Lord is working in our midst and lost items were
finding their way home. I knew, and he knew that I knew, what he was referring to, but he never mentioned it again. Once in a
while afterwards I would meet the boy whose suit I had taken. He would always greet me with a big smile and firm handshake, and
I would feel lower than a snake’s belly. I don’t think I ever wore the suit. I couldn’t forgive myself and never overcame the guilt. I
continued commuting because the two dollars I earned gave me a little sense of independence.
The church services I attended were held on Thursday and Sunday nights. It was a very small but neat little church, with
benches to sit on and a rather cozy atmosphere. I would usually play my guitar and sing a special number at the Sunday services. If
I attended Thursday services, I still had to get an early start back to Indianapolis Friday morning. Sometimes I had to walk quite
a long distance to reach the main road.
During the church meetings there was usually one particularly attractive girl there, and it became a habit for us to sit together.
She lived about a quarter-mile up the road from the church and I would walk her home. Sometimes we would sit in the swing on
her front porch until her family arrived. About three months after this routine began, two evangelists arrived to hold a revival. The
revival ended about two days before a Pentecostal convention was to begin in Indianapolis, and the preachers and two or three car
loads of church members were planning to attend. Since my sister liked this girl, one Sunday night she asked her if she would like
to go with us. The girl thought it sounded interesting but said she would have to ask her father. When we all arrived on their front
porch she asked if she could go. He was somewhat of a grim person and thought for a moment. He then said, “yes you can go, but
if you do, I want you to get married while you are there.” It became very quiet. That word had never been mentioned and I must
say that, for once, I did not know what to say. Nobody else said anything. After a few awkward moments of silence I said, “If you
want to go, be down in the morning.” I turned and left without even saying goodnight. I was just sixteen days into my seventeenth
year of life.
Chapter 5 – Stupidity
I n the morning she appeared at the door with a suitcase in her hand, crying. She had walked all the way. She was a nice, attractive,
healthy, religious farm girl one year older than me who was apparently ready to get married. The only thing I knew about
marriage was that you shared a bed with each other. When we arrived in Indy, mother was against the idea. She would have to sign
so that I had her permission. But, after talking to the girl who just might settle me down, she gave her consent. We got the license
and headed to the convention.
It was now Friday night. I had to be at work at eleven o’clock. At ten o’clock in mother’s front room with the three preachers
present, one of them held a quick ceremony. I changed into my work clothes and dashed off to work. What an oddball send off.
About three a.m. the men would gather around a large coal stove to eat their lunch. While this was going on I told them what
I had done just five hours earlier. At first they didn’t believe me, but then they began teasing me and making such crude remarks I
was embarrassed and ashamed of what I had done.
The first problem of married life set in as soon as I arrived home from work. No privacy. Five people living in a two bedroom
dwelling. I had a cousin who had recently married a beautiful girl from Louisiana, and they were living in a large one room
apartment over a garage. They planned to visit her relatives for two months and permitted us to live there in their absence. It was
about three-and-a-half miles from the warehouse where I worked. To save carfare, I would walk to and from the warehouse. It was
February and very cold. I think my wife let her parents know we did not have enough to eat because they brought us a carload of
foodstuff, including a ham that her father had cured. When my cousin returned from Louisiana, my wife took a job as a live-in
housemaid and I returned to live with my family. It was at this time President Roosevelt created the Civilian Conservation Corp.,
or CCC, to get boys off of the streets. With the Depression at its depth, there were simply no jobs for boys. I could not join because
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it excluded boys under eighteen. I was pretty desperate because, by this time, my wife was pregnant and I was at my wits end. So
taking what seemed to be the only road out, I joined the CCC in my brother Lee’s name. He was three years older than me and
working in a grocery store as a clerk. That worked all right until I was stationed at Fort Knox, Kentucky. During roll call I always
answered to the name of Lee Bradley. One day, one of the boys sidled up to me and said, “What’s this Lee Bradley business?” He
knew Lee, so I explained it to his satisfaction, and my secret stayed secret.
My wife returned to her parents’ home in the country and, not long thereafter, had a miscarriage. She never returned to
Indianapolis. We were divorced in the same year that we had been married. I was teased and ridiculed by ex-school mates and later
realized why. My hitch in the CCC lasted about three months. I had been shipped from Fort Knox to a camp near Henryville, in
southern Indiana, where we lived in regular Army barracks and had plenty to eat. We worked in the forests, building roads and
making parks.
At the same time, the WPA (Works Progress Administration) was created for unemployed men who worked at “make work
projects”, even if it was only moving dirt or gravel from here to there. It gave a man the psychological advantage of receiving a
paycheck rather then a welfare handout.
All of this was preceded by President Roosevelt’s speech, in which he said when the nation was on the verge of a nervous
breakdown, “We have nothing to fear, but fear itself.” He had the congress pass the NRA (National Recovery Act), and various
other programs to stimulate the economy. All of that, along with the draft and impending war, helped restore our sick economy.
One weekend, I got a ride home from camp with a buddy that had an old car. I arrived home so sick with summer flu that I had to
crawl across the floor to attract attention from a neighbor. He called the doctor, and that ended my service in the CCC.
Chapter 6 – Perseverance Pays Off
A bout one mile from home was a factory with three eight-hour shifts. Management decided they could help the economy, and
get just as much production, if they switched from three eight-hour shifts to four six-hour shifts. This gave work to twenty
five percent more men. I showed up to an employment room jammed wall-to-wall with grown men. The entrance door to the next
room also stood open with crowds spilling out the door and down the sidewalk. These were desperate men. There was also a door
leading from the employment room into the factory. At six a.m. the superintendent would open the door and call off names that
had been submitted by current employees. Then he would point to three or four men before saying, “That is all for now.”
I watched this procedure every morning. I vowed to myself that there were jobs open here and I was going to get one, not
considering the odds against me. Every morning thereafter, I arrived in time to be first in line, facing the door into the factory,
and making eye contact with the superintendent while he opened the door and went through the same procedure. I also learned
that there was a huge sliding door at the rear of the plant used to vent the heat from the steam presses. Beside the door was a desk
where the superintendent ate his lunch each day at twelve-fifteen. Every morning I would be in his face when he opened the door
into the employment room. Then at noon I would stand at an angle where I could not be seen from inside the plant. When the
superintendent sat down to eat I would step inside the door and very politely say, “Mr. Miller, has anything shown up today where
you might use me?” He would always say no but I had made him recognize me. We went through this procedure twice a day, every
day, for two weeks. The following morning started out like all of the others. He called the names and pointed over my shoulder to
four other men. Then he sternly looked me in the eyes and said, “And you too.” Thus, I learned as a boy, perseverance pays off. I had
my first real job, in spite of all the unemployed men crowding around me.
The plant manufactured automobile batteries from raw materials. I had a job operating a machine that had not been sufficiently
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studied for the safety factors, as was evidenced by an accident on the shift prior to mine. I worked from six to twelve p.m., seven
nights a week. The operator of this particular machine had done something wrong and lost four fingers of his right hand. They were
in a one-quart fruit jar filled with alcohol when I arrived for work. After the accident, the shift foreman was demonstrating how it
happened for the superintendent and he, the foreman, lost all the fingernails of his right hand. I found this amusing, in a morbid
sort of way. The line went down until the flaw was corrected.
I worked at this factory for about a year until they reverted to their previous eight-hour shifts. My six-hour shift was eliminated.
Mother had rented a little three room house which we shared. I would give her my paycheck and she would return twenty five
percent of it to me for spending money. With this, I bought my first automobile, a 1929 Plymouth coupe, for $75.00. Unknown to
me, mother had been saving most of what I had given her to buy me a new wardrobe of cloths and a .22-caliber Winchester semi-
automatic rifle. I still have it today.
I have had access to or owned firearms for eighty-one years, with only one mishap. My record with automobiles has not been
so fortunate. I loaned my car to a friend who had let me share his room when I was fifteen and homeless. He wanted to take his
girlfriend somewhere and was paying more attention to her than his driving. He made a left turn in front of oncoming traffic and
totaled my uninsured car. Fortunately nobody was injured.
Several months later, when winter set in for real, again mother and I found ourselves in a situation where we could not pay the
rent on our little three room house. We did the only thing we could. We rented out the back two rooms for enough to pay the
rent and partitioned off the front room so I could sleep. She went to live with my older brother. With this development, I had a
place to sleep but no heat. As the winter turned cold with a vengeance, the temperature outside dropped to well below zero. I had
a thermometer in my room and the temperature there dropped to eighteen degrees.
There was an industrial center about one-and-a-half miles from my room and I was desperate to find a job. One particular day
I walked to eight factories. The last was the only one that let me fill out an application. By the time I walked home, my left ear was
frozen and jutting out from the side of my head, and the temperature outside dropped to eighteen degrees below zero. I was feeling
quite dejected and assumed my application was tossed into the wastebasket as soon as I walked out the door. But such was not the
case. I do not know what I did or said or wrote on the application, but it caught the attention of the hiring foreman. I did not have a
telephone, so about ten days later he came looking for me. I was not at home, but he left a message with a neighbor for me to come in
and see him. I immediately responded and he showed me the job he had opened. It was operating a steam press so hot that I had to
wear two pairs of long sleeved industrial gloves. He went through the procedure of putting raw material into a heavy mold, shoving
the mold into the press, and releasing enough steam to close the press. There was a second press beside the first that alternated in
curing time, allowing me to operate both presses. He asked me if I thought I could handle it and I assured him that I could.
That wonderful man must have been psychic, or I just looked hungry, because he asked me if I needed any money as a draw on
my first paycheck. At the moment, I had exactly eleven cents and a street car token to my name. He gave me an advance on my pay
and, as I walked home, I was filled with such a euphoric feeling that every step I took, it seemed that I soared ten-feet into the air.
All I had to eat was a jar of peanut butter, a partial loaf of second day bread, a partial bottle of skim milk, and an electric sandwich
toaster to make toasted sandwiches. I promised myself I would never be in that condition again. I was on my way up from rock
bottom.
I was being paid forty cents an hour for a forty-hour week, and during the following year I managed to buy a used 1934 Ford,
a few clothes, and even started saving a little money. I only had one mishap in working the steam press. At the end of the cycle, I
would loosen a valve that dropped the lower half of the press so the mold would be even with a metal table about one-quarter of an
inch from the press. Then I took a two-foot-long rod with a handgrip on one end and a hook on the other, and pulled the mold out
of the press and onto the table. I would take a flat metal bar in each hand and break the mold open, lean the top half of the mold
against the press so I could strip out the cured product, and put fresh rubber-like stock into the mold, drop the top half of the mold
in place, and push it back into the press with the heels of my gloved hands. I went through all of the above and, as I was pushing the
mold back into the press, my hands slipped off and my bare arms slid across the hot mold. Both arms were blistered from the tip
of my gloves to my elbows. Yes, it hurt. Even so, I kept on working after applying first aid to my arms. I was a good employee and
everyone liked me. I received information that a factory, owned by Union Carbide on the other side of town, was paying an hourly
pay of sixty-five cents an hour, and piece work operations where you could turn in up to ninety cents an hour.
So, I took a day off and went to this factory putting in my application. I told the superintendent I was working, but that I was
interested in finding a better job. He told me to check with him on the telephone rather that lay off from work. I asked what time
he left his office and he said five o’clock. I asked him if I arrived before then would he see me. He replied yes.
On my regular job I worked until four o’clock each day, so every other day I would take clean clothes to work with me, make a
quick change, and get to the superintendent’s office around four forty-five. He would always greet me pleasantly. After about two
weeks of this, he said he could use me. I told him that my present employer was very good to me and that I wanted to give them
a two week notice. He was pleased I was so considerate of my employer, and agreed to put me to work after the notice time had
expired. I told my foreman all the details of my new employer and how much more I would be earning. He seemed quite pleased
and the change took place to everyone’s satisfaction.
The new job was in a factory many times larger. They had a wide variety of jobs I performed, such as drill presses, punch presses,
and lathe work, most of which was piece work. After several months I was settled into one very demanding operation. I stood
between two open front blast furnaces. Wearing two pairs of gloves, I used long tongs to keep the furnaces loaded with brass
billets three to six inches long. When they were hot enough, dull to medium red, I would remove them with the tongs and drop
them into the die of a huge punch press, which the operator would trip and then release in one motion. The operator had a short
rod with a handle on one end and a hook on the other. With one quick grab and flick of the wrist, he would toss out the valve, and
be ready for another billet. We worked like clockwork, and turned in enough production to be earning ninety cents an hour -- a
lot of money in those days.
It was such hot work that, by the end of the day, my shirt would be streaked white front and back with salt. The company kept
salt tablets by the water fountains and I would take one every time I took a drink of water. I worked at Union Carbide for over a
year, and was then eligible for a week’s vacation with pay. So when hunting season rolled around, I took my vacation and didn’t
show up for a week. When I returned, there had been a large layoff and I was out of a job.
Chapter 7 – Learning to Work
I stopped at every business establishment of any size on the way across town. Before I reached the center of town, with a little
fibbing, I had another job. I had stopped at one of the largest furniture stores. One of the owners looked at my application and
hired me on the spot as a delivery truck driver, even though I had never even driven a pickup truck. He directed me to report
to their warehouse immediately. The foreman gave me a uniform and assigned me to a driver for training, which worked to the
advantage of both of us. After a couple of months, they gave me a truck and a helper and I was on my own. After a few minor scrapes
and bumps I became almost an expert.
About a year rolled by and I was making forty dollars or more, a week when the senior owner of the store called and told me to
report to his office. With some trepidation, I went to the office, wondering what I had done, and why he was going to chew me out
rather than the foreman. When I arrived at the office, he motioned for me to sit in a chair by his desk. Then he turned to me and,
much to my surprise, he had a big smile on his face.
“We’ve had our eyes on you and we like the way you are representing our company to our customers.” He said a few other kind
words before presenting me with a new uniform. “We have men who have been with us for twenty years and, if you continue doing
your work as you have been, you can be here that long too”.
Well, everybody likes compliments and I left his office feeling better than when I had entered. Then I began thinking, twenty
years? Who has been here twenty years? There were two elderly men working in the warehouse, preparing furniture for delivery.
They had been working there for years and were only earning fifteen cents more on the hour than me. I chewed this over a while
and decided that this was not for me.
I quit and went to work as an apprentice electrician for twelve dollars a week. I learned fast and within a matter of months I
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26 | Ralph Bradley
could wire a house by myself. I continued improving and in less than two years, I could rough-in two houses in a day. A long day I’ll
admit, but I would take a gasoline lantern to work and wire two houses by daylight, then splice, solder, and tape by lantern light. By
this time I had learned about all that I could learn about house wiring and got a job at the Indianapolis Power and Light Company
in their engineering department. I loved the work, the company, and the social life the employees shared. I was making progress.
Chapter 8 – Learning to Play
I n 1940, my oldest sister called from my younger sister’s home, where she had been recuperating from serious surgery. She had
been browsing through the paper for something to do and noticed a “for sale” ad for the duplex where mother and I had lived.
Out of curiosity, more than intent to buy, I enquired of the brokers, what the details were. It seemed that the man who built the
structure, just before the stock market plunged in 1929, had gone bankrupt. The government agency that now owned the property
was anxious to get it into private hands and on the tax roll. To make a long story short, I walked out the door with a contract saying
I was the new owner.
The first thing I did was to move mother back into the unit, saying, “For the first time in my life, I can offer you a home. You can
live here as long as you like and it will never cost you a penny.” I also put her name on my checking account and told her if she ever
needed anything, not to ask, just to buy it. This enabled me to provide her with a home that she truly enjoyed for thirty years of her
life. No other accomplishment gives me more satisfaction than that.
To break the trend of continuity in the narration of these events, it is necessary to revert to earlier years. The gentleman that
owned the bakery where I rode the delivery truck for the (returned) second day pastries and I subsequently became fishing buddies,
and what I would call good friends. He owned a nice cottage on Lake Shafer, about ninety miles northwest of Indianapolis, and
invited me to visit him there. As a result of that visit I became very interested in the lake and surrounding points, especially an
entertainment center known then as Ideal Beach, but later changed to Indiana Beach. In addition to having numerous rides and
attractions, it also had a large and beautiful ballroom where in, the summer, they would have big name bands playing. On the
east side of the ballroom was an open deck looking out over the lake, where the dancers could rest, and get fresh air, and look at
the occupants of motor boats. It was really quite interesting from either view. There was also a skating rink on the beach. I was
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28 | Ralph Bradley
so impressed with the entire picture and its amenities that, a couple of years later, I acquired lakefront property and would spend
almost every weekend in late spring through autumn there.
When I was twelve or thirteen years old, my brother had a date to go skating and took me along. It was the largest and finest
rink in the state. It was located on the edge of an amusement park known as Riverside Park, with roller coaster rides, a zoo, the
works. The rink had a very large oval hardwood floor inside of hand rails to keep spectators off of the floor. A fifteen-foot walkway
surrounded the exterior of the skating area, for them. In the center of the rink, suspended from the ceiling, was a stage for the band.
The musicians would go up a ladder and then pull the ladder up with them. Off one end of the bandstand, elevated about eight feet,
was a large ball with little mirrors covering it. Spotlights directed on the ball as it revolved above the skaters. To me it was all very
impressive. The band played all kinds of music. While the skaters were waltzing, the outer lights dimmed with the spots on the
glass ball reflecting moving lights on the rink. It was a very romantic atmosphere.
About half way through the evening, I was skating with my brother’s girlfriend. Our skates became tangled and we went down,
tearing the knees out of her stockings. For some reason she was not very friendly the rest of the evening. I, however, had been
introduced to a form of recreation that would play a very important part in my young life. I think I received a pair of clamp-on
roller skates for Christmas. Wherever they came from, I learned to skate in the street. One night after dark, I was skating down
the center of the street. I spied what looked like a wallet lying on the pavement. I also saw a man on the sidewalk start to angle out
toward it. I could not brake or stop so I just sat down on it, and then clambered to my feet. I took off down the center of the street,
not looking at the wallet until I reached the next street light a block away. At first glance I saw it had a substantial amount of money
in it and, after closer examination, I saw a card with the name Paul Bradley on it. This was my older brother.
I started skating toward home. Looking ahead, I saw my older brother run across the street in my direction. When we met I held
the wallet out and said, “Is this what you are looking for?” He was too overwhelmed to speak. It was hard enough to earn money,
and the thought of losing it was absolutely unacceptable.
I continued my street skating in the summertime until I began earning enough money to occasionally afford a streetcar
downtown. There I transferred to a car that took me to the skating rink. I would rent skates and have a great afternoon or evening,
whichever the time would be. Later on, after I got a real job and my first car, I managed to buy a pair of Chicago Hi Speed skates
built into the shoes. They were the best and most versatile skates on the market. With these, and the time and effort I put into
practice, I became one of the better skaters. I could do all of the various skate routines, including the waltz and a very fast paced
routine called the “One Step.” In this, you would be skating with your partner (always a girl) very fast and spinning in circles both
left and right! You really had to be good to do that one, and it was fun, I might even say a thrill, when you made it through without
falling. As a matter of fact, I never did fall on that most difficult dance. By this time, the overhead bandstand had been replaced
with a Hammond Organ played by a fabulous organist named Lester Huff. He could play the right rhythms for every dance step.
After I bought my first car I really took my skating seriously, going four nights and two afternoons a week. A young person could
not have a more wholesome recreational activity to participate in, and you didn’t have to take a date unless you chose to do so. It
was an activity enjoyed by both boys and girls going stag or as couples. It was great exercise and relatively inexpensive after you got
your shoe skates. I haven’t skated for more than fifty years, but I still have my first pair of Chicago Hi Speed skates that I keep as
mementos of my fun-filled youth. I learned that the skating rink was an excellent place to meet people and make friends.
Skating was the prime activity of the friends I made at the rink in autumn and winter. But as spring arrived, the beautiful,
sparkling lakes, rivers, and streams beckoned to me and I turned to my other love, fishing. The two things that I learned you
cannot do at the same time were fish and worry. It takes quite a bit of moxie, or smarts, to be a good fisherman. In the tackle
department, you have to know what to use, where, when, and how. The same applies to baits, in addition to the waters. In lakes, to
be consistently productive you must know the contours of the bottom, the depth of the ledges, and any underwater abnormalities
that serve as habitat for particular species of fish. I learned all of this and very seldom got skunked. I particularly liked Lake Shafer
and its tributaries. It had as its source two rivers, the Monon and the Tippecanoe. These rivers were dammed up on the edge
of Monticello, forming Lake Shafer. The water going over the dam or through the powerhouse formed the headwaters of Lake
Freeman. About ten miles downstream is another dam called Oakdale. All waters going over the dam or through the powerhouse
reverted back to the Tippecanoe, which eventually flowed into the Wabash River. Lake Freeman was the longer and deeper of the
two. I, however, preferred Lake Shafer. I particularly liked making float trips of five to twenty miles on the Tippecanoe which had
many bass, channel catfish, and a few Northern Pike.
One afternoon while skating at Riverside, I was on the outside of the skating floor leaning against the rail, just watching skaters
glide past. As they approached, I saw a beautiful girl within five feet of me. She passed and made a circuit of the rink and, as she
approached me the second time, I moved through an open gate onto the floor. I skated up beside her and asked for the next dance.
She smiled and agreed.
At one end of the rink and above the entrance doors was a large, lighted, glass sign on which all of the skaters could see what
the next session would be, such as All Skate, Two Step, Waltz, One Step, etc. When any particular skate was completed, the sign
would change and the lights would blink. The tempo of the music would change to the rhythm of the upcoming dance. We stayed
together the rest of the afternoon and I took her home and met her family. Thus began a boy-girl relationship.
She was a beautiful young lady of German and French extraction. We loved to skate and her mother would occasionally go to
the rink with us, marveling at what good and exciting fun we were having. Her mother was a handsome lady with very obvious
French ancestry. Her father was of German descent and was a conductor on a railroad. He put up a gruff front, but that could
be bypassed. His wife would take him to the railyards when he was outbound, but when he was coming in he would call. If I was
there, I would go pick him up. He never told me, but they and their neighbors were very close. He used to brag to them about my
performance as a fisherman.
There was one story his wife told to me that I still find very amusing. It seems that a neighbor was having their house painted, so
he took his little five-year-old daughter (now my girlfriend) over to watch the painters. As the painter came down off of the ladder
to get more paint, the little girl piped up. “My Daddy said when you go home he was going to come over and get some of that.” She
pointed to the paint. At that moment I am sure he would have wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. The painter looked
him in the eye and said, “How much was you going to take?” Who can argue with the words of a child?
Occasionally when he was in, he would invite me to go with him to his favorite tavern, called Louie’s. He introduced me to Louie
and his friends. We and her parents also decided to spend a two-week vacation on Lake Shafer. We rented a very nice cottage
and enjoyed it so much that I helped her father buy the adjoining cottage, where they eventually retired. I was working for the
Indianapolis Power and Light Company at this time, and there was a nice big pool in the company front yard where employees
would lounge and eat their lunches. When I would catch a nice size fish at the lake, I could sometimes keep them alive and put
them in the pool. I didn’t tell anyone where they came from and it was interesting to watch and hear the remarks of the observers.
I was so enthused with the beauty of both lakes that I was entertaining thoughts of a fishing camp or resort when I would retire.
I made contact with a real estate broker, and told him to keep his eyes open for something that I could handle. I do not remember
how much time passed but I received a call from him and he had a line on a property with three-hundred-and-fifty feet of shoreline.
30 | Ralph Bradley
It had been tied up in an estate for twenty years and the court had ordered it sold. I was so pleased with his description, and the
location of the property, that I told him to buy without even seeing it. I was never unhappy with that decision.
Prior to this, on October 29, 1939, my brother, two relatives and I were duck hunting on Lake Manitou, near Rochester,
Indiana. I think it was on the 29th, but it was a very important day because every man in the United States who was eighteen to
thirty five years of age was required by Federal Law to go to a post office and register for the military draft. The four of us went
into Rochester and complied.
Earlier in my fishing career, when I was a full-fledged but not too productive fisherman, my brother took a dim view of this
activity. He called it a lazy man’s sport and always spoke of it in a condescending way, but he did like boats and being on the water.
A time came when he was visiting one of our cousins vacationing on Lake Wawasee. He and my cousin were out trolling and my
cousin wanted to work on something at the front of the boat, so he handed his fishing rod to my brother to hold. While he was
holding it, a fish struck the lure. He wanted our cousin to take the pole but he said, “no, you reel it in”. It was a nice bass that did
some jumping as he reeled it in. Then my cousin had my brother continue holding the rod and they caught two more nice bass.
When he got home, my brother was a little reluctant to tell me about it but, eventually, he did in a somewhat bashful way. A little
bit later he mentioned it again and said in a little more eager tone, “You know, that just might be fun,” as though he had made
a sudden discovery. The next day, without telling me, he went downtown to Em-Roe Sporting Goods Store and bought several
hundred dollars worth of fishing poles, reels, and tackle that he didn’t know how to use. Every evening after work, I would take him
to a river and teach him how to use his equipment. He was converted from a skeptic to an ardent fisherman for the rest of his life.
We spent many weekends together on the water after that.
Another episode worth mentioning - he had somehow come in contact with a County Road Commissioner in the vicinity of
Olney, Illinois, and the commissioner invited us to come over and do some rabbit hunting on his farm. He had a beautiful, large
home and farm spread. Paul and I took one of our cousins over to hunt on a New Year’s weekend. The commissioner put us up
in a guest room. New Years Eve, we lounged on the floor of his living room in front of the fireplace after eating a delicious dinner
that his wife had prepared. When we were ready to head for home we counted the rabbits as we put them into the large trunk of
my car. We had ninety-six rabbits. The last ones we had to throw in and close the lid real fast, so they would not slide back out.
The commissioner said, “I wish you had got four more so you would have had an even hundred.” We killed twelve in the patch
were he had tried to have a garden, the rabbits had eaten. When we arrived home, Paul had always been squeamish about cleaning
anything, including fish. So I took on the task and skinned and cleaned every one of them by myself in his basement. I took half of
them home with me and hung them to freeze in our woodshed. My mother fixed rabbit in every way you can imagine and we did
not lose a single one. We had just come out of the rough days of the Great Depression and nothing was allowed to be wasted. We
learned frugality in those times, and the practice has never left me.
In September of 1940, Paul and I had been reading in hunting magazines about the fabulous pheasant hunting in South Dakota.
After separating fact from fiction, we decided to give it a try. It took two days of driving to reach our destination of Watertown,
South Dakota. After getting our non-resident hunting licenses and local information, we hired two local boys (bothers) about ten
and twelve years old and were ready to go. That part of the state was almost one hundred percent cornfields, with small wooded
areas interspersed on a random spacing. The regulations stated you could not shoot at pheasant before noon, because the birds
would be sitting in large numbers on the fences along the gravel roads, or on the ground getting gravel for their craws. You were
allowed five birds a day with a possession limit of twenty birds. This is so the out-of-state hunters would stay five days and spend
money in the area, which made economic sense for the small communities. There were several small lakes around, so we would go
duck hunting in the morning and pheasant hunting after lunch.
It was a very small town with a restaurant, a two lane bowling alley, and a little movie theater where they had shows twice a week.
We did not have any trouble getting our daily limit of birds, and the boys would do what they called drawing a bird. This consisted
of cutting an opening at the rear underside, pulling out all of the entrails, and storing the birds in a cooler of some kind to preserve
the meat. On the ground or running ahead of us, those pheasants could really move faster than we could, so we countered with
a plan. At one end of a cornfield, one of us would drop the other off and then drive around to the far end of the field to position
themselves and wait. The one that had been dropped off would start walking through the center towards the other end, making as
much noise as possible. The birds would run ahead of the walker and when they got to the end of the field, they would burst out,
flying in all directions, giving the waiting hunter good shots. Some of the fields would be a quarter-of-a-mile long.
On one particular drive, I was at the end, waiting on a small knoll for the birds to fly. I had a real fine three-shot Remington
semi-automatic 12-guage shotgun. As Paul approached, the birds began flying, but over one corner of the field and out of range.
Out of frustration I began to try long shots with three misses in a row. At that very instant, the birds came back flying not more
than thirty feet directly over my head. I was trying frantically to reload and get just one cartridge into the firing chamber as a bird
was flying over me. Not having time to bring the gun butt to my shoulder, I would just point it straight up and fire. Consequently, I
missed the entire flight without ruffling a feather. I was so frustrated that I never forgot. However, we got our daily limits of a hunt.
One afternoon we had our limit for the day and Paul took his movie camera out to get pictures of pheasants in flight. He was a
fabulous photographer. We drove to the end of one of the wooded areas, and then he drove around to the other end and positioned
himself near the center. I began walking loudly through the woods and, as I passed the middle of it, I could hear the birds running
ahead of me in the dry leaves. They sounded like a herd of horses. When they got to the edge of the woods, they exploded into the
sky, giving Paul a movie scene he could never have dreamed of seeing. We stayed for five days and arrived home with fifty pheasants
and twenty-four mallard ducks, the bird hunt of a lifetime.
Swinging back in time to my early teens, I was very interested in music and had a sponge like aptitude for it. My brother Lee was
singing in a trio with a young man and his sister. I was fascinated with the ease and versatility of the young man who played the
piano, and he became an inspiration for me to do the same. I began plinking around on every piano I came close to and eventually
developed a style of my own. When the trio was singing for special occasions, I went along to listen. I thought they were great.
While other events interfered with my music, I never got it out of my system. I loved the music of Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Rogers
and Hammerstein, and the great composers of that era. I memorized the music and lyrics as soon as they hit the streets and radio.
All of those wonderful numbers are recorded in my bank of memories. Just a few notes of any one of them will bring the entire score
front and center in my mind. I can play all of them on the piano in my style, which music-lovers seem to enjoy.
Life seemed sweet in those days. I had a good job, was saving money, and I had a nice car. Every Friday afternoon I would get
off work at four p.m. and immediately head for Lake Shafer. It took an hour and forty-five minutes to make the trip. My fishing
tackle was already there, I would stop at a special bait house in Delphi, about twenty minutes from Monticello and get a bucket
of minnows for a dollar. I also made one stop between Monticello and the cottage - a farm house where I bought milk, cream, and
eggs. The cream was so thick that it would not pour out of the bottle without helping with a knife, and was so rich that it had to be
thinned down with milk to whip. Directly behind the cottage was a large strawberry patch of ever-bearing strawberries. My girl
and her family would come up the next day. It was a wonderful “get away from it all,” type of place.
Nineteen-forty was an idyllic kind of year for me. Knowing that at some time in the future I would be required to spend at least
32 | Ralph Bradley
two years in military service, I could not make any long range plans. So I devoted my thoughts and actions to the here-and-now
interests. I worked at a job I liked, with money to spend as I pleased, and fishing and hunting as was seasonal. With the ever-present
pleasure of the cottage, and a lovely girl who enjoyed sharing these activities with me, it was a good year in my life. During this year,
I had a special ring made for the girl who was to become my fiancé. I had six diamonds and seven emeralds set in yellow gold. I
gave this to her at Christmastime. Then we began planning something special for New Years Eve. New Years Eve had always been
the most special night of the year to me, when shared with someone you care for. At midnight, when the bells rang the old year
out and the New Year in, it was always the most sentimental moment of the year for me. This year I wanted it to be extra special
for both of us. I settled on and made reservations at a place I had never been to, but had heard of its reputation for great food and
entertainment, supported by illegal backroom gambling. The place was known as The Plantation. They served setups but no liquor.
We never had indulged in hard liquor, so I bought a pint of Southern Comfort, a smooth and good tasting drink, but as I was to
learn carried quite a kick.
When we arrived, everything was as it had been represented to be - pretty decorations, a nice dance floor, a good band, and food
that was excellent. A lady friend of my fiancé was sitting at the next table to ours and did not imbibe in alcoholic drinks at all, so my
fiancé, not wanting to set a bad example, joined her friend in abstaining. This irked me a little but I decided I would not let that ruin
our evening. So I drank for both of us, not realizing how potent the drink was. I was elated with the light-hearted atmosphere, the
place, and the delight of being with my beautiful girl. As the evening neared midnight, I was so happy that I got a little carried away
and became smashed on the alcohol. At the stroke of midnight, when the bells and whistles were belling and whistling, everybody
was on their feet. I proceeded to pull my lady up on my back, holding each of her arms over my shoulders, and telling anyone who
would listen “This is my baby. This is my baby.” She went along with my antics, laughing and carefree. Everybody else was making
fools of themselves too, so why not me?
As the pandemonium subsided and 1940 slipped into history, we headed for the car to go home. When I pulled out into the
highway, I knew I was in trouble. For every car coming towards me, I saw four sets of headlights, so I stayed to the right of the
headlights. That only worked for a short distance and I ran off the road and half way down an embankment before coming to a
stop. Apparently we sat there for a few minutes before a very nice man showed up and asked if I wanted him to pull us back up onto
the road, which he did. My lady got under the steering wheel and in a belligerent tone I said, “You can’t drive this car.” She replied
“Oh no? Just watch me.” She drove us to her house and parked across the street. By that time I think I was in some kind of stupor
and would not move. She walked across the street, opened her front door, and cleared a path to her bedroom. Then she came back
and opened the door on my side and said, “Come on.” I advised her that I was going to sleep in the car. With that, she opened the
door wider, put her hands on her hips, stomped her foot, and said with a gruff voice, “Ralph Bradley, you get out of the car this
minute!” I climbed out.
She guided me across the street and I ended up in the middle of the front yard. She retrieved me and got me up the steps and
through the door. We stumbled through the house into her bedroom and I flopped on the bed. She proceeded to take off my shoes,
shake off my clothes, and the next thing I knew, it was daylight. I had a cold towel over my head and her mother was trying to feed
me coffee through a straw, grinning at me. I guess she thought it was too funny not to share, so she called her neighbor friend over
to have a look and they both stood there laughing. I recovered, but I don’t remember how long it took to do so. My girl just smiled
at me all day, so I guess I did not embarrass her too much. By now I really loved that girl. She was very artistic in what she could
design and make, and I was very proud of her.
Chapter 9 – Learning to Fight
I t was now 1941, and most of the year went by pretty much like 1940, until December 7th and Pearl Harbor. I was out polishing
my pretty car when the news came over the radio, and I was called inside to listen. At first I could not believe my ears, thinking
it was a radio show. But when I realized the truth and extent of it all, I felt a deep rage inside of me like I had never felt before.
I wanted to fight, but felt helpless. I told my girl and her family that whatever I do, don’t try to stop me. That rage persisted and
either the next or the following day, I went to the army recruiting office to enlist. When they checked my status, they said that I
was in a deferred category and they could not take me. Later on, in 1942, I tried again. This time I was enlisted in the United States
Army Signal Corp. Shortly thereafter I was sent to a school to learn radio repair, radio transmission, and cryptography. Learning
to encode and copy code was much more nerve-wracking than the transmission. After you learned the code, you would sit in the
booth with headphones over your ears and dot dash sounds would be transmitted to you. When you became efficient enough to
copy what they were transmitting, they would speed it up so you were always reaching but could not quite copy it all. There were
times when I felt like yanking the earphones off and throwing them out the window, but I gradually picked up speed.
It took six months to become certified as a high speed operator. Then I was ready to be shipped out for basic training. Like all
other mothers whose sons were leaving home to face the unknown in a foreign land, my mother was no different as I kissed her
goodbye. Of course there were tears, but then she said in a soft voice, “I have placed you in God’s hands and I believe he will bring
you home safely.” I knew there would be prayers said for me everyday. I was sent to Fort Harrison where I received my duffle bag,
uniforms, and such equipment I would need. I sent the clothes I had worn on arrival back home. The first day there I was put on
KP duty, peeling potatoes. What a way to fight a war.
Each day we would check the bulletin board for shipping orders. When mine were finally posted, I knew the date and time the
train would pull out. The track we would be on passed within one-hundred feet of the office where my girl worked and, as the train
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passed, I was standing in the doorway as was she. We waved a final goodbye to each other. It was a tough moment for both of us.
Our train was headed for Camp Crowder, Missouri, a large training camp for the Army Signal Corp. Army trucks met us at the
station and, as we entered the camp, detail workers along the road greeted us with shouts and jeers of “You’ll be sorry.” Not a very
cheerful greeting, but it wasn’t meant to be. It was one of those wry, Army jokes. Then began days of orientation and bugle calls
for every activity and what they meant. The introduction to barrack life and its trials and tribulations included: how and when to
salute, how to march, and the meaning of a “barracks party” was to clean and scrub from top to bottom. We also learned how not to
attract the attention of the Sergeant, and how to change your thoughts and actions from a civilian to some resemblance of a soldier.
Then the hard part began, but first and foremost we learned to always maintain military discipline.
There were no passes out of the camp for thirty days. Training films and lectures by General George E. Marshal every day. Close
order marching and other drills. Night marches and demonstrations of how far the light of a cigarette or a match can be seen in the
darkness. For things that you couldn’t do without, there was the PX Exchange, and the recreation room for reading and writing
pathetic letters home. It is all great fun if you can cut it, but the Sergeant and Corporal would see that you did. Reveille was called
before dawn, and breakfast was fifteen minutes later. Reveille begins with a blast from an unseen bugle played through every loud
speaker in camp, and every light in your barracks came on. The booming voice of the Corporal blasted, “Drop your cocks and grab
your socks, roll call in five minutes!” This brings on a flurry of activity throughout the barracks as the men comply. Failure to make
roll call on time can result in the recruit drawing unwanted extra duty.
The men dash out the door and form a double line as the Sergeant gives the command, “Attention.” They snap to and look
straight ahead. Then the Sergeant will give the command “Dress, right, dress” and every man will snap his right hand to his hip
with the elbow pointing to the man to his right. Each man looks down the line, straightening up any irregularities. All eyes then
look straight ahead as the Sergeant calls the roll. After every man answers as his name is called, the Sergeant faces the platoon
leader, usually a 2nd Lieutenant, and snaps a salute saying, “1st platoon all present and accounted for, sir.” This is a different world
from any that you have ever known. Gradually, very gradually, you begin to work off aches and pains you never had before and
there comes an inkling of a notion that perhaps, just perhaps, you are becoming a different man than when you first rolled through
the gates. Perhaps a week or so later you begin to have a little feeling of pride in the platoon’s close order drills. You stand a little
taller. You are beginning to think and act like a soldier, and the Sergeant is not looking quite so steely-eyed or grim, although his
commands are still orders to instantly be obeyed.
At about this time in your training, you are taken to the firing range. It is dirt walkway with stakes marking off positions
approximately 100 yards away on a high embankment. Immediately in front of the embankment is a white, 5-foot target with
graduated rings around the 5-inch black bull’s-eye in the center. Directly below the target is a trench running from one end of
the width of the range to the other. In the trench, out of the line of fire, are score keepers with long handles. One end is fastened
to each target so the target can be lowered into the trench and inspected. On the firing line, each 6-foot stall correlates with a
target, and a recruit along with an instructor. There, he receives hands-on instructions for a weapon (in most cases a 30-06 caliber
Springfield bolt action 6 shot rifle), how to load the clips, how to hold, aim, and fire. After about 15 minutes of instruction time in
each position, the recruit loads the weapon and is ready to fire his first shot.
On a platform about eight feet above the firing line, the officer in charge stands with a microphone that can be heard in every
position along the line. He speaks plain and loud with a note of question in his voice: “Ready on the right, ready on the left, ready
on the firing line?” There is a moment of silence and then, “Commence firing.” Each position fires their first shot. Then another
order, “Hold your fire,” and simultaneously the men in the trench pull the target down to see where it was hit. Then they run it back
up and with a six-inch round, solid, white marker on the end of a long pole. They hoist it up and wave it back and forth, then stop
at the spot where the bullet went through the target. This can all be observed from the firing line. If, as in many cases, the bullet
misses the target, the scorekeepers run up a bright red piece of cloth, which they called Maggie’s Drawers, and wave it across the
target. The instructor and the recruit study the results of the shot and prepare for another shot. They make about five single shots,
adjusting the recruits sighting, and then prepare for rapid fire with an observer keeping score. After that and on another day, they
march to a different firing range to be coached on firing sub-machine guns. Another day and another march, and they learn how
to toss hand grenades. As their training proceeds, recruits are getting a fairly good understanding. They are chaperoned by their
non-coms (non-commissioned officers) to a forest area or some other kind of rough terrain on overnight bivouac. Here they learn
to set up communications with another platoon in an unknown location, simulating what will be expected of them later. By this
time, very little is looked upon as a joke. The non-coms explain, do this, and thus, and so, and it might save your life or that or your
buddies some day.
About halfway through our basic training, we were given twenty-four hour passes to go into Neosho, the only town near the
camp served by buses at the main gate. Expectations were high. We were going into civilization all gussied up as conquering heroes,
only to find that, in this small town constantly overrun by men in uniforms, we were viewed as pigeons to be plucked. Variety was
slim, and anything we bought cost at least three times what we could buy the same item or service for a longer distance from camp.
Here we were thought of as a captive audience of Neosho, but at least it was a break from the Army routine. Back in camp, the
forced marches with full packs become longer and the obstacle courses less strenuous on the muscles. We were toughening up. As
raw recruits, we had been issued our equipment, including a gas mask, and we were given frequent drills on how to put it on. We
had firm orders to carry them with us at all times, including the mess hall and the theatre, where we heard orientation lectures
on all manner of military subjects and rules. When we would be marching to other functions, the Lieutenant or Sergeant would
suddenly cry out “gas!” and we would stop in stride, hold our breath, and put the mask on, with its flexible bands stretched over our
heads to hold it in place and then put our helmets back on. The gas mask became an attachment to our bodies at all times.
To demonstrate the effectiveness of the mask, and give the men confidence in it, we were marched to a small building in the
center of a clearing with a door in each end. We were then ordered to put on our mask and enter one door of the building. For
several minutes, the mask was protected us from the tear gas. We were then ordered to approach within five feet of the exit door,
take off the mask, and exit the building. Regardless of how fast you moved, you could not escape getting a powerful dose of tear
gas. We cried real tears outside, and gained a growing respect for our gas masks. We were approaching the completion of our basic
training. When I saluted the flag, I was beginning to have a certain tightness in my throat. My salutes to the officers were crisper,
and I viewed them with respect. “First three graders” were Sergeants with four stripes or more, who had greater responsibilities,
authority, and privileges, but did not require salutes.
Most of our training had been platoon size or less, so as to allow for individual instructions where needed. Now we were joining
in maneuvers of company and battalion size, with one thousand men or more. Each man knew what his duties were under certain
conditions and performed accordingly. Maneuvers became more rigorous and the obstacle course more frequent. Finally, the last
day of basic training arrived. It included a dress parade of the entire battalion. At the end of the day, the entire company was
ordered to assemble in a large building at 7 p.m. in dress uniform. The recruits were in for the surprise of their military life. Inside
the building were long tables loaded with refreshments and non-alcoholic drink, and all of the officers and non-coms were standing
on a slightly elevated platform, so they could be seen from any spot in the building. Elevated overhead was a large streamer spelling
out “Congratulations.”
Ralph & Rosemary Bradley
1940 (?)
Chapter 10 – Teaching Others How to Fight
T he recruits who had just completed their training were free to mingle with and talk on a man-to-man basis with the officers
and non-coms. Each officer gave his personal congratulations in a short speech on the transformation from raw civilians to
trained soldiers, ready to face whatever challenges they meet. The Lieutenant of my platoon had a beautiful baritone voice and
sang On the Road To Mandalay, which was ironic in one respect, because, unknown to either of us, I would be on that road in the
not-too-distant future. And so the party ended with the men, now soldiers, returning to their barracks to await shipping orders.
Unknown to me I had been placed in a special category. Apparently I had attracted attention to myself somewhere along the line,
because I had been assigned to assist the Sergeant and Corporal of my platoon to train the next incoming batch of recruits. I had
been assigned to what was called the Cadre, which takes in all of the training personnel in the camp.
This put an entirely new aspect on my frame of mind and attitude towards the men I would be training. I had learned the
importance of military discipline and would now be required to convey that information in a stern way to undisciplined boys who
couldn’t even spell the word. Consequently in the weeks and months that lay ahead, I was more critical and demanding than the
other Sergeant and Corporal. I had been assigned the rank of Corporal, which meant the recruits had to obey my commands.
Realizing what might lie ahead for them, I think I was probably a little more demanding than the other non-coms. But, when their
training was over and we had the regular graduation party, I think every man in our platoon slapped me on the back, thanking me
for helping convert them into what they were now. They were very proud of themselves as soldiers.
At the conclusion of this assignment, I was transferred to a different part of the camp for additional training in high-speed
telegraphy and cryptography. Everyone in that section had already completed their basic training and lived a more disciplined life.
Every morning we would assemble in the street in formation and a non-com would march us to the building where our classrooms
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were. At a given time, we would be marched back to our headquarters for lunch, and return in the afternoon. We were also trained
in other operations the Signal Corp performed. One of them being pole climbing: every man, at some time in his training, had
to strap on his legs the spurs needed for pole climbing. The main trick to this was to spike your spurs into the pole, but hold your
upper body away from the pole, so that your spurs would dig in. If you failed to do that and clung to the pole, your spurs would
come loose and you would pick up a lot of splinters on the way down. It was easier to climb because you leaned back and dug your
spurs in, but coming down you had to lean your body away from the pole, let your body drop, and dig your spurs in at intervals. I
think everybody was amused when the Colonel flaked out and grabbed the pole at the top. He picked up splinters all the way down
when his spurs pulled loose. He never tried it again and his face was quite red when he hit the bottom. I was standing quite close
and must say I was amused. It was one of those “Do as I say, and not as I do” examples.
After final completion of this phase of our training, we went on a two-week bivouac exercise simulating actual field operations
we were expected to contend with in action. Then a twenty-mile forced march with full field packs, and a final run at the obstacle
course under live machine gun fire. Our training was concluded and we awaited orders to ship out. I had two days of rest and then
my orders were posted to report to a staging area in California in preparation for going overseas. I received my railroad ticket to
Indianapolis with a five-day delay in route, and also my rail ticket from Indianapolis to California. I was looking at a blank future
and perhaps wanted something to cling to, so I called my girl and asked her to marry me before I left for only God and the Army
knew where. I only knew that it was overseas. After some reluctance, she agreed. Preparations were made and the ceremony
performed three days later.
I boarded the train and was on my way. It was strange; I had not been out of Indiana except for hunting in Illinois and South
Dakota. Now that we were soldiers for real, we were usually referred to as GI’s (short for Government Issue). On the train out of
Chicago, I shared a four seat arrangement with two GI’s and a pregnant WAC, who was going home to have her baby. I was the
only one that had a Pullman reservation. We chatted and shared stories until nightfall. It seemed appropriate so I agreed to let
the WAC have my Pullman. Chivalry, you know. I think the most memorable part of that trip was crossing the great continental
divide. The train came to a stop. The sun was shinning brightly and on both sides of the train were white snow banks. I stepped off
into the snow, surprised at how warm the air was. The snow was crisp and dry. Right then, I promised myself I would come back to
that beautiful country when the war was over. I was amazed and impressed. I do not remember anything extraordinary from there
on, except that the beautiful scenery was more than I had ever imagined.
I arrived at the staging area somewhat confused, but pleased with the quality of the food. There were no duties to perform, and
we could do pretty much as we pleased while just waiting for more GI’s to arrive. Passes into town were easily obtained. On one
occasion I went to the Palladium in Hollywood and was very impressed by its size, music, and beauty. One memorable night there,
I met what had to be a Hollywood Starlet. She was the most dazzling creature I had ever seen, who could have out shined Elizabeth
Taylor in her prime. She had black, curly hair, and was wearing a red and white evening gown. She looked about nineteen or twenty
years old. She was chatting with four GI’s in a booth, and for all practical purposes, lit up the sky. After visiting about two hours
with us, she took us in her car to an auditorium that had mattresses on the floor for military personnel to spend the night. Then
she disappeared like the angel that she was. She had a really sweet personality.
On another night, I visited Chinatown out of curiosity and was sitting at a bar when two pretty girls and a sailor came in and
took seats about four stools away from me. They hadn’t been there too long before what looked to be a drunken bum approached
them. I could see he was annoying them. The sailor was a rather small, diminutive fellow, and watching the scene annoyed me so
much that I took the bum by the arm and escorted him out with clear warning of what he would face if he came back inside. Then I
returned to my drink and my stool. A couple of minutes later, one of the girls approached me and asked “Are you here by yourself?”
I replied yes. She brightened up and said “Good, we just got married and I am going to pawn my bridesmaid off on you.” They
brought their drinks down and surrounded me. That kind of an approach was hard to dismiss, so after introductions and a couple
more drinks, they wanted to go to what apparently was a lively spot for dinner. It was less than a block away and the restaurant,
known as The Top Of The Mark, was pretty elegant. We had another drink and then a nice dinner. Then we went to another club
and had more drinks. By this time the bridesmaid wanted to go home. The sailor said to me “Why don’t you take her home, you can
spend the night with her.” That is when I told him that I was newly married too. She finally left and the three of us were sitting at
the bar. The sailor was trying to get his wife to go home. She replied, pointing at me, “No, I want to stay here with him.” I pulled the
sailor aside and said I was going to the restroom and then up the steps, so his wife would go home with him. We said our goodbyes
and I left. I presume they left and so ended that particular evening.
Chapter 11 – Shipping Out
T ime spent at the staging camp was uneventful, but it was pleasant to be in a warm climate for a short time. The day arrived
when shipping orders were posted on a bulletin board. All men whose names were listed to report at a given time at a rail head
within the camp. We boarded the passenger car and began a trip of approximately fifty miles to the coast. When the train came to a
halt, we were ordered by an officer to form a column of two’s outside the car and await further orders. Men in all the cars of the train
received similar orders, and a long column of men awaited orders. Since we were carrying duffle bags, we were ordered forward
route step, which means not marching in unison. We were walking under a half roof on our left. On our right was some kind of
structure, which looked like a large office building. We came to a halt and my eyes started roaming up the side of the building.
Midway up and higher, there were life rafts plastered all over. I knew what I was looking at but my eyes would not believe it.
The thought kept racing through my mind “could this monstrosity be a ship?” I was awestruck from the sight. Two officers
were standing at the lower end of the gangplank with clipboards of names in their hands. As a soldier would step up, one of the
officers would call his name and the soldier would reply with his army serial number so he could pass up the ramp. At the top of
the gangplank, a sailor would check his name again and then escort him through a maze of tunnels, stairs, and hallways until they
reached his assigned bunk. The bunks were arranged end-to-end, four high, with walkways between of about thirty-six inches wide
and separated in heights of about thirty inches. After the sailor left, you were free to toss your backpacks on your cot and find your
way to the main deck, which had a strange, unreal appearance in dim light. It was a strange feeling, as though you were in limbo
between unrealities. The deck became very crowded, and I think most of the men remained on deck all night. I soon learned why
certain beans are called Navy beans - because you have them with every meal. By daylight, loading was completed and, about ten
a.m., tugboats began moving the large hulk into midstream of the river. As the ship slowly moved downstream, there were a lot
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of civilians on the wide sidewalks waving good-bye, and the soldiers were waving back. It took about an hour for the slow-moving
ship to reach the mouth of the river. There, a tugboat opened the submarine gate and, as soon as the ship passed through, closed
the gate. You soon got the feeling that you were alone and prime prey for enemy submarines. About an hour outside of the sub
gate, we were joined by a cruiser slightly forward on the right side and a destroyer on the left as escorts. They stayed with us for
three days and the morning of the fourth day, they were gone. They were replaced with a Coast Guard Amphibian plane that flew
overhead and in front for two days. Then it too was gone and we were on our own, which was a weird sort of feeling. Every order
heard throughout the ship was preceded by a Naval officer’s piercing whistle. Then he would announce in a loud, stern voice,
“NOW HEAR THIS!” At dusk he would blow his whistle and announce in a loud voice, “THE SMOKING LAMP IS OUT
THROUGHOUT THE SHIP,” which meant no smoking until he announced after dawn that the smoking lamp was on.
If I ever thought I was in a crowd before, it could not compare with the ship deck in daylight. I knew two soldiers I had met in the
camp at the staging area, and much of the time we would find a spot at the rail where we could get together. Every nook and cranny
of the deck area was always occupied. We had been at sea for about ten days and there were batteries of five or six-inch guns jutting
out about three feet above the heads of the tallest man on deck. One day without warning they all cut loose with ear-splitting
blasts. It was a great surprise, but there was a funny aspect to it as well. There was a tall, gangly boy between me and the rail, and
I think he jumped two feet in the air yelling, “I knew this was going to happen, I knew this was going to happen,” thinking we
were under attack. What it was though, the ships crew had dropped a floating target overboard and were engaging in gun practice.
A few days after that we were suddenly joined by another escort cruiser as we approached Perth, Australia, for refueling and
supplies. A day or so before arriving at this location, the cruiser made a fast charge in front of the bow of our ship with depth
charges ready to go. They had some kind of submarine alert and we were fair game. No clash evolved from this, but again it
reminded us of what was possibly lurking under the waves. I had been told that we had 8,000 men on board. I don’t doubt it because
we were literally packed like sardines on deck, with movement slow and almost intimate. With that many men involved, there was
about every kind of character and personality in the book. From meek to roughnecks, from seriously cultured to the repulsive. It
was interesting to note that, when a chaplain held a service on the fantail or stern of the ship, it did not make a difference what
his religion was, the chatter subsided to reverent quiet. Partly due, I think, to the ever near presence of disaster should a torpedo
suddenly explode, which was a distinct possibility at any moment. It was so obvious I could not fail to always notice it.
My two friends and I would elbow ourselves into a position at the deck side rail and stay there, except to go to the mess hall at a
given time. We would repeat stories that we had already told, or sing songs over and over, wiling away the time. An occurrence of
interest and conversation was the frequent appearance of a pod of porpoise. They would appear about one-hundred feet from the
ship, leaping in symmetrical arches out of the water at the same speed as the ship, as though to escort us. If I didn’t know better,
I would swear they had been trained to do that. In our zigging and zagging and evasive tactics, we crossed the equator two times,
which was celebrated with some kind of mythical Navy hijinks for sailors crossing for the first time.
Perth, Australia, was tough on everybody except the ship’s crew. They had shore leave, but the passengers did not. Lots of girls
came strolling down the dock, teasing and flirting with the boys, and it gave them something to talk and think about. We had
been sailing several days out of Perth when we ran into a fierce windstorm. Everybody was ordered below deck. About eight hours
later, we were allowed back on deck. The sun was bright and the wind had blown itself out. The following day my friends and I
were sitting on the deck playing cards. I was casually staring at the bow (the front of the ship) and noticed I could not see water in
front. As my attention focused on this, the bow continued to elevate skyward. Suddenly the bow tilted down and smashed into
the side of a huge wall of water. The entire bow was underwater. Everybody jumped to their feet in consternation. We were just
catching up with the huge swells and gigantic waves that the storm had kicked up. The ship’s captain was steering so we would hit
the swells head-on, rather than wallow from side to side. The tops of the swells were higher than the ship was out of the water.
The ship would actually climb up the side of the swell until it was balanced on top like a giant teeter-totter, then tilt forward and
plunge down the other side at such a sharp angle that the propellers would be out of the water. When we were at the bottom of the
troughs, we would be looking up at huge mountains of water, both ahead and behind us. As far as the eye could see, we were in the
trough. It was mind-boggling to realize that this huge ship could be tossed about like a cork in a washtub. The ship’s bow would
gradually pull out of the water and start climbing the side of the next swell. This continued for the rest of the day and, at dark, we
were all ordered to go below.
Down in the bowels of the ship where our hammocks were, it was weird. The ship would be groaning and straining as it climbed
a swell, and then shake and shudder as it plunged into the side of the next swell. I could not help but wonder just how much
punishment the ship could take without breaking up. I doubt if anybody got any sleep that night, and in the morning when we were
allowed on deck, the same conditions prevailed. The cooks could not cook under those conditions, but we had cold cuts and coffee
until it calmed down. The swells started becoming smaller around noon and the huge swells were gone. In my wildest dreams I
never imagined water could get so rough and terrifying.
As we sailed into the Indian Ocean, the sea was placid again and we could watch the flying fish. They really didn’t fly, although
they seemed to. They would swim at hi-speed, pacing the ship, and then squirt out about even with the rear of the ship, gliding
about two feet above the surface at a faster speed than the ship was moving. They made it almost to the front of the ship, and then
would drop back into the water. It was quite entertaining. We had been at sea more than three weeks, and I could not help but be
impressed by the beautiful cloudbanks every afternoon, the sun dropping into the sea like a gigantic ball of fire. I don’t know what
made them look so different, but they were arranged in white billowing banks that the imagination could twist into distant castles
and exotic images.
We had been at sea for a month and still had no idea of our final destination, but we had picked up a cruiser and destroyer
escort for the past three days. One morning we were in for a sly Navy joke. At dawn they were playing music over the ships
speaker system, “The Song of India,” and they continued playing it over and over all morning. In the afternoon they passed out
little pamphlets that began with “Now that you are in India,” which settled our destination question. It contained do’s and don’ts
of conduct, and a language dialect called Hindustani with an English translation. It explained that there were more than three
hundred fifty different dialects spoken in India, but Hindustani was universally spoken or understood throughout India and
adjoining countries. During the night, we docked at the port of Bombay, India, and two land based officers came aboard to give
more emphatic do’s and don’ts regarding personal conduct with various suggestions. Then we were given eight-hour passes and
turned loose. It was strange. There was a touch of mystery about everything. Transportation was garys (horse drawn carriages),
rickshaws (people powered carts with umbrella-like colored tops), and very old taxis (vintage 1920 large, open, touring cars driven
by Sikhs, an Indian sect who always wore turbans). The officer told us about certain roads we could visit, as long as we stayed in
our mode of transportation. But under no circumstances were we allowed to get out of said transportation. The road was a brothel
area. The hovels where business was conducted were called cages, and they were exactly that. Iron-barred metal cages, from five to
eight feet wide, with two to four women inside. They were separated from the road by a six-foot walkway. About five feet behind
the front bars, a three-foot wide drop separated the front from where they did their business. The going rate was from two to four
annas. An anna was worth two cents English money. Sights such as these were hard to believe, but they were real. Even thinking
about them at this late date is depressing, knowing that lives can have such a low value.
44 | Ralph Bradley
I stopped in a jewelry store in downtown Bombay to admire the beautiful jewelry. A gorgeous amethyst bracelet caught my eye,
and I would have bought it, but one of the officers who first boarded our ship cautioned us not to buy anything there, as prices
for the same thing would be cheaper inland. He was mistaken. I never saw anything to equal its beauty and price anywhere. In
one sense it was good advice, because I had a long road ahead of me. The following morning trucks came to the pier to take us to
a staging area on the outskirts of Bombay. A staging area is a camp where troops are taken to await transportation to their next
destination. I had an experience that disturbed my mind when we had our first meal at the staging camp.
When I finished eating, there were large garbage cans where we dumped the remains of our meal from our mess kits, then two
more large cans - one of soapy water, then a rinse. Three or four very skinny men, dressed in what appeared to be thin sheets of cloth
were, standing beside the tent with cans in their hands, begging for the scraps from our mess kits. This was the first time since the
Great Depression I had come face to face with abject hunger. I was so troubled by this that I went back through the line again and
brought out a full mess kit of food for these hungry people. I was later told it was forbidden to do that.
We stayed at this camp three or four days and then were loaded aboard a troop train for a trip across the sub-continent to
Calcutta. The cars did not have seats. Instead long, bare benches sat back to back down the center of the car as well as on both outer
walls of the car. Our restroom was a small, four by four foot room at one end of the car with a hole in the floor and a horizontal
bar to hold onto - hardly first class. When it would come time to eat, the train would stop and we would get hot water from a
spigot on the engine to make tea. We were on British rations. It was an interesting trip, seeing sights we had never dreamed of. It
took seven days to make the trip. Every village or town that we stopped at, the local population was glad to see us. Of course they
all had their hands out in case we had any food to give away, which we tried to accommodate. At one stop, a beautiful Indian girl,
maybe eighteen-years old, in a snow-white sari draped about her body and over her head, climbed up the steps and into our car.
Fortunately, we did not have any idiots in our car. We all gave her something and, as she descended the steps of the train and it
began to move, she flashed us a radiant, glowing smile that I will never forget. It would be an exercise in futility to try to enumerate
the unusual sights that we saw on the extended trip. When we arrived in Calcutta, we were met by trucks and taken to another
staging area, located beside the Hoogly River. We were not allowed to leave camp. Time hung heavy on our hands, and four or five
of us would sit on the riverbank at night, singing. One night, as we were soulfully giving it our sweetest rendition, a band of jackals,
maybe a hundred-feet down the river, sent up howls of protests. I think we were hurting their ears. About four days later I was in
the orderly room and I saw our names on shipping orders for the next day. It looked like we were going to the Island of Ceylon. I
went back and gave this information to the boys. They were thrilled. Ceylon at that time seemed like a vacationer’s paradise.
Chapter 12 – Not Ceylon
T he following day we were taken by truck to the airport and, as we were boarding the plane, I asked the pilot of this plane
was it really going to Ceylon. He chuckled and said, “I wish it was, but we are going to Chabua an airfield on the Assam
Burma border”. My friends were not too happy with me, but we didn’t stay together anyway. We flew over densely wooded and
wild-looking country for several hours, and landed about an hour before sundown. After dark, a truck picked me up and took
me to Combat Headquarters. I was shown to sleeping quarters and told to report to the orderly room the next morning. All the
buildings were made out of bamboo, which is light, very tough and durable and easy to work with. The following day I was being
outfitted with the gear required for jungle warfare. One thing that was remarkable and defied explanation was that, on the first day
of basic training, we were issued gas masks to be kept by our side at all times, like a child and a comfort blanket. Now that I was
preparing to enter the field of combat, they took it away from me. It was more amusing than anything else - a perfect example of
doing something the right way or doing it the Army way.
Most Signal Corp men were issued .30 caliber carbines. A good man-killer at 100 yards and considerably lighter than a .30-06
Springfield or M-1 rifle. The .30-06 had substantially more distance and shocking power.
While waiting for a convoy to be formed, I received orientation lectures on my ultimate destination. President Franklin
Roosevelt had issued a call for 3,000 volunteers for a hazardous mission. Upon completion, they would be returned to the United
States. The men responding to this call were seasoned veterans of the South Pacific campaign, with tough combat experience.
They had been organized into a strike force designated The 5307th Composite Unit. Their orders were to operate behind enemy
lines, disrupt communications, kill as many of the enemy as possible, and capture a strategic airfield located in the center of the
flight path of unarmed cargo planes. These planes carried gasoline and supplies from Chabua (located at combat headquarters on
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46 | Ralph Bradley
the Assam-Burma boarder) to Kunming, China, for General Chenault’s Flying Tigers and General Chiang Kia Shek’s Chinese
troops. All other supply routes to these forces were under enemy control. The approximate air distance from combat headquarters
to the Japanese airfield was 500 miles, but closer to 1,000 miles through dense, jungle-covered, mountainous terrain. All supplies
for these troops were being delivered by airdrops. The Japanese airbase in north-central Burma was spelled Mytkyina (pronounced
Mitch-i-naw). As the troops advanced, the Army engineers followed up, building a primitive dirt road designated The Ledo Road.
This road was meant to intersect the original Burma Road in the vicinity of Mytkyina and open a direct route for supplies into
China from India. The strike force had departed combat headquarters about six weeks before my arrival and had engaged in two
major battles, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy. The strike force was under the command of Colonel Frank Merrill, and
because of the nature of their movements through the jungles, they were soon being referred to as “Merrill’s Marauders”. The name
stuck and Col. Merrill was soon promoted to Brigadier General.
It took about seven days for the convoy to be assembled and start to roll. I was riding in a jeep with three other GI’s who were
also Signal Corp men. After a long, tiring, bumpy, dusty day of following the vehicle in front of us, we arrived at our destination
after dark, guided by black- out lights only. Black-out lights were totally blacked out, except for a tiny spot about half an inch in
diameter, in the center of the headlight lens. A light rain was falling. Our convoy Commander pointed to a clump of trees, said
hang our hammocks there, then turned and left. We had jungle hammocks that are stretched between trees eight feet or so apart,
with a rubber roof stretched about two feet above the section you lie on. The two sections connected by mosquito netting, with
a zipper running horizontal with your body. Tie the top and bottom to trees and you have a section you can crawl into and zip
yourself in. The rubberized top protects you from rain. I was too tired to go to all of that trouble, so I just unrolled my hammock
on the ground, crawled between the top and bottom with my carbine, zipped myself in, and the next I knew it was daylight. We
gathered our gear and were directed to cross a shallow river and bivouac on a sloping bank under trees. There I met the rest of our
company, about twenty men, and awaited further orders. I later learned that the place was called Shaduzup, where the marauders
had very recently fought a successful engagement with the Japanese. They were bivouacked in the same area, preparing to move on
Mytkyina.
The marauders had began their offensive with approximately three-thousand men, divided into three battalions, who would
separate and lay traps for the Japs when the opportunity presented itself. There were times when the enemy used the same tactics.
It was no-holds-barred, and we took no prisoners.
One element that scared me almost as much as the Japs, were the Chinese troops that ranged in age from what appeared to be
boys about fourteen-years old, to old men in their seventies (old for combat duty). They joined us for the drive on Mytkyina. For
defense or a holding action, they were not too bad, but for offensive combat, there was a lot to be desired. While the Marauders
were battling the Japs over one end of the runway, the Chinese had divided their forces and were approaching the rail yard that
came in from the east. One group spotted the other, and opened fire, which was returned intensely. After one-hundred or more
were killed, the error was recognized and they withdrew. The unbelievable finale to this insanity was that both groups reappeared
the following day, and repeated the prior day’s performance at the same location.
The Mauraders were a rough and rugged looking bunch of men that had been through hell, and it showed. They had radioed
time after time for reinforcements, but none were available. We were bombed and strafed on a daily basis by Jap planes. Then it
was time to move on to Mytkyina.
I am not going to elaborate on the gory realities of war. It is the violence that nightmares are made of. These gaunt, sick men
should all have been evacuated rather than ordered into another battle. After another eight weeks of fierce combat, they captured
the airfield but then collapsed and ceased to exist as a unit, having suffered eighty five percent casualties on the drive to Mytkyina.
A new unit, “The Mars Task Force”, which could have (and should have) reinforced the marauders when they were so desperately
needed, were flown in to pursue the retreating enemy forces.
I came down with malaria and was totally unable to function. Also around this time, I suffered heatstroke and was carried to a
location where they could get to me with a jeep. It is all pretty hazy except that at one point, we hit a bump that threw me up and
out of the jeep. The next thing I can recall was being in a small tent with what appeared to be an elderly gentleman trying to get me
to drink cold tomato juice. I never tasted anything so good. He had some kind of a small, gas-powered generator connected to a
small refrigerator. I was there for a couple of days, and then moved to where a small airplane could evacuate me to the field hospital
where they treated me until I was capable of returning to duty.
A company of Signal Corp men and Army Engineers were stationed in the immediate vicinity of a tall mountain with sheer
slopes. Rocks were constantly sliding on the road, especially in the monsoon season, when much of the road was a sea of mud.
Linemen were always on call to replace wire that had been broken by falling trees or landslides. The location was called Logali, in
the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains. I had a small radio shack on the bank of a shallow riverbed. One man was assigned to
me to keep one of two gas-powered generators operating at all times. My main duty was to monitor all radio traffic. If two stations
were having atmosphere problems with transmissions, then I would break in with a certain signal and have the message sent to me,
which I would transmit on to the receiver.
I was at this station for quite a while after the Ledo Road had been opened, and convoys of supplies were in route from India
to China, in the foothills of Himalayan Mountains. Jungles such as we were operating in were not meant for human habitation.
Diseases such as Malaria, Typhus, Jungle Fever, Cholera, and some without names, were common and accounted for more than
fifty percent of all casualties. Then there were the poisonous snakes from cobras to pythons, scorpions, and vermin of all kinds.
Everything that could jump, run, or fly was prevalent in these jungles. I think the most annoying of these were the leaches. I
have counted as many as seven leaches on one leaf, standing on their tails, waving like a wand. They wait for some warm-blooded
creature (I will concentrate on GI’s) to brush the leaf, and they attach themselves to him. They would find their way inside his
clothing, burrow into his skin, and suck until they were full and drop off, leaving a trail of blood flowing down the leg or other
extremity. Many times these would become infected with what we called jungle rot. This would cause a nasty, weeping, open sore.
Other times they would make their presence known by a sharp stabbing pain, as if being jabbed by a sharp needle. The best way to
get them to back out was to hold the hot end of a cigarette close to them. If you tried to pull them out they would break off, leaving
their head imbedded, which would become infected and cause a nasty sore.
One event of interest to anyone reading this is my experience with primitive humans indigenous to this area. They had never
seen a Caucasian before, and indulged in the practice of headhunting. My radio station was located on the high side of a shallow
riverbank. One day I was wandering in the riverbed when ahead of me maybe two hundred feet or so, I saw two small boys with
their backs toward me, looking at something in the water. I must have made some kind of sound because they turned their heads,
saw me, and took off running like frightened deer up a steep path on the side of the mountain. When they were about one hundred
feet up the trail, they glanced back and saw that I was not pursuing them. They stopped and stared at me. Thinking quickly, I had
something in my shirt pocket, candy or gum, I don’t recall. Whatever is was, I took it out of my pocket, laid it on a rock, wrapped
my hands around my mouth and shouted “Bak Sheesh,” which in Hindustani means gift. Then I backed away to see if they would
come down. When I was far enough away to not present a threat, they came down and picked up what I had left on the rock and
48 | Ralph Bradley
raced back up the trail. When they reached the spot where they had stopped before, they stopped again, and one of them waved his
hand to me and then continued on up the mountain.
Several days later I saw them again. This time I had candy in my pocket and, before they saw me, I shouted “Bak Sheesh,”
holding it out in my hand. This time I stood still and made them come to me, which they very gingerly did. Wanting to trust, but
not quite sure, they looked me over. One of the boys took whatever I was holding in my hand and I did not move. Then he smiled,
backed off, and went back up the mountain. A few days later, the boy who seemed the least frightened and the most interested,
showed up at my door with three men (warriors) with him. I was very pleased that I had won his confidence, so we built a fire
outside my door and sat around it trying to communicate with each other. Occasionally, I would pass out cigarettes, which they
liked. After a while, they arose and went back up the mountain. A few days later he was back, this time with five men and a woman.
Pleasant greetings were exchanged and we built a fire and I made tea for them, which they also liked. By this time the little boy
had lost all fear of me and examined me very intently. We began to communicate better this time. They were Naga tribesmen and I
would take a little sugar and let him taste it. I would say “English - sugar,” in “Naga - hum nay molum”, the meaning in Naga, “I do
not understand”. He would twist his mouth around saying, “English – sugar, Naga – chinny.” Then I brought out a piece of bread
and said “English - bread, Naga - hum nay molum”. He came back “English - bread, Naga - rote”, and so we began to communicate.
I saw that this could lead to good public relations, which the military promoted, and I put in a call for emergency rations. A
few days later he came down with seven or eight men and two women. We went through the same greetings and, this time, he
was really intrigued with me. He would take his forefinger and gently run it through the hair on my arm and murmur “oou saab
ti kai ti kai,” which means good, “bahode ti kai” means very good. He would repeat this over and over, then point to himself and
say “Naga saab nay tik,” which means no good. This was because they did not have hair on their arms. Then he looked me in the
eye and, with a question in his voice, said “saab jagga hum bustee?”, meaning, “would I come to his home?” I wasn’t quite ready for
that, but each time he came down he would repeat the question, looking intently into my eyes. Their women were very short and
stocky and carried baskets on their backs with a woven headband supporting the weight. When they were ready to return to their
village, I would give the men a large can of food and they would drop it into the woman’s basket. I would say “nay tik nay tik nay
tik,” or “no good, no good, no good” and take it out of the basket for the men to carry. They would just laugh like it was a big joke
and drop it back in the woman’s basket.
The men carried cross bows, spears, and knives. I guess they did the hunting and the women did the work. I had been hunting,
killing Sambar Stags, which are the equivalent of our elk, and after keeping choice parts of the meat for myself, if the courier
got through that day I would send the rest back to headquarters. Our food was terrible, and the only fresh meat they had at
headquarters was what I sent. One day our Captain came up on an inspection trip. He came over to me and said, “I understand you
are quite a hunter. We sure have been enjoying the fresh meat that you have been sending in. Anytime you want to go hunting, let
me know and I’ll send up a replacement.” I was pleased for it was nice to be appreciated.
The next time the Nagas came down, toward the end of our visit, the boy repeated his question, will I come to his home? This
time I said “ahchau,” which in Naga means “yes.” He straightened up like he had been shot. His face lit up and he cupped his hands
beside his face and said “kitna sleeps sahib jagga hum bustee,” which translated to “how many nights until I come to his home?”. I’m
guessing he was about twelve-years-old. Since I do not recall his name, just for reference I am going to give him the name of Chu. I
think it was about a week later when I had a replacement to relieve me. I loaded my musette bag (a small, canvas backpack) as full as
I could with food, such sweets as I had, and cigarettes, and started up the mountain trail. I had never climbed this trail before and it
was steep. After expending my first burst of energy, I had climbed about 100 yards. From there on, I pulled myself up with the help
of trees and vines along the trail. I could only go about fifty feet until I had to stop and rest. It was early morning and, after about
an hour of climbing, I came to a small clearing with a bamboo hut about eight feet off of the ground. It had a ladder affair leaning
against an open ended porch. I climbed the ladder and stuck my head above the floor. Sitting behind a dirt firepit was an ancient
Asian that looked like he had been smoking opium all night. He reached to his side and picked up a long machete type knife. I
managed to burst out enough Hindustani to say, “I am your friend”. I then said, “Molum Chu’s bustee - Do you know where Chu
lives?” He pointed higher on up the trail. In about another one hundred yards, I could see the village. I had not stepped too far into
the clearing when a yell went up and the entire population of the village dashed forward to greet me. It turned out that the chief of
the village was Chu’s father, and I was escorted to his special bustee (home). It was several times larger than any of the others, and
had an open ended porch on it about twenty by twenty feet. The largest I ever saw. On the back, along one side of the porch, were
orderly placed heads. In the center of the porch was a large dirt firepit. The smoke rolled out the open end. Leading to the back
of the structure and along one wall was an aisle walkway. Beside the walkway were cubicles about six by six feet, with walls forty
inches high. I think there were four of these cubicles, which were home for two adults and their children per cubicle, quite a layout.
As many of the villagers as could fit were all crowding onto the large porch, giggling and staring at me. Chu introduced his
father, who was all smiles, and I was greeted by various Nagas who had visited me down at my camp. After exchanging pleasantries
and passing out cigarettes, one of the men made it known that he wanted me to come to his bustee. His was a smaller version of
Chu’s father’s bustee, and we were followed by most of the villagers. Only about ten would fit in this bustee. After passing out
more cigarettes I was suddenly faced with a dilemma that I had not anticipated. Chu’s father climbed the ladder, carrying what
appeared to be a bamboo cup. He handed me the cup, which had liquid to the brim in it, saying “ti kai kahna,” meaning very good
food or drink. Suddenly, thoughts raced through my mind. What are you doing here, halfway around the world from all that you
hold dear and cherish, with savages who just might be considering adding your head to their collection, while nobody knows where
you are? All of this went through my mind in a flash, but every eye was on me. I knew I could not show fear, so I raised the cup to
my mouth in a toast to my host, tipped the liquid to my lips, and gyrated my adams apple as though swallowing, but actually just
moistening my lips in the process. Then I ran my tongue around my lips with no ill effects. Continuing to smile, I took a tiny sip,
again exercising my adams apple. It didn’t taste too bad so I swallowed another sip. To my immense relief and surprise it tasted
good. So, in a series of sips, I emptied the cup. I passed out more cigarettes and in perhaps twenty minutes the chief came back
with another cup of “ti kai kahna.”
Without any further trepidation I drank it, which scored brownie points with my observant host. Then we went down to where
the chief was making the stuff. To my amazement, he had a crude operating still and what I had drank was wild rice whiskey, or
sake. I think I got a little buzz on because I was feeling no fear or pain, and proceeded to one of the other Naga’s bustee. Since it
was approaching dusk, I opened my musette bag and passed the contents around for all to sample. By this time it was dark and I
positioned myself between a firepit and a wall with my carbine at my side. There were about eight Nagas in the room and gradually
they began to fall asleep. I stretched out on the floor between the firepit and the wall I had been leaning against and dozed off. A
rustling in my hair awoke me.
I sat up and, across the room, I saw a large jungle rat jump over the legs of one of the sleeping Nagas. Looking closer I saw rat
turds on the floor where my head had been. I sat up with my back against the wall for the rest of the night, keeping the flame in
the firepit going with twigs and whatever would burn. My adventure had burned itself out so at daybreak, I quietly eased myself
out of the bustee and headed down the mountain. This was the natural habitat of the Bengal tigers, panthers, and other wild
animals, and I was an interloper in their region. I saw evidence of this on my descent down the mountain. I must say I was relieved
50 | Ralph Bradley
of apprehension when I reached my basha up a slight slope from my radio shack. So many things happened in those days that it is
difficult to keep events in there proper sequence, but, directly above our camp was a very treacherous section of road. As convoys
passed by on their way to China, we would frequently hear a truck that had gone off the road and was crashing down a steep
embankment until coming to rest in the trees above us. At some point in this series of events I came down with another attack of
malaria. One of my buddies took me in a jeep to a hospital located high up on a mountain, a place called Ta Gap. All it consisted
of was bamboo frames over dirt floors, covered with a canvas roof, and slit trenches in the dirt along the side (in case of an air raid).
The night of my arrival, a fierce storm blew the roofs off. I was too sick to care whether I lived or died. The only medication for
malaria was a small brown pill called Atabrin. It had replaced quinine as the preferred treatment. Malaria is nasty stuff. Something
like a million people a year die from it. I would go from running a high fever, to violent chills regardless of how many blankets
were piled on me. From that to a high fever again, vacillating from one to the other until the muscles in my stomach were sore to
touch. It is really no fun. As in many cases such as this, the events fade into memory and new projects become the object of focus.
The US military required that each man in this operation take an Atabrin tablet daily to help in the prevention of malaria. If we
were stationary long enough to have a chow line, an officer would stand next to the line, placing an Atabrin tablet into each man’s
mouth to ensure they were all taking the drug to hopefully ward off malaria.
Chapter 13 – Japan Surrenders
S omewhere in this period of time a buddy of mine’s father sent him a copy of the U.S. News & World Report. After he had
finished reading it, he passed it on to me. In one issue, there were reports of strikes in the United States, where workers were
refusing to make the weapons and materials that we so desperately needed, just to get an increase in pay. It was hard to believe, but
it was happening, and I could not get it out of my mind. I began putting in writing my thoughts questioning how this could be. As
they began to take shape they came out as what I called “A Soldier’s Letter,” as follows:
A Soldier’s Letter
Dear friend you hold here in your hand
Thoughts that came from my native land
In the heart of each man who’s gone to fight
For what he loves and thinks is right
Don’t be discouraged, do not despair
For one and all must do their share
But there are some who have forgot

That we have come where they could not
Our men have fought and bled and died
That others may in peace abide
And so to those who stay at home
To them I write this little poem
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52 | Ralph Bradley
To those at home
Did you ever stop to realize

The depth of the oceans, height of skies
The broad expanse of foreign lands
The blazing heat of torrid sands
From ice-bound shores to tropic isles
O’er mountains, valleys, and jungle wilds
Your soldiers fight in all these places

With lonesome hearts and pain-wrought faces
And yet within a fierce desire
Consuming as a seething fire
To fight and die if die they must
Because they know their cause is just
Perhaps your sweetheart, friend, or son

May be that lad behind the gun
The one to whom you are so dear
Whose thought of you may bring a tear
He’ll never quit, will never run
But fight until the battle’s won
Their goal’s the same on land and sea

To shatter bondage and set men free
Until the day we can proclaim
Not for glory, lust, or fame
That all who trust in God’s great name
Can live in freedom without shame
So prepare, work, and pray

For the boys who are away
Until the hell of war is through
When all your soldiers brave and true
Beneath our own red, white, and blue
Come marching home again to you
Ralph Raymond Bradley, U.S. Army

Since first entering the jungles, it had been more than a year and a half since I had seen a white woman, except for army nurses
and two Red Cross girls. One afternoon without notice, an army truck under convoy protection arrived with three USO girls and
a piano on board. Using the tailgate as a stage, they put on an entertainment program that wowed the GI’s fortunate enough to
see it. After the show they turned in for the night in a tent that had been prepared for them. Around midnight, I could not get the
nearness of that piano out of my mind. I quietly climbed into the truck and, after removing the tarp covering the piano, sat down
and softly began to play (what else but “Back Home In Indiana” and “The Wabash Moon”). The moonlight was brilliant and in the
distance I could hear the cry of a wild animal. Suddenly, I felt a movement and a black GI materialized out of the darkness. He
volunteered to MC the show I was putting on. I think it fueled our homesickness, but we spent a couple of hours I am sure neither
of us will ever forget. And we did not disturb the sleeping beauties.
The Mars Task Force was pursuing the retreating Japanese forces from Mytkyina toward Bhamo. The British 14th Army had
stopped the main Japanese forces in the Imphal Kohima area, where they were about forty miles from the India border, and
defeated them in a decisive battle. This, for all practical purposes, ended any threat of invasion into India. The British pushed on
north towards Mandaley.
One day I received an urgent letter from my wife, stating that due to the influx of civilians to work in war production factories,
the housing situation in Indianapolis was critical. The house where my wife lived with her parents had been sold and nothing was
available for them to move into. I sent my wife a Power of Attorney to evict the tenants in one side of the duplex I had purchased
in 1940, which they did, and moved in for immediate relief.
Along with other men, I was pulled back to combat Headquarters in Ledo and was working in the message center.
One event I found amusing was the presence in camp of a person I had never seen before. He was the self-declared champion
at the game of chess, having beaten all of the other men there, and he began taunting me to play. I didn’t know the first thing
about the game and told him so. He said he would teach me and began explaining the values of the different pieces, and how and
what direction they moved. I could see it was a game of strategy and finally decided to play him. As was expected he beat me the
first game as well as the second. By this time we were the focus of attention of the other players he always beat. I was beginning
to understand the strategy of the contest and the third game we played, I beat him. What a razzing he took from the spectators.
He insisted that we play another game. We did, with the same results. In fact I beat him every game we played after that until he
refused to play me anymore. He even refused to speak to me. It was silly and funny and I think he gave up the game for the duration.
The game, as I said, was a game of strategy and I was very good at it.
General MacArthur’s forces were pressing their attack ever closer to the Japanese home islands, and an enormous battle was
shaping up. The Ledo Road was open into China and convoys were getting through with just mechanical problems. Most of the
men pulled back to Combat Headquarters near Ledo, and were hanging in limbo, awaiting orders.
I was on duty alone in the message center, when a message came in saying our scientists had harnessed the power of the sun
in a bomb with the explosive force of 20,000 carloads of TNT. It had been dropped, and had vaporized a city in Japan. I was so
astounded by what I had copied that I requested a repeat of the entire message. It had been transmitted in the clear. I immediately
took it to the orderly room, where excitement then spread throughout the camp, as we recognized the significance of this event.
Chapter 14 – On the Way to Calcutta
A few days later, with the arrival of news that Japan had surrendered, there were orders for every man to write letters to three of
his closest correspondents, telling them not to send any more letters because we were on our way home. We had to clear these
letters through the orderly room. Then the entire company lined up and got five shots and a vaccination, as orders were posted on
the bulletin board we would depart by ground or air for Karachi. There we awaited the first transportation to the Department
of the Interior (USA). We could not contain our elation. Three days later, orders were posted classifying twenty of the men as
essential, and we would be shipped by rail to Calcutta for further assignment. This turn of events almost caused a mutiny among
the men so classified. One committed suicide; one threatened the first Sergeant with his rifle. It was a bitter pill to swallow. The
main body of the troops could not leave until those classified as essential were shipped out. I was one of those so classified.
There were no words to adequately describe the gloom and dejection of these men. Three days later we boarded the narrow gauge
railcars and were on our way. I was told that, subsequent to our leaving, orders were issued rescinding the reclassification orders,
but by that time we were halfway to Calcutta. This was evident by the fact that, when we arrived in Calcutta, no one knew we were
coming or what to do with us. We were escorted in groups of two or three to an office in downtown Calcutta and given a choice
of accepting further assignment there, or returning to Ledo to await transportation. It didn’t make much sense but this was the
nearest I had been to civilization for a long time and I chose to stay. I was assigned to an office in a tall building (Hindustani Bldg)
in the center of the city that was fully occupied by the US Army. I was billeted in a building about a mile away that also had an
Army mess hall on the first floor. I had a Jeep for transportation. I was so tired of the isolation of the jungle that, for the first two
weeks, my recreation was parking on a corner and watching people go by.
Duty in Calcutta was not too bad. I got along well with the Major I worked for. My quarters were comfortable and the food was
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much better than where I had been. I was still unhappy at being stopped short from going home, but I had become accustomed
to making the best of whatever situation I was in. Calcutta defies description. Wealth beyond description, surrounded by thick,
brick walls eight to nine feet tall. There was broken glass embedded in cement on top to keep out the poorest of the poor. Wide,
congested sidewalks were filled with people born into abject poverty. They lived and died before being carted off to the burning
pyre for open cremation. There was always a foul odor and haze permeating the air over Calcutta. I had three boys probably eight
to eleven years old, that I would feed. After eating in the mess hall, I would get a second platter of food for them. It was against
the rules, but these were little hungry boys, and they always waited for me. They slept at the rear of the building beside the coal
bin under paper. The sidewalks were so congested with beggars that if you gave anyone anything, you would be immediately
surrounded by outstretched hands and cries of bak-sheesh, bak-sheesh, bak-sheesh.
I want to digress for a period of about four years or so to introduce a factor that would play an important part in some of my
future activities. While I was still in Burma, my brother took flying lessons and, after being certified and receiving his pilot’s
license, he bought a two-passenger Taylorcraft light airplane. It was quite an adventure to fly in because it did not have a radio
and the fuel tank was immediately in front of the windshield. The gas gauge was a cork floating in the gas tank with a wire stem
protruding through the top of the tank. As the gas was consumed, the float would pull the stem down inside. When that stem quit
bobbing you had better be on the ground, because you were out of gas. Real high tech. When I was first discharged from the Army,
I calculated that I had used up all of my luck and exhausted all of my chances, so I was not interested in getting any higher off of the
ground than I could jump, or any farther away from home than the Indiana state line. After a couple of years and sales talks from
my brother about how safe it was to fly, I relented and we planned a pheasant hunting trip to South Dakota.
Without a radio we, resorted to sectional air maps and used landmarks, such as water towers at small towns, railroad crossings,
and railroad lines to follow. It was called contact flying from visual point to visual point. The air maps were laid out in side by side
sections with a visual object on the edge of adjoining maps to keep you on the proper course. I did the navigating and Paul did the
flying. We had not been in the air more than fifteen minutes when Paul looked out the side window and said, “Oh my golly.” I asked,
“Is that the name of a town?” He replied, “no, I’ll tell you later”. Then he said, “I might as well tell you now, we have a nail in our
tire.” At this point, there was nothing to do but fly on to the airport that we had chosen to refuel. When we arrived, there had been
such intense rainfall that the landing strip was a bog with mud so deep it sucked wheels in, bringing us to a quick stop. We barely
had enough power to taxi in to the fuel pump. The nail had not penetrated the tire far enough to create a puncture, so we pulled it
out and took off for our next airport. This proved to be a little more than we had bargained for.
We were flying into a very strong headwind and, after about an hour, we could tell by our diminishing gasoline supply that it
was time to pick an alternate airport on our map and head for it or we would be in trouble! We picked an alternate and changed
course. We were still flying into a strong headwind and, by the time it came into view, our gas gauge was showing empty. All that
this alternate consisted of was a one-way strip in a barnyard, with a rather steep hill on one side and a fence on the other side. We
did not have enough fuel to circle so we flew straight in at a steeper angel than normal, bouncing about fifteen feet. I could tell
Paul was on the verge of trying to take off again but didn’t. When we came to a stop, we were off of the runway and headed up the
hill. To make matters worse, there was no one at home on the farm and no gas pump. We walked about a quarter of a mile down
a gravel road before we found transportation to and from a gas station. Eventually we were on our way again. Without further
complications, we arrived at our destination of Watertown, South Dakota. But there was one more problem. At the airstrip where
we intended to land, a fierce crosswind was blowing, making it impractical to attempt a landing. So, we picked a landing strip
nearby that was running with the wind. When we landed the wind was so strong that our forward momentum was no faster than a
slow trot. As soon as the wheels touched the ground I jumped out of the plane and grabbed hold of the wing to keep the wind from
flipping it over until some tie downs were located to hold the plane in place. Now, back to Calcutta.
As another Christmas away from home was approaching, I was still burning with resentment because, if I had not been shipped
to Calcutta, I would have been home for Christmas. I had made up my mind to not even think about it. The Red Cross, in
conjunction with the USO, was planning a Christmas party for the troops but I was going to ignore it. Then I got to thinking
about an Angelo-Indian couple with a little eight-year-old boy I had met. It would be a very special treat for the boy if I took him
to a real Christmas party. I suggested it to his parents and they were delighted with the idea. I told them I would pick the boy
up on Christmas day and I was feeling a little more enthused about it. On Christmas Eve morning I was working in the office. I
was feeling uneasy and having trouble concentrating on my work, so I decided to go to the PX on the first floor and have a Coke.
Standing at the bar, talking with a couple of GIs, my voice started quivering and I decided to go to my billet and lie down. Political
unrest was getting heated up in Calcutta, and huge mobs were roaming the streets. As I was pulling out of the parking area, a
military convoy was approaching. I waited and then swung into it as it passed by. The convoy went down the street where I wanted
to go, so I made it without any trouble from the mob. The instant I stretched out on my cot, I went into a violent chill and knew
immediately what it was. Malaria - for the third time. We had an Indian boy called a bearer and I told him to tell the orderly to
call an ambulance. When they rolled me into a ward at the hospital, they were playing Christmas music. The ward decorated and
a tree was lit up in the corner. I was violently sick and they would not give me medication of any kind, even though I told them
that it was Malaria for the third time. The only thing the nurse would do was give me an alcohol rub when I went into the fever
cycle. What made matters worse was, there was no way I could get word to the little boy who was expecting me to pick him up the
next day. There were no doctors on duty Christmas day and I was vacillating between chills and fever. They checked my blood but
nothing showed up until the third day. The nurse came to me with a big smile on her face saying, “You were right. It just showed
up in your blood. You have Malaria.” They started the Atabrin until my stomach revolted and upchucked the bitter, bitter bile.
When I was finally released Christmas and New Year were over, and I was mad at the world again. I think I was primarily irked
for having to disappoint a little boy. The Major was in charge of disposing of surplus war materials and I was chauffeuring him
around, inspecting regional storage sites. We delivered the rolling stock and equipment to various Indian installations. Explosives
and dangerous items were dumped into the Indian Ocean.
One day in April I was in my billet and received orders to pack up; I was going home. It took me all of fifteen minutes to pack my
barracks bag and head out. I was taken to a staging area on the outskirts of Calcutta, where men from all branches of the military
were being assembled. I think I was there two days and then we were loaded into trucks. Convoy after convoy delivered the men
to dockside, where they immediately boarded a ship docked there. This ship was about one third the size of the troop ship I had
sailed on from California to Bombay. We only had approximately 2500 men, plus the crew on-board. It was a weird feeling that I
cannot describe, as the shoreline began to fade from view. We sailed through the Bay of Bengal and across the Arabian Sea, passing
the Horn of Africa, then into the Red Sea. Since the War was over, there was no reason to be concerned about lights or smoking
after dark, so our ship was lit up like a Christmas tree. We spent a lot of time on deck after dark. We were almost through the Red
Sea, and approaching the Gulf of Suez, where the waterway narrowed down and another brightly lit ship passed in the opposite
direction. As we approached closer, we could see all of the oncoming passengers were white women, all under forty years of age.
I think every soldier and every woman was waving and shouting greetings. The men stood, staring in to the night, as the ship
disappeared into the darkness, wondering where it came from and where it was going. Every time I think of it, even today, I am
reminded of the phrase “Like two ships that pass in the night.” Shortly thereafter we entered the Suez Canal and could see Arabs
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with working camels in the desert on both sides of the canal. Coming out of the Suez Canal, we entered the Mediterranean Sea for
an uneventful voyage until we cleared the Straight of Gibraltar into the Atlantic Ocean.
Barely into the Atlantic Ocean, we ran into a wild storm completely unlike the storm in the Pacific where we rode over the tops
of the huge mountainous swells. Standing at the rail, I could almost touch the water with my hand when the ship rolled. I took my
blanket up on the top deck and found a cubbyhole of some kind that shielded me from the wind. At dusk everybody was ordered
below, and the ship seemed to be rolling from side to side, perilously close to rolling over. I have always had a slogan on facing
danger - “I may go down, but if I do, I am going down swinging.” So I applied that thought to this situation and spent the night on
deck in my cubbyhole.
After daylight, the sea had calmed substantially and I descended the stairway to the lower deck. I noticed men standing around,
looking pale and lost, and a peculiar odor was in the air. I learned that, because of the pitching of the ship, the cooks could not cook
anything and had served the men tainted cold cuts. Every man that ate, got food poisoning. They were lined up at every latrine and
toilet facility, even in the officer’s quarters, spouting vomit and feces, simultaneously erupting from both ends. A little bit worse
and we would have sailed into New York with 2500 dead men on board. I had escaped this unhappy event however, I did not escape
the smell that filled the ship from stem to stern. It took two days of cleaning and deodorizing to return it to normal. Everyone was
pretty subdued for several more days, before the excitement over the proximity of the USA had everybody abuzz. I don’t know
how long we had been at sea, but the captain announced over the speaker system that we would reach New York City the following
day. I don’t think too many men slept well that night. The next day, all eyes were turned toward the bow of the ship to catch the
first sight of land. About one p.m. a hazy shadow appeared above the horizon. Gradually, the shadow began to take shape and we
could see for sure that it was land. The men were surprisingly quiet, still intently scanning the land. As we drew closer, it became
apparent that there was something white in the center of the landmass. Finally we drew close enough to the white object that we
could see the words spelled out in two rows of white stone: “Welcome Home – Well Done.” I think in those first moments, most of
the men had such a lump of emotion in their throats, they could not swallow. For a while they were silent. As we passed the rocks
and began to encounter ships, they saluted us with blasts from their foghorns. The tension was broken by sounds of laughter and
semi-hysteria. My vocabulary is insufficient to describe the emotion I felt as we approached and passed that Great Lady, the Statue
of Liberty. We were now being towed by tugboats to the continuous blasts from the saluting foghorns of ships in the harbor. We
eased up and against a long dock and, at last, came to a halt. Gangplanks were lowered and fastened in place from the ship to the
adjoining dock, which equaled the length of the ship, but with a roof over it. We were directed to go inside the long covered docks
where, to our amazement, were four rows of bars running the length of the dock with white cloths on them. Standing behind the
bars were lovely women with huge smiles on their faces and piled high on the bars were stacks and stacks of chocolate doughnuts,
and bottle after bottle of cold milk, the elixir of the gods. The first milk I had tasted since leaving California. There were times I
would have given one hundred dollars for a glass of cold milk, and I am sure many of the men felt the same way.
After we had stuffed ourselves on these delights, we were loaded onto trains and taken to Camp Kilmer where our first meal was
steak, wonderful pies, and more milk. About two hours after the steak dinner I went to the PX and had ice cream and more milk.
The following day, names were posted for certain men to board a train whose destination was Camp Atterbury, Indiana. I was on
the train, moving ever closer to home. Every railroad crossing with clanging bells, flashing lights, and small town parks seemed to
be waving us on. Each clickety-clack of the wheels filled our hearts and minds with anticipation. Years ago, when I was outward-
bound on a train from Fort Harrison for Camp Crowder, Missouri, for basic training, the train passed within one hundred feet
of the building where my beautiful wife worked. She had been standing at the window, waving goodbye to me as I stood on a train
doorstep, waving back. Ironically, the inbound train bound for Camp Atterbury passed that building about two hundred feet on
the south side. It had started slowing down as it approached Indianapolis and came to a complete stop when the was not more than
two hundred feet from the door of the building where she was working. Right then and there, I lost it. I jumped off of the train
and ran down the slope toward that door. I was halfway there when the train began moving and the boys watching me all began to
shout come back, come back. I didn’t think. I just changed courses, ran back up the slope, and caught the last coach as it passed.
For a few moments my mind was numb, almost stunned to be so close and yet so far.
The rest of the trip to Camp Atterbury was without event. We checked into our barracks and then were directed to one of the
neatest mess halls I have ever seen. Round tables with linens and silver. A bottle of cold milk in the center of the table. I do not
remember too much about the food, but I will never forget the cold milk. There were roaming waiters keeping an eye on the action
and, as soon as a milk bottle was half empty, they would replace it with a full bottle.
The next day I was given a three-day pass and caught a bus for Indianapolis, somewhere in the vicinity of seventy-five miles away.
When I got off of the bus I was suddenly filled with a weird feeling of apprehension that I cannot describe. I had been gone so
long. There was a dry cleaning press-while-you-wait shop where I left the bus, so I had my uniform pressed and hailed a taxi cab.
Chapter 15 – Welcome Home
W hen the cab pulled up beside my house, I paid the driver, dropped my barracks bag in the yard, and opened the back
door. Mom (my mother-in-law) was in the kitchen and, without saying a word, embraced me. I said, “Where is she?” She
motioned to the front room and I walked into the unknown. She was standing in the center of the room, facing me, as I wrapped
my arms around her. She seemed very nervous and unsure of what to do or say. Not the welcome I had expected, but it had been
a long time and we had only been married for three days when I left three years ago. I felt awkward, and the scene felt awkward,
because we seemed like two strangers. I didn’t linger too long because I had to go next door and see my mother.
When I returned about fifteen minutes later, there was an indescribable tension in the air. Conversation was stilted and tense.
There were few pleasantries. She was as beautiful as I remembered, but restrained in a way I had never known. As the evening
wore on, I thought that perhaps I had changed in a way that I could not detect. The air of restraint seemed to disappear when my
brother and his wife came in to welcome me home. We went out and had a few drinks, which helped as only drinks can. That night
and the nights that followed, in the moments of the inevitable intimacies, there was no response to my advances and actions, just
passive acquiescence. When we were in a room together, there was no conversation except a yes or no to my question. But, if a third
person came into the room, she was pleasant, smiling, and vivacious for as long as they were present. When they left the room, it
was back to silent tension. I thought the entire problem was with me. The whole world could be wrong, but my beautiful Rosemary
would always be right. I loved and adored her not only for what she was herself, but also for what she had helped me make of myself
before I went into the military. I would return to Camp Atterbury twice a week for physicals and good food and the ever present
cold milk. This continued for two months, and I was finally discharged in July of 1946.
I immediately applied for reinstatement with my pre-war employer, the Indianapolis Power & Light Company. I was told I could
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have my old job back, at the same hourly rate as before. When I checked with the other men in the department that had stayed
home during the war, I learned that they had received incremental pay increases. I thought I should also receive the benefit of the
pay increases, but for some reason the company would not give me the consideration. I was well thought of by the employees and
management. The president of the company even had me come out to his home on the pretence of checking a light switch. I had
wired his home when it was built, and he tried to talk me into staying with the company. It must have been a company policy that
they could not show partiality to one employee over another. We could not reach an agreement that I could morally accept, so I
went back to wiring houses on a temporary basis. In the interval of these events, my wife maintained her cold attitude toward me.
One afternoon while setting at the kitchen table, I asked Mom what was wrong. She did not give me an answer but said, “Go out
and meet someone else.” I immediately replied that I did not want to. She said, “You are going to have to,” and burst into tears.
Three weeks after my wife’s last allotment check came in, she moved out, leaving her parents and myself in an awkward position.
I consulted a family friend, who was also a lawyer, for advice. After I related these events, he flatly and forcefully said, “She is
enamored with another man.” Mom said it was embarrassing to her and her husband to live in the same house with me, considering
her daughter was gone, and would I please get a sleeping room until they could find a place to move. They would move out as soon
as possible.
It was so hard to accept. I did not understand and I do not think I ever had such a desolate feeling, but I could understand their
embarrassment. So I rented a sleeping room for their convenience. This situation was a far, far cry from what I had expected. In a
few weeks, as promised, my in-laws found a place and moved out, and I moved back into my house. I decided I was going to have
a home even if I had to do so by myself. I bought a baby grand piano, an attractive artificial electric fireplace, and made myself as
comfortable as possible. To keep myself occupied and not cry in my beer, I worked seven days a week, including holidays.
One day I had an unexpected visitor. It was a girl who had been at our wedding and worked in the same office as my wife. She
wanted me to know that my problems with Rosemary were not caused by any changes in me, but the fly in the ointment was the
SOB she worked for who had lots of money, big cars, and had taken advantage of my absence in order to seduce my wife. She may
have had a personal axe to grind because she told me she was the focus of his attention until my absence made my wife available.
He had dumped one woman for a fresh one. That explained a lot to me and I am sure if I had known what the situation was when I
first arrived home, then I would have blown him away in his office in front of my wife. I thanked this girl very much for helping me
understand the situation and, now that I knew who the culprit was, I found out that he lived in a fancy apartment and went to pay
him a call one night. I can’t remember the exact configuration of the building, but as I was ascending the stairway to his entrance
door, I glanced to my right. There was a window into the kitchen and I paused for a moment. As I hesitated there, my beautiful
wife moved into view, wearing a soft blue dress and a very sad look upon her face. She paused and stared into space. I hesitated for
a moment. She looked so sad that I had a pang of sorrow for her. At the time, I had my hand in my pocket on a gun. I hesitated
and the feeling did not leave, so I slowly turned, descended the stairs, and left the building. I guess I still loved her so much I could
not deliberately hurt her. I am thankful that I did not take the revenge I had come to exact. It would have changed the course of
my life forever. Emotionally, I think that was the low point of my life. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and a deep valley to climb out
of. My heart ached, but my mind told me there was nothing to be gained by concentrating on the past. I began forcing myself into
situations where I would be with and meet new people.
Chapter 16 – New Beginnings
I had a nephew eight years my junior who I was very fond of, or, to be more explicit, that I loved. He had seen combat aboard a
destroyer in the South Pacific and was now discharged, but had no place to live with the pretty little bride I had introduced him
to. Since I was only living in three of the six rooms that I occupied, I let them move in to the top three rooms until they could do
better. The duplex I purchased in 1940 was now housing four families, if you consider me a family.
When I was discharged from the Army, because of price control, it was almost impossible to buy an automobile without a trade.
If you had a trade, they would offer you a very low allowance, practically nothing, and get around the purpose of the law. By good
fortune and a kind heart, plus sympathy for a war veteran, I met a couple that had a nice Chrysler for sale and they sold it to me at a
very reasonable price. My brother, who was buying all of his trucks from Johnson Chevrolet, ordered a new car for me. I mentioned
this to a man who owned a large automobile repair business. He repaired a minor problem on my Chrysler and said, “When your
new car comes in, let me sell the Chrysler for you and we will split the profit over what you paid for the car.” That seemed all right
to me and, when my new car came in, we made the transaction, resulting in a substantial profit. In discussing the details of the
transaction he said, “Keep your eyes open. If you can pick up a car at a reasonable price, we will do this again.”
I was now doing electrical work and looking for cars on the side. We made several transactions and each one produced a
substantial profit. One day, while discussing this over lunch with a fellow electrician, I showed him how much I was making
on the side and realized I could make more money buying and selling cars full time than in my spare time. I discussed this with
the gentleman that owned the garage. We seemed to have a meeting of minds and decided to form a partnership where I would
handle the finances and paperwork, and he would concentrate on sales and repairs since he had all of the equipment for a full
service department. We proceeded to put plans into action, and soon had a flourishing business consisting of a large sales lot, a
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service repair shop with two mechanics, and a general sales manager. We had an excellent corner location at a busy intersection.
I had thrown myself full time into this project and we were doing far better than I had anticipated. About six weeks after we had
started this enterprise, our shop foreman and the sales manager came to me and said, “This man (meaning my partner) is stealing
from you.” They proceeded to explain the accusations. I immediately recognized what they were talking about, but we were legal
partners and I had to have irrefutable proof so, even though I agreed with what they were saying, I had to go along with him until I
had that proof in my hands. It took a few weeks until I set a trap for him. I consulted the bank we did business with, and arranged
for my attorney to have a summons served on him at our office on a particular morning. Then I told the shop foreman and the
general manger to have a reason why they could not open up the following morning. That way my partner would be there when the
summons was served.
When all four of us showed up the following morning, and the attorney was alerted to be at the office when the summons was
served, my partner seemed mystified. There was not much conversation until the telephone rang about 9:15 a.m. and my partner
answered. His face turned pale and he said, “What? What?” Looking up at me he said, “My wife said there is a summons at the
house for me.” I knew immediately that somebody had screwed up and took the telephone out of his hand. Speaking with his wife
I said, “I was trying to keep you out of this, but you are in it now. We will be there in half an hour. Just sit tight and we will see you.
I immediately called my attorney and told him to get out to their residence. My partner stood up and said he was going across the
street to get some cigarettes. I told my shop foreman to go with him to make sure he came back. We climbed into one of my cars and
headed for his home. During the ride nobody said a word. Upon arriving, my attorney was already there. I immediately faced my
partner with the charges, which he denied. First I confronted him with a customer who had paid for a new motor to be installed.
He denied it. I produced a cancelled check he had cashed and about four other such transactions. One included a car that had
disappeared from the lot. He had some cock-and-bull story about it being in his brother’s shop in Muncie. After I had proven him
a liar on every count, he jumped up, slapping his pockets and headed for the bedroom. He said I had ruined his marriage and life
and disappeared into the bedroom. My attorney jumped up and said, “Let’s get out of here, he is going to kill himself.” I stood up,
pointed my finger at him, and shouted, “Sit down!” He was so shook up that he didn’t sit - he fell down back onto the sofa. I knew
my partner carried a gun, so, positioning myself where I had a clear view of the bedroom, I said, “If he wants to kill himself that’s
alright with me, but he is not going to hurt anybody else.” I kept my gun trained on the bedroom door.
After a few minutes he calmed down and came back into the room saying, “How do you want to settle this?” I said, “You sign
out of our partnership and release any claim to any part of the business and we will call it even.” He asked to come down and get
his hand tools. I replied, “No, I will have the shop foreman bring them to you. I never want to see you again on the premises.” He
agreed. My attorney was shaking so hard he could barely write. It was consummated and the partnership was dissolved. Later in
the day my shop foreman and the general manager came to me and said, “Mr. Bradley, we know this leaves you in a bind, but we
know that you are honest and we will stick with you until you recover from these losses.” So began a new phase of my business life.
Before I proceed I want to backtrack and relate an incident that had an influence on my current and future attitude toward
business and people. Earlier, due to my inexperience in values and the automobile business in general, I had bought a 1941 model
car that, unknown to me, had been a taxi cab with many miles concealed by turning back the odometer and hiding some well- worn
points on the vehicle. When I got it onto the lot my mechanics pointed out these flaws, but by then I was stuck with my mistake. So
we rolled it into the line of cars for sale. Not too long after that, my ex-partner brought a young man to my desk who was ready to
buy the vehicle. My ex-partner explained the details of the sale and then left the office, leaving me to complete the transaction. As
the young man sat across from me at my desk, I began filling out the usual application for financing. As I wrote, I became perturbed
with what I was seeing. At a certain point, I laid down my pen and, looking him straight in the eye, I asked, “Do you know what
you are doing?” He seemed startled but looked back questioningly. I had reviewed his financial status and said, “If you proceed with
this deal, you don’t have enough income to keep up with the payments. You will lose the car you are trading in and every penny
you have paid in payments. Furthermore, the car you are looking to buy is nothing but a bucket of bolts, an ex-taxi cab.” He looked
very surprised and stood up, thanked me, and left. To cap this off, he returned about three months later and said he had received
a raise in pay. Would I sell him a car now? Innocence and trust: an example of both. I painted the ex-cab bright yellow and sold it
to the Hell Drivers to use in a demolition derby. I was still a neophyte in the automobile business with a lot to learn about values.
There were three automobile auctions in Indianapolis for dealers only and I started attending them regularly to see what other
dealers were paying for the car on the block. Like going to school making notes, examining many cars outside, noting the condition,
year, and mileage, and then following it through the sale I soon learned to determine if a bid was legitimate or run up by the
auctioneer or an associate. I must say I learned fast which cars were the most popular and also the slow movers. I was doing well
with the large deluxe cars, but they were hard to find and, somehow, I learned there was more money in the east, especially in
Pennsylvania. Therefore, more people bought deluxe cars such as the Cadillac, Packards, Buicks, etc., which meant a higher caliber
of cars available. People by nature were always trading up in glamour and prestige, which resulted in more of these cars per capita
on the market for resale. Due to these conditions, I would take two or three drivers on the train to Pittsburgh, PA, spend a few
days at the local auctions and running down ads in the paper, and come home with a higher caliber of car at a lower purchase price
than I could acquire locally. They did not sit on the lot more than a week.
One deal I found particularly amusing was a beautiful 1941 Cadillac that did not have a blemish on it and had very low mileage.
I bought for $1,400. I positioned it in the center of my lot, priced at $1,700. The first afternoon, an engineer from the Indianapolis
Power and Light company came in and tried to knock the price down, but I wouldn’t budge. I thought, if I am getting that kind of
action this soon it’s priced too low. So, I raised the price to $1,900. The next evening the same party came in to buy it for $1,700, but
left as exasperated as before. Again my mind gyrated and I raised the price to $2,100. The same gentleman came in the following
afternoon and we went through the same battle of wits. The following day he came in and laid his checkbook on my desk and asked,
“How much is that damned car today?” “Twenty-five hundred,” I replied. He wrote out a check, almost frothing at the mouth. By
this time it was really funny to me, but at that point I also knew I was the only game in town and cashed in on it. I was working
partly on borrowed cash, paying 25 percent interest, which I knew was high. I figured I could turn the money over once or twice to
pay the interest and the rest of the year my worries were less. I do not know why, but by this time I was attracting attention to my
operation. I received a telephone call from the general manager of a finance company inviting me to have lunch with himself and
his assistant. I graciously accepted and he turned out to be a remarkably friendly and intelligent person. During lunch they asked
me several incisive questions about my way of thinking and values.
When we returned to my office, the general manager said to me in all sincerity, “Ralph, you need a finance company and here is
what we can do for you.” Then he enumerated the many benefits of me doing business with them. I could immediately see no reason
for paying 25 percent interest. I would have at my disposal all of the ready cash I would need to triple my inventory and attain
a standing in the financial world of business I had not even contemplated. Without hesitating, I took advantage of his generous
offer. My position and prestige in the business world escalated rapidly and additional opportunities came my way. In addition to
maintaining an ironclad integrity in our business dealings, the manager and I became close personal friends for life.
Chapter 17 – The Unnamed Chapter
M y business was flourishing and I just seemed to be drawn into the social whirl of society. I had become a member of the
Indianapolis Athletic Club and a frequent guest at the Columbia Club. Interesting business opportunities were made
available to me. One was an opportunity to participate, for a certain sum of money, in an oil-drilling exploration operation. After
studying the tax advantages, as well as the risks, I bought into the deal. The national average of successful completions was nine
dry holes for every producer. I accepted the odds and said full steam ahead. The almost obscene aspect of this project was that we
struck oil on the first hole we drilled. It was producing from two separate formations at different levels. After the first hole was
drilled and completed, I became quite fascinated with what I had become involved in. I left control of my business in the hands of
my general manager, and went to the drill site where the second hole was in progress. The geologist who controlled the operation
was very cooperative and explained the whys and wherefores of the operation. He gave me a thumbnail explanation of the geology
involved and explained how I could learn more.
To put the whole endeavor in proper perspective, we struck oil on the first four holes we drilled. By this time I was carrying
home armloads of books from the main library on geology and studying until one o’clock in the morning, fascinated by everything
I was learning. About this time in history, a good friend of mine I had met while working at Presto Lite, a subsidiary of Union
Carbide, stopped in my office one afternoon. We were tremendously exhilarated at seeing each other again. He had been in the
National Guard when we were hunting and fishing buddies and had a strong bond of mutual respect and affection. The last time I
had seen him was at Camp Crowder, when we were both on our way overseas. After our initial emotional greetings were pacified,
he explained that he was a heating engineer working for a local supply company. He was quite enthused with what he was doing
and was familiar with my electrical background. He began suggesting that we set up a commercial heating company. He explained
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that there were numerous customers coming into the downtown distribution stores wanting to buy heating equipment, but the
store policy was wholesale only. He explained how, if I established myself as a retailer, he could channel the buyers through my
company. He would handle the installation, and I could handle the paperwork, and we would split the profits. My mind was always
open to a business proposition and, after thinking it over, I gave it a go. It worked just as he said it would and the business kept
increasing. I took a short course on heat loss at Purdue University and a follow-through at Indiana University Extension. Soon I
had a comprehensive and competent knowledge of every phase of the residential heating business, much more so than my partner
appreciated.
I had come to the attention of a manufacturer representative who was presenting items that might fit into my operation. In the
same interval of time my partner had talked me into leasing a substantial space at the annual Indianapolis Home Show to display
the home-use items I had for sale. The manufacturer’s rep had arranged for me to buy a truckload of Lennox furnaces at a cost
reduction of 25 percent from that of the local distributor, plus some other very attractive products I displayed at the Home Show.
For some reason I never understood, my partner took offense at my making decisions that proved to be very beneficial to our
operation without consulting him, and he never showed up at the Home Show to help, apparently thinking I would fall on my face.
But that was not what happened. With the assistance of one of my salesmen, we managed the show quite effectively and, when it
had completed its two-week run, I had sold several furnace installations, plus some other interesting equipment I had on display.
It was a tiring ordeal but very profitable. I never heard from my heating partner again. I meticulously brought the books up to the
date of the Home Show and mailed him a check, telling him the books were available to him at his convenience. He cashed the
check but I never heard from him again. However, by that time I was very well-established in the heating business and pursued it
intently. Somewhere in this period of time a young man came into my office and wanted to take me to lunch to discuss a business
proposition. He was full of ambition, but short on experience and cash. I remembered when I was in that position, so we talked.
He wanted to get into the automobile business and had worked as a salesman for a very good friend of mine, so I listened. He came
back every day for a week and I began to take him seriously.
I was not particularly happy with the automobile business because of the degrading reputation of the used car dealers. I had
enough other business to occupy my time. So I relented, convinced that he was serious, and turned the car business over to him, but
he did not have the required finances for such an operation. So, we set up a side partnership deal that he operated but I financed.
That turned out to be a very successful relationship. We had become social friends as well and this did not cause any conflict with
our business partnership, so we found a second lot that had good potential. We bought it as part of our partnership assets. This
proved to be quite successful, as he was becoming more proficient with time. Sometimes we would go a year without balancing the
books, but we never had a misunderstanding we could not amicably resolve. We remained the best of friends until his untimely
death.
Another profitable venture I entered into was with a gentleman who had an exclusive franchise on an appliance I thought had
very good potential. It was the Amana upright freezer. This was the first of its kind, and had many advantages over the old chest-
type freezers. It had shelves and each shelf had a freeze coil attached to it, resulting in a beneficial fast freeze that other freezers
did not have. With an active mind, I helped set up the first food freezer program in the city. I entered into a deal with Birds-Eye
frozen foods and other high quality frozen food products, including the highest quality meat purveyor in the city, to provide
me with wholesale prices for their products. I could then sell these to my customers at my price when they purchased one of my
freezers. It was a very interesting and appealing proposition to offer my prospects with a guarantee that the quality of all foods
would first class. And it was; I never had the first complaint. To arrive at what kind of a commission to pay my salesmen, I turned
all other business dealings to my managers and salesmen and devoted myself fulltime to the project. I averaged selling one freezer
every night for a month. My customers were so pleased that, with every sale, I received a referral to a new prospect. It was a very
profitable operation.
In the course of events I had joined the Indianapolis Athletic Club, which was somewhat of a center for business meetings
and social activities. Through a special friend I had met on a pheasant hunting trip in South Dakota, who was superintendent
of construction for a company building upper middle class homes in prestigious areas of the city, I had acquired priority status
for installing furnaces in all of their new homes, without even asking. It was interesting because I was not asked to submit a bid.
Rather, I was given the address with the understanding that I would install quality equipment at a reasonable price. I appreciated
this kind of confidence and never abused my position. He was a real man, and the name that I will assign to him is Jesse. We fished,
hunted, and played golf together establishing a real man-to-man relationship.
My heating business was thriving, and installations were usually completed by late December with service calls until spring.
I would usually go to Florida the last week in February and return after the first week in March. I was driving into spring going
down and didn’t have long to wait for spring when I returned. In 1949 all that changed. John L. Lewis, President of the Mine
Workers Union, called a strike, shutting down all coal mines. The public began converting to oil and by February business hadn’t
even slowed. I cancelled the first week of my vacation by promising myself I would rent or lease a cottage on water for the entire
season with the money I would have spent on the first week of the canceled vacation. Business never slowed down, canceling out
the second week. Again, I promised myself that I would take the money I would have spent on the second week and buy myself a
nice speed boat. These things came to pass and I leased a charming little cottage. I extended leases on a five-year basis for more than
twenty-eight years. It became my hide-out from stress, and a home that I learned to love. It was only twenty minutes from the lake
where I rented a covered stall for the beautiful custom-made boat I bought the following year. The cottage was an ideal location for
studying anything needing concentration. Nobody came to my front door except by boat. After the first three years, I always had
a five-year lease, paying my rent annually and adding a little more money each year to my check for cost of living consideration. I
had taken on other appliances and had two retail stores, thirteen salesmen on the road, two offices, two warehouses, and a sheet
metal shop. I also had interest in two car sales lots with a good man in charge who later bought me out and became the sole owner.
Our social friendship continued until he died many years later and his daughter, whom I had known from the day of her birth,
asked me to be a pallbearer. We are still friends to this date. Business was humming along very well and my foreman in the heating
department, knowing that I had an interest in oil and had been studying geology, wanted me to talk to a friend of his about a
mining venture down in Mexico. I told him I knew nothing about mining and it would just be a waste of time. He went through
this three or four times. One day, he and I had been on a final inspection trip of a fairly large installation south of the city and, as
we were returning in the afternoon, he asked me if I had any appointments that afternoon, to which I replied no. Then he asked if
there was anything I needed to do when I got into the office, to which I replied, “Not that I know of.” He said “Good, we are going
right past my friend’s house, so let’s stop and talk to him.” I thought for a moment and then decided to give in and get it over with,
so we stopped. His friend became quite excited and began dragging out what appeared to be an army foot locker full of shiny rocks
and documents written, for the most part, in Spanish, regarding what to me was an incoherent story. After about twenty minutes
I stopped him and said, “I can see that you have a story to tell but I do not have the time or inclination to hear it now. If you would
like, I will come back on Sunday and spend the day with you and listen.”
Ralph Bradley at Arches National
Monument adjacent to the
Colorado National Monument
1952(?)
Chapter 18 – Separating Fact from Fiction
I will give this man the name of Mr. Jarvis for reference. He was highly pleased and I kept my word. It appeared he had made
contact with a very unusual type of character who had spend forty years of his life living with Yaque Indians in the province
of Sonora, Mexico. Through his services to them in terms of medicines and advisory capacities for all practical purposes, he had
become their chief honcho in all things. The area where the main tribe lived was richly mineralized, and he himself owned a gold
mine that had been mined by the Moors prior to his acquiring it. For reference I will assign him the name of Mr. Lane. Mr. Jarvis
had financed a safari, with Mr. Lane as guide and interpreter, to the Indian village and brought back all of the pretty rocks they
gathered, along with the documents indicating that Mr. Lane did have what appeared to be a legitimate claim to a certain portion
of the land, but no contract or agreement in writing relative to this property between Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Lane, who now lived in
Los Angeles, CA. After spending several hours with Mr. Jarvis, I went home to digest all I had heard, as well as what I had not
seen or heard. After sleeping on it a day or two, I was intrigued but still not quite sure of what I had seen or heard. It appeared to
me that Mr. Jarvis had merely financed a non-productive safari into Mexico, but had no legal status as an authority to make any
kind of a deal in Mexico. In fact, he rambled a lot but never offered me any kind of a deal to consider. The story of Mr. Lane and the
Indians had sparked an appeal to my adventurous nature. As I continued to turn the story over in my mind, I became convinced
that, if there is any credence to what I had seen and heard and, if I chose to pursue it further, the first thing I needed to do was go
to Los Angeles for a meeting with Mr. Lane. After exchanging letters with Mr. Lane, in which he was receptive to receiving me,
I boarded an airplane and met Mr. Lane in his home. He was ninety-two years old when I met him and had excellent control of
memory regarding facts, dates and places. In every room in his home were maps, pictures, ore samples, and specimens stacked up
three feet high, all from Mexico. All were evidence of an active and interesting life. I spent the better part of two days with him
going over documents written in Spanish, but having current dates. If I decided to pursue this further, I would have to go to Mexico
City where the original records would be on file.
The closest town to the Indian Village was the small town of Alamos Sonora. Mr. Lane gave me a letter of introduction to the
only white man living in Alamos, Mr. Gray, and a second letter addressed to the chief of the Indian village, asking him to give
me any information I requested and to provide any help I might need. I returned to Indianapolis with conflicting thoughts, but it
appeared there was authenticity in what I thought I had learned. I was attracted by the unknown and adventure of what might lie
ahead. I contacted Mr. Jarvis and told him that, unless he had some kind of a contract in writing between himself and Mr. Lane, he
had nothing to sell. However, I told him if I decided to pursue the matter and anything of monetary value resulted for it, I would
not forget his introduction and reward him for it. He seemed satisfied and pleased with the idea I might give it a closer look.
I must have told Jesse what I was contemplating because he told his boss it might be a good idea to keep an eye on me. If I followed
through on this project there might be a substantial construction contract building a mill (a factory) to process the ore that the
mine produced. His boss agreed with Jesse and said that if I pursued it, which would require a trip to Mexico City, Jesse could
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go with me at the company’s expense. A wealthy gentleman I will call Harry Henry had built a mansion that, when completed,
looked like a beautiful resort on Miami Beach. I had installed the air conditioning, ductwork, and my brother’s company had done
all of the electrical work. Through some kind of a grapevine, he learned of this project and it so happened that during WWII he
had been buying manganese in Mexico and bringing it into the U.S., engaging a Mexican engineer to represent him in Mexico.
Without saying anything to me, he called this engineer in Mexico City and asked if he would be available to work if I needed him.
He received an affirmative reply and thought that he could provide assistance in several ways if I decided to do business in Mexico.
The chips seemed to be falling into place, so I decided that I would proceed. It was getting more interesting with each step.
The engineer was of Chinese descent and his name was Domingo Lim. He had been educated at the Saint Thomas University in
Manilla, and had done post-graduate work at the Colorado School of Mines. He operated a tungston mill in Nogales, Mexico,
for the U.S. government during WWII, and did consulting work for Harry Henry. His office was in Mexico City and he had a
Mexican general by the name of General Xavier Ordonez as a partner. It was now full steam ahead. With passports and plane
reservations made, Harry Henry called Domingo, who said he would meet the plane at the Mexico City Airport.
The flight to Mexico City was uneventful until I arrived at the customs agent counter in the airport. Domingo had alerted the
agent to expect me and was standing in view outside of the customs agent’s window. The agent opened my suitcase and on top of my
clothes was a .32-caliber handgun. The agent seemed startled. He looked up at me and asked, “Are you on a diplomatic mission?”
I replied no, and he then asked, “Do you have a permit to bring a weapon into Mexico?” Again, I replied no. He looked to the right
and then to the left, put the pistol under my clothes, snapped the luggage closed, plastered a large star on the center, and pushed
it on down to Domingo who stepped inside, grasped the luggage, and stepped back outside, with Jesse following close behind me.
Then began a series of events that were both strange and interesting. Domingo got us checked into a hotel in downtown Mexico
City he had reserved and we began a series of chats, just getting acquainted. We learned of an interesting custom observed in
Mexico, which was that you do not rush into business discussions without a period of socializing first.
The first night, Domingo took us to a restaurant that was impeccably decorated in red-gold and black with two waiters, dressed
in red uniforms and wearing white gloves, at each table. They never made eye contact with you but anticipated your every desire.
If you put a cigarette to your lips, there was a white-gloved hand with a Ronson lighter lit and in your face. The food was excellent
and the evening left little to be desired. The second evening was one of the most unusual evenings I have ever experienced. Domingo
took us to a place called The Waikiki Club. It was a very large ballroom, with large booths around the outer walls, and a large dance
floor surrounded by tables and chairs, separated from the booths by an eight-foot circle stretching from the entrance to a room at
the rear of the bandstand. There were two bandstands, one elevated over the other. One bandstand was for Latin music, the other
for modern American music. In a large area just inside the entrance were gathered what appeared to be at least one hundred lovely
young ladies of every color and size, all very attractive. They ranged in age from eighteen to twenty-five years old, all attractively
dressed. The ladies were all readily available. As the evening wore on, they would stroll down the aisle, available for a dance or
companionship. Many of them looked like our little bobby soxers back home. They would stroll by, looking you in the eye for a
signal but never saying a word. After about twenty minutes, Jesse broke down and asked a very attractive lady to dance. At the end
of the dance he was obligated to invite her to sit and have a drink. She spoke English well and was very pleasant company. In this
interval, there was a cute little girl, with all the right parts in the right places, who had strolled by three times, looking me over. The
fourth time she stopped, faced me with her hands on her hips, and asked in a rather stern tone of voice, “Why you NO dance?” I
was so amused that I invited her to join us in the booth. We had a few drinks and it was quite obvious that I could have her for the
duration of the evening. Since I had taken up her time, I paid her the same amount as I would have for the rest of the night. She
left all smiles thinking who knows what. I was a stranger in a strange land, I later read in a travel brochure that the club had 1,300
girls as hostesses on duty, and I can believe it because there were 125 to 200 per night.
The following evening Domingo took us to another place, such as I had never seen before or since, called the Rio Rosa, another
nightclub. When we stepped inside the door, we were immediately greeted by (without a doubt) one of the most beautiful, vivacious,
Spanish girls I have ever seen. She was about nineteen and dressed in a gorgeous gold and black evening gown She had a smile that
would melt the heart of the devil himself. In the background were about a dozen or more equally beautiful girls. The ballroom was
abundantly decorated in gold, brown, and black, and had a lighted rim about five inches above the dance floor. There was an aura of
glamour about it only seen in dreams. As she approached us, I told Domingo to tell her we were there to discuss business first and
would talk to the girls later. I was really stalling for time. She pleasantly accommodated us, seating us in a booth on the outer ring
of the aisle. She might as well have told the sun not to shine or the moon not to rise because, in about five minutes, two girls were
sitting in an adjoining booth. Another five minutes and three girls were sitting in the booth on the other side of us. Another five
minutes and four girls were sitting at the table beside our booth. The nearest girl at the table put a cigarette in her lips and leaned
over toward me with a devilish gleam in her eye, gesturing for me to light it. How could any man with a drop of blood in his veins
ignore that? They were all laughing and chit-chatting in Spanish and pidgin English. I can honestly say I was so unnerved, that I
could not remember how that evening ended. But I would sure like to do it again.
The following day I was approached by General Xaviar Ordonez and invited to have lunch with him. Of course I graciously
accepted. He took me to a real Spanish restaurant, so original in hand-carving that I find it difficult to describe. There was a
balcony on all sides with strolling musicians playing stringed instruments and singing softly. They filled the spacious interior with
pleasant melodies. The general asked if he could order for me and, of course, I said please do. I have never enjoyed such a lavish
lunch as that day. It began with soups rolled up beside our table, a choice of about eight, followed by salads. The main entrée was
Cabrillo-braised baby goat shanks, sauces, and vegetables. It was a three-hour affair that I could never forget. There is only one
other restaurant, in Tucson, Arizona, that served that dish. On Tuesdays, if I was within twenty-five miles of that restaurant, I
would make the trip.
At the conclusion of that day, I thought enough time had elapsed to discuss business. I knew that without some outside help, I
would have a difficult time gaining access to government records. I revealed my need to the general and he took me to a government
building. Within fifteen minutes I had the original documents in my hands as described by Mr. Lane, with all assessment work and
other requirements current. I expressed my gratitude to the general, for without his help I could not have found the documents.
Everything so far had proven factual, so I negotiated a deal with Domingo to go with us to the mine since, in addition to his
technical knowledge, he could speak English and Spanish fluently. Our destination was an airstrip at Navojoa on the west coast of
Mexico. When we boarded the plane, I sensed something unusual because they handed each of us a blanket. It did not take long
to find the answer. The entrance door to the plane could not be closed with the usual latch and levers. It was partially closed and
held in place with wire. The plane was a surplus DC3 with no oxygen and high mountains to fly over. It was not long before I felt
the results of these deficiencies. I would be talking and then suddenly be gasping for air as the plane climbed higher. I quit talking,
dozed off, and awoke gasping for air. It was quite an experience, but as we lost altitude after crossing the crest of the mountains,
we could breathe normally again. We were flying over and following the coastline. I could see humongous sharks in schools below.
I noticed one in particular. Its dorsal fin split the crest of a large wave and it seemed to be racing the plane. I can still see them in
my mind’s eye.
We landed at Navojoa, about 300 miles south of the border town of Nogalese, Arizona. After a bit of wrangling, Domingo
74 | Ralph Bradley
came up with an old Ford with no top and a driver to take us to Alamos, about 100 miles inland. I don’t know how he found the
way because part of the road would be in a creek bed, or follow a foot path or some other sign of travel I could not define. But we
made it and would have been totally defeated if it had not been for Domingo. We finally reached Alamos, were cordially greeted by
Mr. Gray, and invited to stay at his hacienda. It was a delight compared to what we were expecting. After giving him our letter of
introduction from Mr. Lane, and the letter that Mr. Lane wanted him to read to the Indian chief, we were free to roam the town.
It was painted all-white with cobblestone streets. It was ornately laid out and looked like something out of a fairy tale. Moorish
and Spanish architecture and clean as a pin. Like something out of a dream. Fortunately for us it was a Saturday and we were lucky
enough to observe a ritual that is performed in many small Spanish towns.
We were introduced to the Mayor, who is referred to by all of the locals as El Presidente, and shared his balcony. Everyone
turned out dressed in finery, the adults taking seats around the center town plaza. The boys circled the plaza in one direction and
the girls circled in the opposite direction with some obvious flirtations taking place. This went on for about two hours and then
everybody quietly left the plaza, all very interesting. We spent a comfortable night at the hacienda, which also included our meals.
Mr. Gray had sent a message to the Indian village that he had a letter from Mr. Lane for the chief.
The following morning, the chief showed up in an old truck. He had brought his son with him. After Mr. Gray read him the
letter from Mr. Lane, the chief was obviously pleased and treated us like he would have treated Mr. Lane himself. When we arrived
at the village, it seemed like all of the villagers were wearing the same broad smile of welcome. Due to his long association with Mr.
Lane, the chief could understand and make himself understood in English. He knew where we wanted to go and how to get there.
He immediately had five horses saddled. Jesse had developed a serious problem with an allergy and his neck and face were covered
with a deep red rash. Better judgment told him to wait at the hacienda. Mr. Gray was treating him with some kind of poultice
he made and a special powder that he had also acquired at the only pharmacy in Alamos. As soon as the animals were saddled,
the chief led the way and we headed across a desert-like surface with sage and tufts of vegetation, but mostly sand. About twenty
minutes into our journey, I saw a weird and unusual sight. About two feet off the trail I saw the largest tarantula I had ever seen. It
looked to be five inches in diameter and, when disturbed by a horses hoof, it didn’t run as would be expected, but instead jumped
a distance of fourteen to twenty inches backward in one jump. I had seen these critters before, but never that large or any that
jumped. Of course this was in the desert country of Senora, Mexico, where scorpions and rattlesnakes are quite common. After
riding another twenty minutes or so, we arrived at the mine site on the side of a jagged hill. The entrance was completely caved-in,
making it look impossible to enter. We sat there on our horses a couple of minutes when the chief directed the two Indians who
had accompanied us to dig an entrance into the mine with their knives. After about half an hour, they had a hole about thirteen
inches wide. I sat, staring at that hole and, of all the holes in the world, that hole at that moment was the last one I wanted to enter.
My mind was in a whirl, thinking of all the creepy crawlies that lived there. I began to evaluate. I had made two airplane trips
from my office in Los Angeles and back, flown to Mexico City and then to Navajoa, rode in a rattle trap Ford to Alamos, a bumpy
dusty truck to the village, and horses to reach this spot to examine what was inside that hole. I had to go in. I wormed my way
through that hole, followed by Domingo. About twenty feet inside, the floor of the tunnel we were crawling on had caved-in to the
next lower level, leaving a ledge about fourteen inches wide to crawl on. Suddenly, there was a great noise and movement as if the
Devil himself was beating me with a broom. It seemed that the entire Mexican population of bats had chosen that mine as their
prime place to roost and they were all trying to exit over our heads at the same time. To compound the problem, the mine had been
operated by the Moors, who are short in stature. So much so that at no place in the tunnels could we stand erect.
We gathered samples from various locations in the mine and headed out for daylight, using extreme care in crawling on the ledge
by the caved-in sites. I must say it felt exhilarating to stand in the sunlight and breathe fresh air again. We spent quite a bit of time
examining our samples through what is known as a jewelers loop (magnifying device). We could detect gold dust in the samples,
but there was no water source to separate the gold from the host rock. About two miles from where we were standing was the
remnant of a dam the Moors had built to impound water in the rainy season. By no stretch of the imagination would it hold enough
water for a modern mining operation, so dejectedly we returned to Alamos. We took the Indians into a Cantina to buy them some
beer. About eight feet down the bar a broad-shouldered, handsome Mexican was talking in a loud voice to the bartender, obviously
meant for our ears. Domingo turned to me and said, “That fellow,” nodding toward the Mexican, “says he has some tungsten but
he is broke and would give somebody with money a blankety-blank good deal.” Domingo had barely got the words out when this
fellow moved down the bar into our midst. Domingo asked him if he had any samples. He replied, “you’re blankety-blank right
I do.” Domingo then asked him “Do you have a black light?” He replied, “you’re blankety-blank right I do, you wait right here.”
He took off on the run. In about ten minutes he returned with some rocks in a bag and a black florescent lamp. When scheelite
tungsten is exposed to black light, it glows like diamonds. Domingo took one look and said it was good scheelite tungsten ore.
“How much of it do you have?” “Seven large veins”, he replied. Domingo pulled me aside and said we should take a look at it. After
more discussion, we agreed to meet in the morning and discuss it further.
The tungsten property was about fifty miles from Alamos in mountainous country. There was an Indian village where we
could get horses for the last leg of the trip. We made a deal with the driver of the old Ford that had brought us in from Navajoa to
Alamos to take us to the Indian village. I filled a couple of one-gallon canteens with water at the hacienda and bought a few food
supplies at the cantina. Jesse was still uncomfortable due to his allergy so Domingo, the Mexican, and myself took off on another
safari without him at about two o’clock, because the scheelite veins were at the surface and looked just like plain rock in daylight.
The village we were approaching was located at the base of a mountainous region and, as in the previous village, we were greeted
with friendship and smiles. The local economy was near disaster. The sun had burned up their corn and the beetles had devoured
their beans. You could see the hope in their eyes, that you would generate work and provide jobs. After welcoming chatter in the
chief ’s hut, we selected horses for a ten mile ride to the mineralized zone. The trail was entirely on a sharp incline towards a higher
elevation. There were high mountain elevations that we had to pass on the circular trail. The higher we climbed the narrower the
trail became. As we approached the highest point in the trail, it became so narrow it seemed the horses were leaning in toward the
high side of the trail. Then came the point in the trail that, in my wildest dreams, I had never imagined. The trail disappeared for
a stretch of eighteen inches, with a sheer drop off at least five hundred feet below. The horse in front of me hesitated a moment,
gathering its leg muscles, and then jumped like a frog to the other side of the trail. My horse, without any urging from me, did the
same thing, as did the other animals. If I had not seen and done it, I would not have believed what I had done.
The trail then broadened out and began a descent that, as we rounded a bend in the trail, brought into view a beautiful wide
river we would obviously cross. At the point we crossed, it was approximately one hundred feet wide and four feet deep. We rode
our animals across and immediately began to ascend a well-worn trail up the other side. I was surprised when we rode into a quaint
hacienda on a bench about seventy-five feet above the river. We were greeted with the most enthusiastic, joyous greeting I have ever
experienced. Like a long lost brother. After visiting for about an hour, we began the business that we had come for. For reference
hereafter, I will refer to the Mexican as Jamo. The hacienda was located on a plateau where we left our horse. With flashlights and
the black light, we followed Jamo about a hundred feet out of the camp to the first vein. Upon turning on the black light, a seven
foot vein of diamond like substance flashed before us. There was no denying what we were looking at. We found six more veins of
like substance twenty feet long and seven feet wide. After this examination there was no doubt that it was a substantial deposit of
76 | Ralph Bradley
tungsten. Domingo had operated a tungsten mill (factory where values are extracted from the host rock) for the U.S. Government
in Nogales, Arizona, during WWII.
When we returned to the village, we were the center of attention. I remember one Indian woman, in her crude but friendly way,
invited us to come into her home. It consisted of a domed hut built out of pompas grass and reeds, with a clean swept dirt floor. In a
gesture that almost brought tears to my eyes, as refreshment she brought a small bowl of parched corn for us to eat from her frugal
supply. As a token of appreciation, I insisted that she accept a few dollars I pressed into her hand. After returning to Alamos the
following day, Domingo and I decided that the property had enough merit to pursue. I left funds with Domingo to hire Jamo and
ten other Indians to start building a crude road from the village through the lower elevation to the river crossing.
Jesse and I had the driver of the topless Ford take us back to Navojoa. There we boarded the Airo De Mexico Airline for
Nogales, Arizona. When it made a landing at Guaymas, the tires hit so hard the plane bounced fifty feet in the air. It took three
more bounces before it came to a stop. As the captain was walking down the aisle past my seat, I touched him on the arm and as he
glanced at me, I asked him if that was the normal landing for Guaymas, He smiled and said no; he was letting his co-pilot practice.
Domingo returned to Mexico City to get his survey equipment and additional supplies. At Nogales, I transferred to a Frontier
Airline plane. The difference was the equivalent of stepping from skid row into the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. The plane
was beautiful, as were the hostesses in their brown and cream colored uniforms. I stayed on the plane through Tucson and on
to Phoenix. After I had left Navojoa, I had been bothered by the thought I had embarked on a program requiring a large sum of
money, and on practically my own judgment. I decided to make a double-check in Phoenix. Upon arrival there I looked up Charlie
Willis, the superintendent of mining in the state of Arizona and asked him who, in his judgment, was the most knowledgeable man
in the state on tungsten. He gave me the name of a man in Tucson who owned a mill there and did custom milling of tungsten for
miners who had small operations in the region. His name was Mr. Fernstrom. After a certain amount of discussion, he agreed to
fly down and evaluate the property, giving me his unbiased, professional opinion. Due to Mexican immigration laws, I could not
cross the boarder into Mexico for ninety days and would have to wait for his return to Tucson.
He proceeded and I awaited his return and professional report. He returned in about two weeks and reported yes, it was a
good deposit of tungsten, but in his opinion there was a major problem. The river was about fifty feet below the ore level, and
when the ore was mined to that level, the river would flood the operation, making it impossible to proceed. A problem I had
not contemplated. Prudence prevailed and I decided to cut my losses and chalk it up to experience. However, it did prepare me
somewhat for another venture that would present itself in the not too distant future.
Chapter 19 – Searching for Hidden Treasures
U pon our return to Indianapolis and delving into business at hand, I, as always, continued reading about current events and
subjects that aroused my curiosity. I was particularly interested in the nuclear arms race between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R.
The U.S. was scrambling desperately to discover uranium in this country. The major mining companies did not have the sufficient
number of employees to launch a major prospecting operation. The U.S. did not have any known resources and had exhausted its
supply in developing the first three atomic bombs. To find any reserve, it was agreed it would take thousands of individuals looking
for it. For once someone in Washington had a brain, and the gizmo called the Geiger counter made it possible.
Uranium is constantly emitting billions of gamma rays and a Geiger counter has a small tube in it that measures these rays. If
a Geiger counter is placed directly on the rock or substance containing uranium, a rank novice can recognize the deflection of a
needle from the center to the right. Someone in Washington came up with a program where anybody that found a commercial
body of uranium would get an immediate $10,000 finder’s fee. They would also own the mining rights and if they wanted to
mine and produce uranium, the government would loan them whatever it took to get the job done. The government would agree
to buy all that they could produce, plus a whole batch more of incentives. It worked. There were thousands of people, some full
time, some weekenders, scouring the hills and mountains, including their own front yards. I was particularly impressed with very
descriptive, lengthy articles in Life Magazine and Argosy Magazine. There were many pictures and detailed reports on individuals
who went from rags to riches and were still there operating their new found mines. It certainly did not seem to be an enterprise for
the faint-hearted, but in retrospect I never did fit in that category. So my serious consideration kicked in and I began discussing
possibilities with my brother Paul, showing him the materials I had been reading. He was a man with an adventurous spirit and
it didn’t take too much arm twisting to arouse his curiosity in a new venture. I was becoming seriously interested in joining in on
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what appeared to be an exciting adventure but, before I committed myself too deeply, I wanted to make an on-site investigation to
see if it was fact or fiction. By this time Paul owned a four passenger Navion airplane and he loved flying so much that it didn’t take
much persuasion to convince him we should fly out to Grand Junction, Colorado, where the Atomic Energy Commission had its
headquarters, before we made any further commitments in the matter.
Since he had not flown over the Rocky Mountains before, we decided to take the southern route over Albuquerque, New
Mexico, where we could cross the mountains at a lower elevation and then swing north into Colorado. About an hour after leaving
Albuquerque, where we had refueled, we lost radio contact with any station. We tried following a pipeline on the surface of the
desert but suddenly it disappeared. We took a compass reading in the general direction of Grand Junction. After flying blind for
about half an hour we began to pick up a radio signal from the Grand Junction Airport and followed it on in. About two months
earlier, Paul had managed to subscribe to a western publication call The Deserete News. I think it was published in Salt Lake City
and it also covered the search for uranium. Several companies in Grand Junction were advertising in it. He had somehow contacted
a couple of individuals through this publication and, after we checked in at the Pioneer Motel, we contacted one of these men. That
began a long, strange relationship which matured into a lifelong friendship. We made immediate contact with this businessman
who had an office and small factory in Grand Junction. We obtained basic information about who to see and where they were
located to obtain the type of information we were seeking. His help and recommendations were very productive. We spent the
rest of the day orientating ourselves with the lay of the land. Grand Junction is a unique town, strategically located on the west
side of the Continental divide, and the hub of all business activity on the Western slope (west of the continental divide). It is a
very scenic, strategic location, surrounded by fascinating mountains. It butts up against the largest flat-top mountain in the world,
on top of which are more than 350 individual lakes and gorgeous pine forests. There are cattle grazing in lush grasses taller than
a cow’s belly. On the opposite side of town is the Colorado National Monument, shaped by the forces of nature into numerous
breathtaking scenes.
A third chain of Mountains, named the Uncompagre (pronounced un-com-pag-re), stretching seventy-five miles or more in a
south-easterly direction, abundant with big game wildlife. We felt dwarfed by the unusual scenery in all directions. We saw the
most fabulous peach orchards with peaches, some of which grew to be larger than a man’s double clinched fist. They are as delicious
as they are large. There also were apples, pears, Bing Cherries on the benches of Grand Mesa Mountain, and sugar beets along the
railroads almost all the way to Salt Lake City. This was a most unusual and delightful place, plus a relatively modest drive to the
ski slopes of Vail and Aspen. I think the most delicious pies I ever tasted were those made with the Bing Cherries in a heavy cherry
syrup. The only place I ever found them was within 100 miles of Grand Junction and Salt Lake City. I was told that the warm
breezes from Arizona found their way through the canyons, creating the perfect climate for these fruit delights.
The elevation of Grand Junction was 4,000 feet, creating a fine, dry climate. We spent the balance of our first day sightseeing,
always keeping in mind our reason for being there. It did not take too long to convince ourselves that what I had been reading
was true. Every place we stopped, whether in a café or motel, anywhere there was a gathering of people, there seemed to be a buzz
buzz buzz undercurrent of conversation, and it was all about uranium. The following day we stopped at a sporting goods store
in the center of town to check on the availability of camping equipment and supplies. The owner of the store was a very sharp
businessman, both in dress and conversation. He also owned his own airplane and was a competent pilot, so he and my brother
had a very interesting subject in common. He was the source of some information that proved to be very valuable to us. Through
him we met a very knowledgeable person who was prospecting alone, but would like to team up with others, because the terrain
most appealing to prospectors was too rough and dangerous for a one man operation. For reference I will give him the name of Ike.
He had been raised on a ranch in Colorado and would be a perfect associate for what I was contemplating. We met him personally
before we left Grand Junction and worked out an agreement to our mutual satisfaction.
By this time I had convinced myself that this would be my next adventure. In conversing with the sporting goods owner, he had
told Paul of a shorter route to fly where we could cross the Continental Divide at 12,000 feet and eliminate about 1,000 air miles.
We spent two more days investigating, including a visit to the Atomic Energy Compound, and then took off for home. We followed
the new directions up steep valleys, always bearing east. We had taken off early to avoid turbulence as the sun came up, but when
we reached the crest of the divide we had to cross, we were still looking up. So we turned back in the valley we had been following
and flew in circles gaining a little more altitude with each lap. After about half an hour of circling, we made another approach and
cleared the treetops by about forty feet. Once we cleared the crest, the ground fell away very fast. In about thirty more minutes we
landed at the Denver Airport. After refueling, we were ready to take off when we noticed a very weird phenomenon.
There was a long north-south runway bordering the east side of the airport. From ground level up as far as the eye could see was
a billowing yellow cloud of impenetrable dust. We contacted the tower for an explanation and were told it was a dust storm that
should top off at 12,000 feet. We took off thinking we could fly over it, but at 12,500 feet all we could see was ugly, yellow billowing
all around. We flew by radio signal for about an hour and, as it was gritting in my teeth, I was beginning to wonder what it was
doing to the engine. We were seriously considering turning back to Denver when Paul made radio contact with another plane
about 45 minutes ahead of us. He reported that he was just breaking out of it at an altitude of 12,500 feet without oxygen. At that
point I took over the controls while Paul dozed off.
With nothing more of an extraordinary nature happening, we landed at the Indianapolis Airport about two hours later. I
took a few days to catch up with business before reaching a final decision. I decided I would take a two-year hiatus for a western
adventure. Paul had an eighteen-year-old boy who was quite rugged and an Explorer Scout, who had taken other scouts on lengthy
canoe trips in Canada. When he learned of what I was going to do, he immediately wanted to go with me. He had been in the
process of enrolling in the Colorado School of Miners and a professor he had been consulting with thought it would be a great
experience if he could spend a year with me before entering college. After giving it considerable thought, my brother said he would
pay the boy’s expenses if I would assume responsibility for his safety. I agreed to accept the responsibility if he convinced his son
that he would do what I said, when I said it, with no equivocation. He agreed to all conditions and was plainly thrilled thinking
about the adventure he was going to share. I began closing down anything that would not take care of itself for at least three
months, sold inventories, machinery, and trucks with the intention of dedicating two years win, lose, or draw. My brother could
not go because of his business and family, but with these arrangements, he could participate. I bought a four-wheel drive Jeep
station wagon with a power winch and warn hubs, plus a Geiger counter from Nuclear Measurements Corp., and decided the rest
of the equipment we would need could be bought in Grand Junction. After a few anxious goodbyes, we climbed into the Jeep and
headed west. Crossing the western plains states was rather uneventful until we were approaching Denver and could see the Rocky
Mountains looming beyond.
Ralph Bradley in the high country
of the San Juan mountains of
Colorado, before going to Utah
1952(?)
Chapter 20 – Exploring in Colorado and Utah
A fter refueling in Denver, we began the climb to Loveland Pass on the Continental Divide, a very scenic and notable landmark.
After that, it was all downhill as we descended the Western slope through scenery that filled us with silent admiration. As we
entered Grand Junction from the east the sun, looking like a huge ball of fire, was hanging dead center over the road, blinding me
to everything except the berm on the right side of the road. The glare was such that I could not see anything but blurred shadows
we were passing. My nerves were on edge until the road made a slight bend, taking me out of the direct glare of that blazing sun. I
heaved a huge sigh of relief when we pulled into the parking area of the Pioneer Motel. After freshening up we still looked at each
other with a feeling of disbelief that we are here.
Now what?
After getting something to eat at a near by restaurant, we began organizing our plans for the following day. First we looked
up the first gentleman I had met on my previous trip with Paul. He furnished us with a wealth of information and directed us
to a welding shop where I had a quarter inch thick sheet of steel welded to the undercarriage of the Jeep as protection from the
inevitable jagged boulders we would be bouncing over. I also had them cut service access holes in the steel for changing oil. In the
side of the Jeep behind both front fenders, I had them weld racks to hold five gallon gasoline tanks with lock straps over the tops.
With this arrangement, if we ran out of gas we would always have ten gallons in reserve. Then we proceeded to the sporting goods
store, where we purchased the bed rolls and camping gear that we would need and obtained directions to Ike’s house, where we
spent the afternoon getting equipment and planning our next move. Relying completely on Ike’s knowledge of the state, we moved
into the high country in Colorado at a location now recognized as the most famous resort area in the state, “Vail Pass.” Then it
was identified by a wooden marker in the shape of a cross simply marked “Vail.” There were outlines of tracks near the timberline
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along the crest of a mountain, probably made by forest rangers. To get the show on the road, Ike had a Jeep pickup truck carrying
his riding mule, a bag of oats, and a bail of hay. He also was pulling a very small two-man camper, while Dick and I followed in our
well-loaded Jeep. About a mile in from the highway, we crossed a small stream trickling through tall pine trees where we made our
first camp. Being in the high country, it did get chilly that night. Ike and I shared the trailer and Dick spread his bedroll in the back
of the Jeep, where he said he slept well with the aid of a couple of extra wool army blankets we had acquired. We spent the better
part of three months in the general area, with an occasional trip into a village to replenish our supplies.
One evening as we were approaching our camp, Ike, for some reason I never understood, shot and killed a porcupine and left it
where it fell. I had a long standing practice of never killing anything other than a varmint, if it wasn’t edible. Upon reaching our
campsite, Dick and I retraced our tracks and brought the dead critter into camp. With the aid of two pairs of long-nosed pliers,
we carefully skinned it and fried the meat for our dinner. While the meat was hot it was edible if you were hungry, but when it
cooled down it had a strong taste of turpentine. After all its main food was the bark of pine trees. We continued roaming the
mountains until October, when hunting season opened. We began seeing hunters dressed up with colorful garb on themselves
and their horses, looking like something out of King Arthur’s Knights, and decided it would be prudent to leave the mountains
to the hunters, who quite often shot each other. We returned to Grand Junction and checked-in to the Pioneer Motel. That night
after dinner I acquired a map of the Western United States and spread it on the floor. We looked for the most remote town we
could find. In South Western Utah we found a little Mormon cow town in a very remote section of the state. Around the outer
perimeters of the town were little connotations printed in red such as “carry your own water,” “do not attempt to travel without
a local guide,” and so on. I put my finger on the town and said, “there is where we will go.” After discussing it with Ike, we agreed
that Escalante, Utah, would be our destination. Knowing that we would be using horses and mules, I bought a tandem trailer large
enough to haul two animals, grain, and a bale of hay. We then loaded up and began the six-hundred-mile trip.
It was a scenic drive and, as we approached Escalante, the terrain took on a more unique appearance of cliffs and canyons carved
out of rock by ancient oceans. Descending from a higher elevation, we began a long descent into the town, which was nestled up
against the base of rather steep hills on the western edge of the town and opening to a vast panorama of desert and mountains in
the distance to the east. We went into the only restaurant in town and introduced ourselves to a very pleasant gentleman and his
wife who were the proprietors and owners of the establishment. He was the source of a wealth of valuable information and became
a valued and trusted friend. Everybody called him Whitey. He had three small one-room cabins, two of which we immediately
rented for a very modest sum. Directly across the road was the only General Store in town, where we subsequently bought all of
our supplies. About one hundred yards beyond the restaurant, a narrow dirt road angled to the right into what was referred to
as the desert. It was not a solid, nothing but sand desert, as I would visualize, but a sand surface with clumps of vegetation brush
and sagebrush stretching out ahead for at least sixty miles to the Colorado River. Exploring the desert on horseback was very
fascinating. The pungent, fragrant aroma of sage engulfed you as it was crushed beneath the hooves of your horse.
Approximately twenty miles out into the desert was a corral used by whoever wanted to use it and fittingly named the twenty-
mile corral. Angling off to the right for a distance of about three miles was the edge of a large mountain named fifty-mile mountain,
although its end cliff on the opposite end bordered on the Colorado River. There was only one other place where you could reach
the top of the mountain and it was named on the maps as the Kaparowitz Plateau. From these two points, the corral and the end
of the Plateau, we always established our directions. Whitey said there were several men with horses and mules that we could rent,
and directed us to one named Marion Hume, who was said to be part Indian and had a family and a corral at his home there in
Escalante. Since horses and mules were of immediate necessity, we drove a matter of a few short blocks and found Mr. Hume at
his residence. After a brief discussion as to who we were and from where and our needs, it turned out that we had the makings of
a deal. Mr. Hume had a physical condition that was going to require surgery to correct. He also had three horses and two mules
and a respectable corral there at his home. He seemed to be short on cash to buy grain for the animals; in fact the two mules were
running loose in the desert. Our deal was quite simple. I agreed to buy feed for the animals for a year if I could use his corral and
have first call on the animals at any time. He had a cow and I agreed to feed her too. Mr. Hume seemed pleased and relieved that
the problem of feeding his animals for a year was solved. One of the horses was a very pretty Palomino mare that I decided to ride.
Dick chose a red horse that proved to be cantankerous at times, leaving a white horse and two mules as pack animals. I, too, was
pleased and relieved, as this arrangement included the use of the corral at all times.
The Kaparowitz Plateau seemed to have had its origin from extreme pressure within the underlying up-thrust of magma at
some prehistoric time when it was evolving. The north walls adjacent to the wilderness were sheer vertical walls jutting up form the
desert floor to first benches approximately five hundred feet in elevation, then flattening out for several hundred feet horizontally
to secondary vertical walls extending another three or four hundred feet in elevation. From west to east it extended approximately
sixty miles to the Colorado River and the canyonlands leading to the Grand Canyon. Years in the past, an oil company had
bulldozed out a dirt road from the twenty mile corral up the west end of the mountain to drill exploratory holes for oil, but they
were dry holes and had been plugged and abandoned. Over the rest of the plateau there were no maps or trails, as it had never been
surveyed.
We decided that our major effort would be to explore as much of the Kaparowitz Plateau as we could reach. We purchased
supplies at the General Store and loaded two horses in our tandem trailer. Ike had his riding mule in his four-wheel drive pickup
and headed for the mountain up the old dirt oil road. We proceeded as far as we could drive and then saddled and mounted the
horses. From peak and high points on the crest of the plateau, we could occasionally get a glimpse of the canyons that we wanted
to explore but we could not ride in any direction for more than a mile or two when we would be rimmed up (come to a sheer drop-
off of hundreds of feet and forced to turn around and try another direction). This went on for several days, leading to nothing but
frustration. One evening as we were returning to camp, I saw smoke rising above the trees where our vehicles were parked and was
sure we had some kind of a disaster waiting for us. When we got close enough, we saw two men who had a fire going and were sitting
on a log. When we rode in and said our hellos, we sat looking at them, waiting for an explanation. They said they had found a way
off of the mountain but last night their horses had gotten loose and they were walking out. They spotted our camp and figured
somebody would show up, so they decided to build a fire and wait. Their story made sense and they said if we would help them
find their horses, they would show us how to get down off of the mountain. That suggestion suited everybody so we fixed dinner,
bedded down, and waited for dawn. The following day we located their previous camp, picked up the tracks of their horses, and
followed them. About three hours later we spotted the horses and, using nose bags with a little grain in them, managed to catch the
runaways. A nose bag is a round bag about eight inches in diameter and twelve to fourteen inches deep with a flat bottom. Attached
to the top edge is a strap with just enough slack in it to allow for grain in the bottom of the bag for the horses to eat, and the strap
slipped over its ears to hold it in place.
Ralph Bradley in the Canyonlands
of Utah
1952(?)
Chapter 21 – Entering The Canyon Lands
W e returned to our base camp, then drove the animals to the twenty-mile corral and returned to Escalante to replenish
our supplies, as well as additional supplies for the two extra men and their horses. We spent the night in Escalante. We
picked up the animals at the corral the following morning and returned to our base camp on the top of the mountain. The name
of the most prominent and knowledgeable of the two men was Skeet and the other Ed. We now had five men on horseback and
three pack animals as we made our way down an obscure dirt road dozed by the oil company to a bench about three-hundred feet
below the level of our base camp. From this point, the tops of the canyon spread out in a vast panorama of sparsely vegetated desert,
with blue cloud banks hovering over distant mountains. From this area in Utah, we could see into Colorado, New Mexico, and
Arizona, noted on maps as the four corners area where the borders of all four states came together. Standing alone and viewing this
immense scene of canyons and mountain tops, one could not suppress an introspective feeling of awe in realizing you were looking
at something that took hundreds of millions of nature’s cataclysmic years to shape and form.
From this point on, the number one object we were looking for was water we could reach for the animals. A working animal
requires from six to nine gallons of water a day, so we were scanning every depression and canyon bottom we saw for signs of water.
We were carrying our own water in canteens on our hips and one-gallon canteens fastened to our saddles. Water for cooking was
carried in five gallon GI cans on the pack animals. If we did not find water for the animals by the end of the second day, we would
have to give them our own water and turn back to our last source of fresh water and start over. There were no trails or tracks to
follow in this country. We would sometimes ride all day, heading off or climbing the mountainside to get around a canyon and
make a half-mile of progress in a given direction. Sometimes even that failed, and we would have to approach a destination by an
entirely different direction.
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86 | Ralph Bradley
On one leg of our safari we failed to find water for the animals by the end of our second day from the last standing water, so
we gave them our water sparingly because, in this case, the animals had priority from which we could not deviate. After trial and
error, we finally reached a suitable spot to make our base camp, which took five days riding to find. It had a nearby water hole for
the animals, and a huge slab of rock that had broken off at the face of the cliff and come to a stop in a little grove of cedar trees, on
the bench. I took the two 100-pound bags of grain, one oats and one of barley, and managed to lodge them on top of the rock where
the animals could not get to them. We spent several days getting oriented with the immediate area surrounding our base camp, and
then the diminished supply of our drinking water demanded we go out the same way we came in and re-supply.
We got up at daylight and each man was rationed one-half-cup of water in case of emergency. We pulled out and kept moving for
twelve hours, except for one stop to rest the animals. When we arrived at our destination for the day, we still had the half canteen
of water, which we decided was cutting it too close. Upon arriving in Escalante, we called my brother Paul and he decided to come
out and make a trip into the canyon lands with us. We, for the most part, were ready for a rest. So we left our animals in Marion’s
corral and Ike was ready to go visit his wife. Paul was coming to Grand Junction on the California Zephyr, a deluxe train from
Chicago. Dick and I headed for Grand Junction in our Jeep station wagon. Paul has been a sportsman all of his life and became a
master photographer, producing movie programs with sound narration and beautiful background music equal to any professional
films I have ever seen or heard.
When he arrived in Grand Junction, he had already taken various introductory scenes from the vistadome and dining car as the
train snaked through the spectacular gorges of the Rocky Mountains. We did not waste any time loading his gear in the jeep and
heading for Utah, even though we were driving through a snowstorm. Arriving in Escalante, Ike was already there, as were Skeet
and Ed, who wanted to join our safari. We immediately contacted other cattlemen in the area to rent additional horses and mules.
To carry enough supplies for three to four weeks in the field required a horse and a mule per man. The pack animals all came with
special packsaddles which had ridged supports extending above and over each side of their backs. Our supplies were carried in
large, elongated canvas bags called panniers (local dialect sometimes pronounced the word “panyards”) which had a sturdy leather
strap in the shape of an oval sewn into the topsides. These straps, when the panniers were loaded, would reach over the backs of
the animals from each side and counterbalance each other. One mule would have two one-hundred-pound sacks of grain in each
pannier, leaving room for a few more items. With everything we were taking with us it was vital to utilize every inch of capacity,
and then have a bedroll fastened over the top, making a load of two-hundred-fifty to three-hundred pounds. For Paul’s delicate
equipment, we found two panniers constructed out of wood with solid wood doors. Each man was responsible for his horse and
mule and had to keep up with the pack train once it was moving. If anyone had a problem with their horse or mule, they had to
drop out, correct their problem, and then catch up with the train as they could. Otherwise, the animals would start milling around
or trying to roll and wreck the whole procession. Both horses and mules loved to roll and always do when the packs and saddles
are removed. In our procession, we had six men, seven horses, and six mules. Quite a chore to plan and buy enough supplies to last
four weeks, but I did it. One thing was certain, whatever you forgot you did without. It was now November and there was snow,
which was somewhat of a problem and yet a blessing. The animals would eat the snow and I could melt it to cook with, and the
temperature was not severe.
Paul’s agility and staying power surprised me. Leading his mule and carrying his camera equipment, he would get out ahead of
the whole procession and find a strategic location to film us as we approached and passed by, and then do it again. One evening,
Skeet was having trouble with his pack slipping and lagged behind as darkness fell. When we made camp, he still did not show
up, so we found a huge dead cypress tree and built a fire around it, making a giant torch to guide him in. An hour or so after dark
he reached camp but had dropped the pack from his mule. While I was relieved to see him, I was not what you would call a happy
camper. My bedroll was with the mule pack he had left behind. I kept the fire going all night and Skeet retrieved his discarded
equipment the following day. In the immediate vicinity of our base camp was a huge
section of cliff wall the size of a nine or ten-room house which had broken away from a cliff. It was split into two pieces, with the
top two thirds separated from the bottom but firmly wedged, so neither piece could move. The top section formed a perfect shelter
over the lower section, which was flat on top. Paul latched onto that section, calling it his apartment, and spread his bedroll on the
lower section. He was protected from the weather and enjoyed the unique situation of being able to look out over the fabulous array
of massive boulders and distant mountains. The rest of us spread our bedrolls on the ground and slept under the star-filled sky.
We had found water for the animals about two-hundred yards from our base camp from a seep in the bottom of a canyon. With
the aid of some dynamite, Skeet blasted a trail where the animals could get down to the water. While all of the other men were out
prospecting or staking claims, one man would always stay in camp and take the animals to water and prepare dinner that evening.
The major part of all land in the west is Public Domain, owned by the government and open to claim staking by any American
citizen. The average claim was 600 by 1500 feet, or approximately 20 acres. We carried legal forms required for staking a claim,
upon which we named and described the claim, leaving one copy on a discovery monument and keeping a copy for our personal
records, then filing the third copy in the records office of the County Courthouse in which the claim was located.
You then had exclusive ownership of that claim for a period of one year from the following October. For a little over three weeks,
Paul was constantly shooting film of our activities, which he later put together with narration and appropriate Western music,
making a fantastic movie that if he has shown it once, he has shown it to various clubs a hundred times. He later made copies for
Dick and myself as Christmas presents. It is a movie of such unusual scenes and quality that anyone who sees it wants to see it
again.
Before I continue I want to explain the process and validity of mining claims. Nobody can afford to pay taxes on the vast lands
of the West, so they belong to the U.S. Government under the laws of Public Domain. These lands are available for the use of any
U.S. Citizen under certain conditions. Some strategic lands have been withdrawn from the Public Domain for the benefit of the
U.S. Government for some specific use but, compared to the bulk of the lands, this is trivial. When any individual or company
stakes a mineral claim, it cannot exceed the 600 by 1500 foot dimensions of a lode claim. If it is a placer claim, it must be located and
filed as such, taking in a much larger tract of land for what is known as placer mining. Each claim must be named with the specific
boundaries identified. Ownership of these are valid for one year from the following October 31st. For the claimant to continue
to hold ownership of a claim, he must do or have had done $100.00 worth of work on it for the benefit of the claim. This is called
assessment work and validates the claim for another year. If when the claim was filed or additional claims were filed where the
boundary lines touched or were contiguous with the original, and the rest are contiguous one with the other, then the assessment
work for all of the claims can be done on any one claim or work, such as building access roads, can validate all of the claims if such
work and claim-staking was done by what would be considered a prudent man. You can validate all contiguous claims by sinking
a shaft or driving a tunnel on any one claim. After a certain period of time, you can file an application for a patent on one or more
claims and, if granted by paying a substantial fee, a patent (or deed) will be issued to you or the company you represent. The only
requirement thereafter is that you pay annual taxes, which are much less than the cost of annual assessment work and relieve you of
the requirement to do anything except pay the taxes when due. A Placer claim (pronounced Plasser by most mining men), consists
of metal or minerals that have been transported by water from the original source to a secondary location, usually a quality much
88 | Ralph Bradley
lower than at the point of origin many miles away. These are surface mined because the depth of the values are substantially less
than the point of origin and spread over a larger area.
After orienting ourselves with the areas surrounding our base camp and determining where we wanted to stake claims, we began
an organized approach in measuring and staking claims in this treacherous and difficult terrain. We named one group of claims
the Nancy Group after my brother’s beautiful daughter. A second group was named the Thankful Group because they were staked
on Thanksgiving day, and another group after a little mule that got in trouble that almost cost him his life. His name was Sam, so
we named a group the Sad Sam group.
We had a habit of putting hobbles on all of the animals except one, which we kept tied, and let the rest of them shuffle and jump,
which they could do like a rabbit, but they let them roam and graze for the roughage they needed. Up to this point, they were
always in the vicinity of the camp the following morning. On one particular morning, they were nowhere in sight, so Ike saddled up
his mule and set off tracking them. About evening of that day, he caught up with them, all in good condition except the cute little
mule called Sam. Somehow in the course of the night, he had gotten one leg tangled up in his halter rope and it was strangling him
to the extent that his head was swollen twice its normal size. Much longer and he would have been a goner. But Ike relieved him
of his ordeal, and when Ike and the other animals returned to camp, Sam was still in sad shape. Hence the name of Sad Sam. By
now he was like a little pet. An amusing sidelight, we had some pancakes left over from breakfast and Sad Sam ate them all. By this
time we had pretty much exhausted our supplies of food and water, and prepared to move out the following day. All of the animals
were taken to the water hole and we then headed out, following the tracks we had made coming in. By the time I took Goldie, my
Palomino, to the water hole the other animals had drank all of the surface water and Goldie went from track to track that the other
animals had make sucking up what water was left. So began a twelve-hour ride.
When we reached the canyon on the base of fifty-mile mountain, it was dark and cold. Riding through the canyon my legs were
numb and felt like stumps. Goldie was lagging back. I tapped her flanks with my heels but got no response. When we got through
the canyon and started up the mountain, I could tell my horse was not feeling good. So, halfway up the mountain, I got out of my
saddle and lead her on up out of the canyon. When we arrived at the top of the mountain, we were within fifty yards of our vehicles.
We intended to spend the night, but Goldie let out a groan and collapsed, falling to the ground. To say that I was shocked is putting
it mildly. That poor, sick, beautiful animal was hurting and I did not have the vaguest idea of what the problem was. After a few
minutes, Ike, the wise old rancher hand, came over and took a long look at her. He said, “if you don’t get her on her feet, she will
lay there and die.” I managed to get the saddle and bridle off her and then, jingling the halter rope and giving it a slight tug and
soft word, she struggled to her feet. I lead her slowly up and down the trail as she staggered like a blind drunk from one side of the
trail to the other. We continued slowly moving for about four hours, during which time the men built a huge fire and fixed their
dinner. Then they spread their bedrolls and turned in for the night while Goldie and I kept up our slow trek. The men had dragged
in enough logs to keep the fire going throughout the night. I covered Goldie with a blanket to shield her as best I could from the
cold mountain air. About three a.m., I lead her up close to the fire. As we stood there, her head would drop lower and lower until it
was hanging straight down and then her knees would buckle and she would start to fall. I would immediately snap the halter rope
against her nose and call her name. I began wondering, “if I let her lie down for a minute, will I be able to get her up?” She was so
weak that I decided to try it. The next time I let her go all the way down and rest there for one minute then tugged the halter rope,
called her name, and she struggled to her feet. That was gratifying so, the next time, I let her stay down for two minutes, stretching
it out to five minutes. Thus we spent the rest of the night. After daylight, while the men were stirring around, I lead her about
one-hundred feet from camp.
I knew she was hungry because she would take a mouthful of sage or other vegetation but just stand there, holding it in her
mouth, seemingly without strength to chew. Suddenly I was startled. She began to urinate with such pressure and volume that
it sounded like a waterfall. When it finally stopped, she began to graze and I knew the crisis was over. She perked up real fast,
her ears erect and forward, and she continued to eat. I knew then that her kidneys had been locked. My mind went back to the
proceeding morning, when the only water she could get at the water hole at our base camp was from the footprints of our other
horses. I arrived at the conclusion that she had taken in more alkali than her system could tolerate, resulting in locked kidneys. It
was certainly with a sense of enormous relief that I could see the familiar glint in her eyes. I loaded her into the trailer for the ride
back to town. We drove the other animals across and down off of the mountain to the twenty-mile corral. When we arrived back in
Escalante, I was ready for some rest and good food. We put our animals back in Marion’s corral, with plenty of good water to last
until our next safari. After a good night’s rest, we left early the following morning to take Paul back to Grand Junction to board
the California Zephyr for the trip home.
Ralph Bradley seen here on a
horse fitted with a Scintillator
fastened to the back of the saddle.
A connecting cord on top of the
saddlebag runs under the right
stirrup and connects to an alarm
fastened to the saddle horn.
1952(?)
Chapter 22 – Expensive Deceit
T he Atomic Energy Commission was doing everything it could to assist and encourage prospectors in their search for uranium.
By this time, a more powerful device, called a Scintillator, had been perfected to detect uranium at a greater distance than the
Geiger counter. It was heavy and bulky, so they would install one in a Piper Cub airplane with large wings that could fly at a slower
speed. In conjunction with this, they would install a recording device that would draw a straight line on a tubular cylinder covered
with special paper. When a particular area was selected for aerial prospecting, the flight engineer would make a grid map in the
cross, directions identified with physical landmarks on the ground. Then they would fly very slowly at a low altitude, following the
lines of the grid map. If they flew over a mass of gamma rays, the recording needle of the Scintillator would be deflected until they
flew out of that zone. Then they would fly over the zone from a different cross direction until the recoding needle was deflected
again, making a cross at the most intense part of the field of radiation. Where the lines crossed on the map, there would be a black
ink dot. The more intense the radiation detected, the larger the dot. This was called an Anomaly.
The AEC would transpose this information onto a map showing the general location of the anomaly in the state and county
where the anomaly was detected. Every Monday morning, copies of these maps would be made available in every Post Office in the
west for prospectors to pick up and file their claim or claims, if they located the hot spot on the ground.
While we were in Grand Junction, we were approached by a young man I will call Ray. He indicated he had some kind of a
connection with the printing of these anomaly maps. He could get a copy to us in advance of its normal distribution, if we would
physically follow through in staking the area and give him a quarter interest in same. It didn’t sound plausible to me, and I didn’t
show any interest because we were ready to head back to Escalante. He persisted and said he would bring the maps to Escalante, a
1200-mile round trip for him. I told him we would do it on one condition: he would personally locate the anomaly on the ground
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before we went in to stake the area. He agreed to this. Upon our return to Escalante, I planned a three-week pack trip into the
canyon lands. I calculated the precise day we would return to Escalante and gave this information to Ray. He promised he would
provide the map after making an onsite examination of the area.
We became very friendly with Whitey, the restaurant owner, and his wife. Whenever we would go into the canyon lands I would
give Whitey the date we would return. If we were two days late in reporting in, we were in trouble and someone needed to come
look for us. He always knew when we were leaving and the general direction, and I always reported in upon our return. They were
so accommodating that his wife would ask me what I wanted to eat and then prepare it, right down to what kind of pie I would
like that night. They were fine people and she was a great cook. Their restaurant was like our living room when we had idle hours
to spend.
Immediately upon our arrival in Escalante, I made a list of supplies we would need from the General Store as we prepared to
move into the Canyon Lands. I decided to let Goldie recuperate from her ordeal of the previous safari and rented a different horse
to ride. Riding the rim of a canyon with the Scintillator turned on, I could devote my full attention to the terrain we were riding
through. The Scintillator would pick up any radiation in the immediate vicinity.
In observing all of the different animals we were using, I became amused and quite interested in their individual personalities
and habits. The horse I used on this trip was nondescript in size and color. He was just a brown-colored horse, but seemed to have
an affectionate bent. Every evening after I removed his saddle, I would brush him down with a wire brush. Then I would feed him
a mixture of barley and oat grain in his nose bag. While he was eating, I would put hobbles on his front feet so I could turn him
loose after he finished his grain and he could graze on whatever vegetation he could find for roughage. His name was Dan and, after
a few days, I would refer to him as Old Dan. When turned loose, even though hobbled, he could move, shuffle, and hop around
pretty good. I would then proceed with fixing or helping prepare our own dinner and at dusk, spread my bedroll on the ground. We
would always have a campfire around which we would sit and discuss what we had done or seen that day, or perhaps write letters
to be mailed when we returned to civilization. When our eyes became heavy, we would crawl into our respective bedrolls and gaze
at the brilliant stars that glistened like diamonds in the clear atmosphere, until we fell asleep. Sometime in the night, after he had
finished grazing, Old Dan would search out my bedroll and then shuffle up to where his front hoofs were touching the side of my
bedroll. Then he would go to sleep standing with his head hanging straight down within twelve inches of the top of my bedroll. He
would stand there the remainder of the night, like a faithful puppy dog standing guard. I must say that I became quite fond of Old
Dan while we were in the field.
We also became quite attached to Marion’s little mules. We would leave them tied when we were away from camp. When they
would see us coming in the afternoon, they would set up a chorus of braying as if to say, “We are so glad to see you.” It became
obvious they were not going to stray too far from camp so, after a certain point in time, we would let them run loose, though
hobbled, during the day. Sometimes when we returned to camp, they would look like black dots high on a mountainside. I had an
aluminum pan I used to dip the grain and fill the nose bags. The mules had associated the sound of that pan grating on the rock
with eating time. When I was ready for them to come in, I would take the pan and beat it on the bottom loud enough for the sound
to carry. Their heads would immediately rear up as they stared in our direction, and then come hopping like rabbits on the run.
They were really cute.
It was getting on into December and the air was crisp but the sun was warm. Under our Levi jeans, we wore twofold underwear.
It was made up of two layers, cotton next to the skin for softness, and wool as the outer layer for warmth. It was effective under our
wool shirts. When the wind and snow was howling, we had heavy parkas to shield us from the cold.
When the day of departure rolled around, we broke camp and headed in so as to arrive in Escalante on the designated day. We
had to make two trips from the top of the Kaparowitz Plateau to bring in all of the animals and put them in Marion’s corral. When
we walked into Whitey’s restaurant, Ray was sitting at a table waiting for us. I asked him if he had the map and if he had personally
checked out the area as I requested. He replied “yes” to both questions. I examined the map. The anomaly was located very close to
the Continental Divide in New Mexico, in the vicinity of Chama, about 600 miles from Escalante. I didn’t think he would make
the long trip from Grand Junction if his information was not based on facts, so I said, “OK, we’ll go.”
We prepared to leave early the following day, taking Ike’s pick-up and mule, with Dick and I following in our Jeep station wagon
with the supplies we would need. It was a long tedious trip. When we arrived after dark in Chama, the snow was deep and the
temperature was well below zero due to the high altitude. We checked into a motel, then Ike had to find a barn or shelter where
he could leave his mule for protection from the extreme cold. Our motel had a wall furnace in it with a thermostat. With the
thermostat set as high as it would go we could not get the temperature above 60 degrees. It was a cold, cold night.
The next day we loaded Ike’s mule and began a search for some kind of an access road into the area indicated by the anomaly
on the map. We located what appeared to be a little-used logging road in the vicinity of the area we were looking for and, with
both vehicles in four wheel drive, we followed it until the depth of the snow forced us to abandon our vehicles. Ike unloaded and
saddled his mule. With the mule breaking a trail, we proceeded on with Dick holding on to the mule’s tail. I had a short piece
of rope tied to Dick’s web belt. Thus we proceeded on in our search. After about half an hour I was picking up radiation on the
Scintillator. Encouraged by this we pressed on further, about half an hour or so, with the radiation growing in intensity. Then we
began to notice trees with fresh blaze marks cut into the bark. We then found a Discovery Monument with location notices and
other evidence of recent claim staking. We soon came to a halt with the sickening realization that the entire area had recently been
staked. Interfering with another party’s legally staked claim is a breach of Federal law. Crest-fallen and knowing we had failed, we
retraced our trail, loaded the mule into Ike’s pickup, and began the long dismal trek to Grand Junction.
The first thing I did when we reached Grand Junction was to look up Ray, ready to commit mayhem. He had cut the date from a
map issued two months earlier, and I failed to notice it when he showed up in Escalante. He readily admitted to his lies, but he was
a smaller man and I could not bring myself to punch him out, thinking I would only demean myself. So I turned and walked away.
Upon arrival, Ike was glad to be home and Dick and I parked our station wagon and decided to go home for the Christmas
holidays. We boarded the California Zephyr headed for Chicago, where we would transfer to the James Whitcomb Riley that
ran through Indianapolis. When the Zephyr reached Glenwood Springs it made a scheduled stop at a resort near Aspen. When
the train began to move again it was entering picturesque canyons. Every slope leading from the mountain tops to the rails were
literally covered with herds of deer and elk on both sides. As the engine would crawl ahead of us, we could see fifteen or more
animals running ahead of the engine, which, in deference to the deer and elk, was traveling at a slow speed. They led us until they
reached a slope where they could turn aside. I saw more deer and elk along that stretch of track than I thought existed in the entire
West. They were as thick as chickens in a chicken yard. The big snow in the high country had driven them down. It was one of
those “you’ve gotta see it to believe it” sights. The train ride was interesting, warm, and comfortable, and the food, as always, was
excellent. We were glad to get home and enjoy the pleasantries and affections that we had missed.
Box canyon corral
1952(?)
Chapter 23 – The Cattle Drive
W e returned to Grand Junction in mid-January, and Ike and his wife had decided he would not return to the canyonlands
of Utah. So, Dick and I fired up our wagon and headed for Escalante. Upon arrival, we decided we wanted to explore
the desert side of the Kaparowitz Plateau, which extended from the outskirts of Escalante approximately sixty or so miles to the
Colorado River.
Five miles from a ranch east of Escalante, we came upon a very troubling and possibly dangerous scene. There was a high, wire-
mesh fence beside a trail leading in the direction of a ranch house. Tangled up in the fence was a huge red range bull. It had tried
to jump the fence but had not jumped far enough. The bull’s hind legs were woven into the fence, and its testicles were trapped in a
tangle of wire and swollen to twice their normal size. When he would try to move, he would let out a moan of pain and look around
toward where I was sitting on my horse. I knew I had to do something. I had a pair of electrician side cuts (wire cutters) in my saddle
bag. So, taking them out, I dismounted very slowly, about ten feet behind the critter, while Dick held my horse.
I approached slowly and carefully. Reaching out, I cut one wire, which stung him and he bawled and squirmed as I backed off.
Then I slowly cut another wire. Each wire I would cut was stretched taught and would snap and sting with each cut. His head
and bloodshot eyes would swing in my direction. I finally cut the last wire that had his testicles trapped. He made a mighty effort
to extract his legs from the entanglement and pulled free. I quickly mounted my horse. He stood in the trail looking at me for a
moment, trying to decide whether to charge or not. Then, being free to move, he turned and headed up the trail toward the ranch
house. If we had not came along when we did and cut him loose, the poor critter would have died a slow agonizing death. That was
an experience I shall never forget.
We continued on passed the twenty-mile corral and saw there was the dim track of a dusty trail continuing on into the desert.
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We followed these tracks for another thirty five miles, where the trail dipped downward. At the lower end of the incline we were
surprised to see a windmill pumping water into a wooden trough, also a small, two-story cabin. It was the branding camp of a
local cattleman. Under the Taylor Grazing Act of the United States Bureau of Land Management, a legitimate cattleman could
lease vast areas of Federal grazing land at the ratio of 20 acres per head of cattle for something like one dollar per year. To qualify
for this privilege, he had to own or lease a specified number of grassland acres in the high country and move his cattle from the
lowland every spring, allowing the vegetation of the lowlands to recover. Then, they return to the lowland in the fall for the winter.
The cattleman, his son, and the foreman were there when we pulled in. They immediately insisted that we stay for the next meal,
which we graciously accepted. The boy was about 16 years old and knew his way around animals. He and Dick became friends
quite readily. During our conversations, I explained that we were exploring the opposite side of the plateau and he knew how long
it took us to go in and out. It so happened that Mr. Cooper, the cattleman, had some cattle grazing on a large, long bench on the
near side, about four or five hundred feet above the desert floor. Periodically, he would load mule packs with blocks of salt and take
them up on the bench to leave a salt lick for the cattle, which is a necessity for their good health. The most interesting revelation I
learned was that there was a steep but passable trail from the desert floor straight up the side of the mountain to that bench, which
he showed me.
Directly behind the cabin was a six-foot-wide entrance to a perfect box canyon that flared out into a huge smooth working
area with the desert floor, about even with the top of the red rock twenty-five feet high walls. There were cattle and calves in the
process of being branded, vaccinated, and dehorned. They had a barrier and a gate holding all of the animals inside the box. It was a
beautiful sight and very picturesque. Then Mr. Cooper made the most generous and unexpected offer I could have dreamed of. He
said that since we would be going right past his camp coming and going, and there was always somebody at his camp, they would
take care of our two horses and two mules for us, saving 160 miles of pulling our tandem trailer and animals each trip going in and
out. I could not find words to express my true appreciation. We became good friends and coming or going we had to stay for the
next meal, which was always capped off with strawberry jam, hot sourdough biscuits, and a big pot of hot coffee.
Later on, when it came time to move his herd to the high country, Mr. Cooper was shorthanded and worried. As a gesture
of appreciation for what he was doing for us, I volunteered Dick and I to help on the cattle drive of moving 500 head of cattle
approximately 100 miles, 50 miles over flat land, and 50 miles over limbered hills and valleys to the top. That was one experience
neither Dick nor I will ever forget. Dick and the 16 year old boy worked well together. The first half of the drive I worked with the
foreman. My horse fell on me but that is another story.
With so much accomplished, we left our newfound friends and continued our exploration of the far reaches of the desert.
Coming from somewhere and running towards the Colorado River, we came upon what we later learned was the Escalante River,
flowing and gurgling along to empty into the Colorado River up ahead. A very impressive sight we discovered was a cave in the side
of a canyon cut out of the floor of the desert by the Escalante River.
When we had gone as far as we could, we were looking at a very historic site. In the 1800’s many years ago, it was a common
practice of the Mormon Church, when pilgrims were flocking in from all over the world to the Salt Lake Valley, to send a group of
sturdy, hardy members, well-schooled in the Mormon religion, and equip them to pioneer in some distant area to establish a new
Mormon settlement. One such group, after the settlement of Escalante, had been pushing through the desert in the direction of
what is now known as Moab, Utah. When they reached the high cliffs overlooking the Colorado, it was an awe inspiring sight, but
a daunting challenge. Not to be deterred, these rugged people attacked the mountain of stone with chisel, sledges and dynamite,
and kept after it until they had cut a trench deep enough and wide enough down a slope, to get their wagons down to the Colorado
river edge and then float them across.
When I view such a scene as this, and think of the courage, indomitable spirit, and grit that people such as these possessed in
settling the West, my admiration for them exceeds all words. The exact place where they accomplished this feat is geographically
known as “The Hole In The Rock” and is so noted on maps of Lake Powell at Kanab, Utah.
After taking pictures and scanning the area from the highest peak, we began the ride back to Escalante to digest everything
that we had seen and accomplished. Being on our own and under no time pressure, we decided to explore the hill country west of
Escalante and made an interesting discovery. On the highest peak, where we could look out across the town to the east as far as the
western edge of the Kaparwintz Plateau, we discovered that we were standing on top and in the center of a huge bed of seashells,
covering several acres and about thirty to forty feet thick. Undeniable proof that this had once been the bottom of an ocean for
millions of years. I gathered some of the shells and put them in my saddlebags. I still have them at the writing of this report.
Sitting on my horse on the peak of this bed of ancient sea shells, it was a challenge to my mind to try to recreate the geological
conditions that existed in the unknown millions of years in the past, when every thing that my eyes could see was beneath the
surface of a vast unnamed ocean. Even the Kaparowitz Plateau had yet to be thrust up from the bowels of the earth. The study of
geology is a study of the ever-changing life and history of the earth, encompassing hundreds of millions or billions of years. Visual
evidence of this can best be observed in the walls of the Grand Canyon. Equate this with a gigantic layer cake, cut in half and
exposing all of the layers in their different thicknesses, colors, and textures, with the oldest of these layers being on the bottom.
Each layer represents prehistoric mountains, long since eroded into dust and moved from their place of origin by rising and
falling ocean currents and sealed, layer by layer, in the region where the Grand Canyon exists today, each layer consuming tens of
hundreds of millions of years to develop. Some layers were carried in by the waters, deposited as sand, and then compressed into
sandstone by the enormous weight of later deposits. Dirt carried in by muddy waters became shale due to evaporation of the water
and compression of later deposits.
In traversing some of the many canyons we explored, we would occasionally find a huge petrified tree protruding from the side
of a canyon wall, exposed by torrential rains, proving that there had been a huge forest there millions of years ago. I have a few
pieces of that in my collection, some of which is opalized and agatized. Every shred of wood has been replaced over a zillion years
by mineralization.
After having satisfied our curiosity about the immediate area, we prepared to return to the canyon lands by the new route Mr.
Cooper had pointed out. I think Goldie was pregnant so I rented a different horse. This one was a dapple gray mare with a very
placid disposition and easy to ride. We had to make two trips out to the branding camp to get the four animals and supplies in
a small wire corral about a hundred feet from the water trough that had been used for working sheep. It was about fifty feet in
diameter and forty-eight inches high. After making the second trip, we loaded the supplies in the panniers, tied the animals, and
spread our bedrolls for the night.
The following morning, we saddled our horses, loaded the panniers on the mules, and headed for the spot Mr. Cooper had
pointed out, but was concealed by brush. We found it, but I must say I have never seen anything so steep to be called a trail. I
tied my mules lead halter rope to my horse’s saddle and got my horse started up. Then I got out of its way, because it was lunging
upward like a dog. The horse and mule had to keep going or they would topple over backwards. I was clawing along the side of the
trail to keep my horse from running over me, and the mule was scrambling just like the horse. It seemed impossible but we made it
to the first bench, followed in the same manner by Dick and his mule. We crossed the first bench, which had to be five hundred or
98 | Ralph Bradley
more feet wide. Then we found a similar trail, about as rugged, leading up to a second bench and then a gradual slope up and over
the mountain. We wanted to find the base camp we had used on a previous trip into the canyon lands where there was unexplored
territory in every direction, plus a water hole for the animals.
Fortunately, as we were crossing the mountain, we discovered a pool of potable water, fed by a trickling stream out of the rocks,
which solved a big problem. It meant that on future trips in, we no longer had to carry the weight of our drinking water from town
up and over the mountains. Counting our two five-gallon cans plus two one-gallon canteens fastened to the saddles of the horses,
plus the two one-quart canteens on our belts, it was one hundred pounds less to contend with. We could judge whether the water
was potable or not by looking closely to see if there were any signs of life in it - little creepy crawly swimming things that are absent
in alkali water.
The local people had colorful euphemisms about geographic peculiarities, like a spring on the mountain loaded with alkalis
was referred to as “No Fart Spring,” for obvious reasons. And then there was one prominent peak on the mountain shaped like a
women’s breast that was known as “Sadie’s Nipple.”
Most of the seams of our panniers had been sown with heavy, tough thread. The ones on my mule on this particular occasion
had been fasted with brass or copper rivets, about a half-inch apart. As always, my mule was loaded pretty heavily going in. When
we reached a point where we could descend off of the top of the mountain, the first two feet required a two foot jump to the top of
a steep slope downward. My horse made the jump okay, but when my mule jumped it put too much of a strain on the rivets. When
he hit the bottom of the jump and flattened out, with the burping BRRRRRRR sound of a machine gun, as the rivets let go from
bottom to top. Supplies hit the dirt, and losing balance, the weight of the other balancing pannier slipped half way down the side
of the mule. Now this is a perfect example of the difference between a horse and a mule. A horse would have panicked and wrecked
the whole procession. The mule, knowing it was in trouble, stood still, hardly moving a muscle. I pulled the spilled supplies from
beneath it and removed the pack saddle. We left that load of supplies, the busted pannier, and my radiation detection Scintillator,
which was packed in a sturdy box, a couple of feet off the trail. We knew we had to continue on with what we had and then come
back and retrieve the gear with the other mules’ pack saddle and panniers.
We proceeded on down the slopes in the general direction of our base camp. As the afternoon wore on, I was keeping watch for
a suitable place to spend the night. About an hour before sundown I spotted a nice, smooth, sandy bottom of an offshoot from the
canyon about ten feet wide by thirty feet long. I called Dick’s attention to it, suggesting we make camp as it would soon be dark. He
wasn’t in favor of it, saying he thought he could find our base camp if I could follow. With misgivings I let him lead the way. Less
than an hour later, the sun dropped out of sight over the mountainside. Shortly thereafter we came to a halt, lost on a canyon slope
heavy with brush. It was so dark you could not see your hand in front of your face. I found a dim flashlight in my saddlebag. The
batteries were almost shot. We picked our way downward on foot and found a strip of sand about four feet wide and ten feet long.
I tied my horse and looked for the mule that had been following us. He was nowhere in sight. By the light of the dim flashlight, I
followed our tracks uphill. About fifty feet up the slope, I found him waiting to be lead down. We did not bother with eating that
night. We just spread our bedrolls and crawled in. The following day we managed to find our base camp and recover from the strain
of the previous day. The following day, I loaded one mule with a set of panniers and went back up the trail to retrieve supplies and
equipment we had been forced to abandon.
Our daily routine was pretty much the same. We would get up at daylight and, after our daily breakfast of pancakes (topped
with peanut butter and syrup) and hot coffee, we would leave the mules tied and start riding. For lunch we would sometimes have
a small can of precooked hamburgers. We would build a small fire and warm these up, plus we had a candy bar or an apple from
our saddlebags. We would usually start out from Escalante with a half-gallon can of hard-boiled eggs for lunch instead of the
hamburgers, and either an apple or a candy bar would carry us through the day. When it was time to head back to Escalante, we
rode across the top of the mountains. The view ahead was awe-inspiring. Just before we began our descent, we would look ahead.
As far as the eye could see was space and desert far below, empty space, making you feel smaller than a grain of sand on some
distant beach.
As spring approached, it was time for Mr. Cooper to move his cattle to the high country and Dick and I joined in on the drive.
The first day was not too eventful. There was a community corral in Escalante where approximately fifty head of cattle where held
for the night. The following morning one cow was giving birth to a calf and at least a dozen head of the other cows were circled
around the cow in labor, staring at the process in bewilderment.
The herd was so weak from malnutrition that, as they started to climb the mountain to the high country, one of them would
occasionally give up and fall down. The foreman would jump astride their backs and rake them with his spurs to get them up on
their feet or they would lie there and die. The foreman had been taking an occasional drink of wine that he carried in his saddlebags.
About mid-afternoon at a certain point he said, “Hell, I’m going to take a nap” and proceeded to tie his horse and lie down under
a tree. That was not in my work ethic, so I continued following the herd. As we approached the rim of the mountain, one cow, for
some crazy reason, bolted to the right. I swung my horse over to cut her off. Coming back across the rim we encountered a large,
soft bed of deep shale. As my horse was crossing the shale, her right feet both sank almost up to her stomach and she toppled to the
right, trapping my leg between her side and the shale. She did not struggle, but just lay there. I felt, if there was one more fraction
of pressure, the bone in my leg would crack. She rolled to the left and recovered her balance.
I stayed in the saddle and helped move the herd into the high grass on top of the mountain. Having achieved that, I turned my
horse to go back over the top and down the other side. At that moment, another horse ran up beside me. I was quite upset that
Dick would have let his horse get loose on the mountain. Mr. Cooper had said he would have a cattle truck on the high side of the
mountain to bring our horses back to Escalante. I only had a small rope, which I tied around the red horse’s neck with a knot in the
end to keep it from slipping out of my hand.
There was a gradual slope over the mountain about a hundred yards to my right, but a steep shortcut straight ahead. With the
lead rope in my hand, over my shoulder, and holding onto the knot so that it would not slip, I urged my horse up the steep slope
with a tight grip on the lead rope. My horse was lunging forward when the horse I was leading reared at the same moment. In an
instant I was flipped over the rump of my horse, landing in rocks below. I was stunned, but neither horse made a move to leave me.
I clambered back upon my horse leading the red one back to the gradual slop over the crest of the mountain.
When I descended the opposite side of the mountain, there was a cabin about halfway down. As I arrived there I was surprised
to see Dick, Mr. Cooper, and his son in the cattle truck. When Dick saw me he said, “What are you doing with that horse?” I was
flabbergasted. Dick’s horse was in the truck, an identical size and color to the one I had led over the mountain. It appeared that
the horse I had brought back belonged to a forest ranger. When I swung down off of my horse my right leg collapsed and I fell to
the ground. In the following days my leg turned green, blue, and black, and I was laid up for three weeks, lucky to have no broken
bones.
I will relate here a couple of incidents on the intelligence of horses and how they can train you if you will let them. I think most
people, including myself until I learned better, tend to think of horses in the category of dumb animals. But as with humans, they
are not all alike in spirit and intelligence. They can be trained to be subservient to a human’s commands if taught properly, although
some instincts are natural.
100 | Ralph Bradley
While Dick and I were in the canyonlands, we usually woke up at daylight and rode together after breakfast until 2 p.m. in
hot weather. Then we would return to the camp to rest in the shade until we prepared our evening meal. Our animals learned the
precise time when we would turn and return to the location where their grain was stored on top of a huge rock that only I could get
for them. But at that time, our camp was home to them. One day we decided to check out two different areas. For this time only,
we rode in different directions, each knowing where the other was going. After a certain amount of time, both canyons began to
look pretty much the same. After riding about five hours, I decided it was time to head back to camp. At one particularly rocky
point, my horse kept fighting the bit, wanting to go left while I insisted we go straight ahead. This went on for about one hundred
feet and then I glanced over in the direction she wanted to go. Suddenly, in a sandy spot, I saw the tracks that we had made coming
in. Feeling rather foolish, I patted her on the neck and said, “Come on, baby, you were right.” I let her veer over in the direction she
had wanted to go and we followed our own tracks back into camp.
We completed what was to be our last trip into the canyon lands and headed back over the shortcut Mr. Cooper had shown us.
Just before descending from the top of the mountain, we stopped and drank in the sights. It was an awesome expanse of space and
distance we saw - such an overwhelming sight. As I had explained earlier how steep and narrow the trail was for the animals to
lunge and scramble coming up, going down was entirely different. On the downward slope, the animals would stiffen or lock their
front legs and slide down the trail, so we had to keep out from in front of them because they could not stop.
For the rest of the time Dick spent with me, we explored the far reaches of the desert and the surrounding mountains. Northwest
of Escalante was a region of dense forest we had not explored. Probably a day’s ride up a faint trail, we came to what was apparently
a deserted rangers cabin where we decided to camp. A stream of cold water trickled near the cabin, so we placed a can of fruit in
the creek and made a comfortable camp to spend the night. Dick stayed in camp to prepare our evening meal. There was a dim
trail leading up to the west, which I followed for a couple of hours. The trail intersected a deep ravine incline of ninety degrees to
the north (right). I rode up the ravine for about two more hours until I decided it was time to head for camp. I guess it was upon a
simple whim I decided to test my dapple gray horse on her directions. We stopped for a minute or two, leaving the reigns loose on
her neck. She turned and started back down the trail. With no coercion from me, she cut across the forest in a triangular direction
in a straight line for our camp. She became so eager she was jumping over ravines and logs to the extent that I had to hold her back
for fear she would hurt herself. She made a direct beeline to the camp. After that I never questioned her directions when we headed
back to camp.
Shortly thereafter, Paul came out to see us and said it was now time to get shoes on Dick and prepare him to enter college.
Dick had proven to be a fine, rugged, young man that any man could be proud to have as a son. Since those days, he has completed
college, formed his own engineering company, and engaged in a very productive career in business, as well as becoming the stable
husband and father of a delightful family of which any man could be proud. At the inception of the western adventure it had been
my intent to spend two years – win, lose, or draw - and see what I came up with. When Dick returned home to enter college I
missed him, but with one year behind me I decided to stay on.
Branding
1952(?)
Ralph Bradley overlooking a
canyon at the rim of a cave.
1952(?)
Chapter 24 – Mining in the San Juans
S ometime in the following months, I became acquainted with a group of people who had an operating mine about one hundred
miles from Grand Junction in the San Juan Mountains. Upon their invitation, I accompanied them on a visitation trip to their
mine. I was so overwhelmed by the magnificent beauty of the scenery, that I bought a third interest in the operation, just to have a
reason for going back. I had never seen anything so inspiring as the mountains and valleys surrounding the mine. As the operation
progressed, it required more finances. One of the principles, realizing he could not come up with his share of the operational
money, sold his interest to me, making me a two-thirds owner of the operation.
Shortly after this event, I became acquainted with the financial advisor to the owner of the Atlas Mining Company, which
at that time was shut down due to insufficient ore production in the immediate area. To make a long story short, in the absence
of the local mines producing sufficient ore to feed the mill, I bought out all of the equipment of the Atlas Mining Company at a
very reasonable price, and moved the bulk of it to a warehouse in Ouray, Colorado. With the elevation there from nine to eleven
thousand feet, the snow shut us down for the winter.
I had acquired a lease on the property known as the Highline Canal Community Oil and Gas Lease in southwestern Colorado,
about twenty miles from the Utah border. I had also acquired a one-third interest in an oil lease in the immediate vicinity of
Vernal, Utah, which, according to the available reports, had 105 million barrels of oil in place. When the weather closed in, I
moved down out of the high country to concentrate on drilling the Highline Canal Community Oil and Gas Lease. After drilling
two holes we had one producer with enormous pressure of gas.
While involved in the drilling project, I had an important meeting scheduled with two petroleum engineers in Vernal, Utah.
There were two routes to Vernal from Grand Junction. One by highway was about 280 miles; the other was across a mountain pass
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down through Rangley, about 100 miles. I chose the latter. I started out around noon and stopped by my attorney’s office and got
tangled up in time-consuming details that used up most of the afternoon. Upon leaving his office, as an after thought, I stopped by
my office and threw my parka into the jeep and then headed out of town.
Climbing the mountain took longer than I expected. As I approached the pass, I saw a huge bobcat bounding up the mountain
ahead of me. The side of the mountain I was climbing was clear with no snow. Immediately upon crossing the crest, there was ice
and snow. I don’t think I went 200 feet after crossing the crest, only going about ten miles an hour, with my gears holding me back,
when my jeep shot forward on the ice and slammed into a 35-foot snow bank on my right side. The jeep bounced out into the center
or the road, made a 360-degree spin, and then slammed back into the snow bank, buried from center to center into the snow bank.
If I had gone off the other side of the road it would have been a 1000 foot drop. I tried digging from the center of the road with the
shovel I always carry, but could make no progress.
I put on my parka, without which I would have frozen to death. The temperature dropped to twenty below zero and I had almost
decided to set my fuel on fire. About two hours had passed when the miracle of all miracles happened. A huge truck with a long
bed for hauling drill pipe slowly came around the bend of the road, approaching me from below. The driver immediately recognized
my situation. He had chains on all sixteen wheels and stopped just in front of me. With no conversation, he climbed out of his cab,
threw a chain over my front bumper, and then very slowly backed down the slope, pulling me back up into the road. I was speechless
as he pulled on by. I started crawling in low gear down the mountain. It was ice all the way down and I could not go beyond slow
idle, holding into the high side of the road. At that speed, my engine would not generate any heat and I was shaking like a leaf in a
winter storm. After what seemed to be hours, I got to the bottom of the mountain beside the oilfields of Rangley.
At the corner of the field, there was a service station where I jumped out and ran inside. I was so cold I could barely talk. All I
wanted to do was call ahead and tell my men I did not want to talk to anyone, just have plenty of hot water for a shower. Here, for
the first time, I met the most despicable man I have ever met in all of my travels. He was in the process of closing the station for the
night and would not allow me to make a brief telephone call, even seeing my distraught condition. He insisted I would have to call
from an outside, unheated telephone booth, and then locked me out. In the booth, I was shaking so hard I had to hold the coins
in my left hand while holding my wrist with my right hand, just to get the coins into the slots. I finally got my message through. I
must have suffered frostbite of the lungs, because for at least three weeks, when I inhaled I would whistle. A couple of days later I
took the long way back to Grand Junction.
Later on that week, I had to go to Oaray, Colorado, a distance of approximately ninety miles, for a conference with a local
engineer and my attorney. We drove in his car. About halfway there we went into a skid on packed snow and spun off of the road.
When we returned to Grand Junction I told myself, “I have had it.” Two slide offs in one week were too many. So, I packed up
and drove to Las Vegas. Fifteen minutes after I checked in at the Stardust Hotel, I was soaking up the warm sunshine beside the
swimming pool. I stayed for a couple of weeks, waiting for the cold weather to change. After returning to Grand Junction and
taking care of a few minor details, I decided to wait until the weather warmed up before starting my drilling program.
I took the California Zephyr to Chicago and transferred to the James Whitcomb Riley on down to Indianapolis. This was
always a pleasant trip for me because, coming or going, I was away from telephones and enjoyed the thirty hours of peace and quiet.
My main reason for traveling as often as I did by train was the fact that the airlines were in their infancy. The only flight I could get
out of Grand Junction, Frontier Line, connected with a flight in Denver to Chicago, which always arrived twenty minutes after the
last flight to Indianapolis had departed. I preferred to spend the night in a Pullman car bed, instead of enduring the discomfort
of O’Hare Airport.
I always had business affairs to bring up to date in Indianapolis, along with visiting with my mother and relatives. One of the
friends I usually touched base with owned a new Ford agency. I called him and made a luncheon date. When I arrived at his
showroom, I saw a car like I had never seen before, which became one of the topics we discussed. The car was a hard top convertible.
At the push of a button motors lifted the trunk lid as the top lifted and folded back and was cradled down into the trunk. The
trunk then closed tight, making a neat five passenger convertible. To raise the top, you simply push a button and the whole thing
reversed. It was called a Skyliner and was the last one he would get. When we returned from lunch he said, “Why don’t you take it
out and drive it?” I did just that, and it ran, so to speak, like a scared rabbit. It was a beautiful Inca gold, trimmed in white and black.
I thought it would be a lot of fun to have out in the mountains. To make a long story short, I went back and wrote him a check for
it. It turned out to be one of the most delightful cars I ever owned.
Chapter 25 – Personal Observations
I still have about 15 years to cover in my western activities, which I will do in a sequel to this writing, but there are current events
going on as of this writing on which I wish to express my personal opinions. There is such a disparity in the attitudes of society
between today and the 1940’s, when there was a “Can Do” spirit and approach to every difficult situation that cropped up at home
and abroad.
When the fifteen million young men and women embraced loved ones and set off for some unknown battlefield, with no
guarantee that they would return, we were not going for six months or one year; we were going for the duration of the war. There
were no thoughts of defeat. Whatever it took, and for however long it would take, was a moot question. There was an unspoken
iron-willed resolve that victory would be ours.
There was a very prophetic comment that was made by Japanese Admiral Yamamoto after Pearl Harbor - “I am afraid we have
but awakened a sleeping giant.”
Unimaginable demands were assigned our fighting men and, without exception, the survivors came through bloodied and
battered but ready to go again. We started out with a large part of our sea power submerged in the dark waters of Pearl Harbor,
but emerged victorious with the mightiest naval armada the world had ever seen. Our men died by the hundreds of thousands but
fought on to total victory. And yes, in war, civilians are going to die too, in untold numbers. I cannot forget those times, as I equate
them against the forces of evil that our young soldiers are fighting today in the year of 2006.
Today we are a super power being denigrated by a weakened, gutless, powder-puff society, beset by traitors at home and forces
in hiding here at home and abroad, whose sole purpose in life is to destroy all that we hold dear. Strong words, but I stand by them.
What we need in these times is a Commander-in-Chief with an iron fist. To any country or foreign power that elects to be our
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enemy rather that a friend, bring down that iron fist and crush them before they put their evil plans into action. I think we should
double the size of our standing army, and return the reserves and National Guards to their home states. They can be activated, as
the governor of their state deems necessary. Whatever the cost, it would be less than failure.
Our sick society lost its way many years ago, the roots of which are all firmly embedded in Hollywood. Before the garbage that
is now Hollywood, we had a committee known as the Hayes Committee. To protect the morality of the public, every film had to
be viewed and approved by this committee. And the good guys always won. Otherwise it stayed in the can. One film was released
that had the effect of the provincial camel’s nose under the tent. The title of that film, which was a huge financial success, was “Gone
With The Wind.” The evolution of smut began with the last spoken words of the movie. Rhett Butler (Clark Gabel) spoke them
to his wife Scarlet O’Hare (Vivian Leigh) when she asked him, “What is going to happen to me?” He replied, “Frankly my dear, I
don’t give a damn.” The cat was out of the bag, and the camel took full possession of the tent. From there, Hollywood proceeded
down the path of debauchery, pornography, filth, and vulgarity, thus destroying the universal concept of beauty, purity, and the
ultimate in perfection of the female gender. This was further exploited with the advent of television and the immoral internet
wasteland that pollutes the fertile minds of our children today.
I am extremely grateful that I lived through the Great Depression of the 1930’s. We clawed our way through, but we did not
know we were poor. Nobody told us so. We survived and appreciated what we had. There was no such thing as welfare. Like him or
not, President Franklin Roosevelt started the wheels of recovery turning when he initiated the “National Recovery Act,” with such
programs as the “Works Progress Administration.” This made work for grown men with families to feed, restoring their dignity
with a paycheck, rather than a handout welfare dole for doing nothing.
I was also, and will ever, be grateful that I lived through the Big Band Era that played morale-boosting, beautiful music, even
before radio came into its heyday. My buddies and I would learn the music and lyrics of every new number that came out of what
was called Tin Pan Alley, where most of the best composers of the day worked their magic.
The Russian immigrant Irving Berlin, recognized as one of the finest and most prolific composers of the times, and I have two
things in common. Neither of us could read music and we both play the piano in the same key. To overcome this, he had a special
piano made, which I have seen, that has a shift lever under the keyboard. When he needed the pitch of a higher or lower key he
would merely shift the lever to reach the key. I sometimes smugly say I do have a remote connection with greatness.
The great music of that era played an enormous part in boosting the morale of the country. It was not long before most
households had some semblance of a radio they would gather around in the evening, listening very intently to the sweet strains of
heart-warming music, or burst into laughter at Ish Kabibble’s antics as Kay Kyser’s nut. Anybody remember “Swing and Sway with
Sammy Kay”? Glen Miller’s music was always a delight that would soothe a lonesome heart. In the most tragic of times, those were
sounds and words that would inspire a broken heart to go on with life. The pin up pictures of the beautiful girls in Hollywood,
such as Lana Turner, Betty Gable, Alice Faye, Rita Hayworth, Linda Darnell, Ann Sheridan, and Ginger Rogers adorned the
footlockers of GIs around the world with the caption “This is what we are fighting for,” symbolizing the girl they left behind. Those
were the days when men were men and women were glad of it.
Many men at times have thought that they were God’s gift to women, but that is hardly the case. In fact, according to what we
read in the Bible, it was just the opposite. In the good book it says that God said, “Let us make man in our own image,” establishing
once and for all that God was of the male gender. Then He formed the figure of man out of dust and breathed the breath of life into
him. The most exquisite garden in the world was formed and given to man as his own, personal home. After observing man for a
few days, God recognized that this creation was incomplete. Man was not happy in his surroundings, and worst of all, he could
not reproduce himself. He could not lay eggs and hatch out little men. It was all wrong, and God knew it. So God put man into a
deep sleep, extracted bone matter from his rib cage, and added exotic materials that could perform a vast number of mysterious
functions that became the masterpiece of creation. Then, to accomplish what nothing else could do, God formed what would be
His stroke of genius, thus inventing sex. As man and woman were brought to life simultaneously, they stared at each other in awe,
wondering “what kind of a creature is this? From where did it come?”
Now even God has some secrets, and I am not going to delve any further into that part of creation except to say the end result,
women, was far superior to man because she could drive him crazy trying to figure out what makes her tick.
When a baby girl is born, she is a replica of God’s masterpiece of creation. Along with that line of thought, any man who says he
understands women has already told me how little he knows about them. They contain, within some hidden recess of their being,
the gamut of emotions that makes them the fascinating and desirable creatures they are to man.
I was discussing these idiosyncrasies with my brother. “What do they find to talk about so much?” He replied, “I don’t know,
but my wife can talk for a half hour on a wrong number.” Having recently celebrated their 75th wedding anniversary I could not
think of a more experienced person to ask such a question. Not in any way denigrating to women, but in a peculiar sense amazing,
because it has always been a mystery to me.
I personally have liked, and at times loved, women most of my life. I respect them and am gentle with and protective of them
at all times. Sometimes in the early stages of a relationship, I may be forced to say, “I will hold your coat for you. I will rise to my
feet and hold your chair for you. I will open the car door for you. But I will not run a footrace with you to get there first. You must
give me time.”
Sometimes I had to repeat this a time or two, but I learned that most ladies were pleased to be treated like ladies. I did not do
this trying to impress a person. It is just, and always has been, like second nature to me to treat a lady like a lady.
It has always been my opinion that, if a man marries a woman, and he will treat her with consideration, gentle kindness, and
respect, he will be her hero for as long as he lives. And if there are children born of this marriage, to them he will be a tower of
strength and admiration, because of the way he has treated the mother they dearly love. I either read or heard a statement that
bears repeating here. It involves combat with a woman. If you are a man and you find yourself in a fight with a woman, your most
strategic weapon is your hat. Grab it and run.
Women in general have been smaller in stature and strength than men. In my opinion, any man found guilty of battering a
woman should, upon conviction, receive a mandatory sentence of a public lashing of three blows with a cat-o’-nine-tails whip, plus
one year in prison with no time off for any reason. For a second offense, the same public lashing, plus five years in prison, plus the
transfer of 75 percent of any property or wealth he possesses to the sole ownership of the victim of his brutality, plus a lifetime
restraining order, violation of which would be a mandatory life sentence in prison.
For any adult who sexually assaults and murders a child, upon conviction, should be executed within ninety days of conviction.
For this offense, I would like to see the return of the electric chair and the hangman’s noose, with the convicts having their choice
of the two. This would put the fear of God and man into the minds of anyone considering such a heinous crime.
Do you think this is cruel and inhumane punishment? What about the terror and agony of the little child as this perverted
monster was satisfying their sadistic lust, then killing this innocent little victim and disposing of the body as unwanted trash. Do
you think this cruel and inhuman punishment? I think not. Compassion I have, but only for the victims of crime. I believe “let the
punishment fit the crime.”
Chapter 26 – Religious Observations
T here are some over-educated stargazers that deny the existence of God and His creations. They claim that the earth came into
existence after some big bang explosion in outer space, but they do not have an answer as to what banged, or what caused it
to bang, just to skirt around the existence of God.
I find no fault with the Big Bang theory because, if this is the way it happened, then it was part of God’s plan of creation. After
the big bang, He formed the beautiful globe we call Earth out of the pieces, then filled in the deep valleys with water to form what
we call oceans, then let certain things evolve from there. There is no way, in my thinking, that man evolved from a slimy bug that
crawled out of a bog and then became a man.
Nowhere in space can the stargazers and pin-headed elite, who deny the existence of God, find a resemblance of another planet
remotely equal to the beautiful globe we live on.
From my earliest memories, I have always been influenced by religion, primarily by my mother, and her relatives and friends.
Mother sincerely believed in the goodness of God and lived her life trusting Him to care for her and her loved ones, never doubting
that her prayers would be answered. Earlier in these writings, I mentioned religious influence on my life as a teenager, selling
Bibles with the traveling evangelist. During this period, when going from church to churches of different denominations, I found
that they all study the same Bible, they all believe in the virgin birth of Jesus Christ, and they all believe in the death, burial, and
resurrection of Jesus Christ. What seemed so strange was that, in each church, I met good, sincere people, worshipping the same
God. They were very devout in their interpretation of the bulk of the Scriptures, except maybe in a particular verse or two. They
were basing the identity of their denominations or some small difference, and therefore refusing to worship or associate with any
church that did not believe exactly as they believed. Thus, the numerous churches going their separate ways came into being. My
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personal convictions are that if there is a loving and just God, all of these individuals, being true and sincere in their particular
beliefs, will end up in the same heaven when their life on earth is over.
About thirty years ago I met a very fine lady with impeccable morals and character. She had been a widow for three years. In
those three years, she had remained loyal to his memory, but began to appreciate that life is for the living. I convinced her that you
cannot think of two different things at the same time, and it was time for her to rejoin the living. We began by attending together
the Catholic Church that she belonged to. One day while discussing world events, I asked her, “Why are you a Catholic?” She was
a little startled and replied, “I was born one.” Then I began asking her rather incisive questions about the Catholic religion. She
was surprised to admit how little she knew about it. About this time, at one of the services, the priest announced that a series of
classes would be starting soon at the church for Catholics who wanted to learn more about the Catholic faith. The class would also
be open for non-Catholics interested in leaning about it. It seemed to fit our questions, so we decided to attend. One of the books
that I bought was titled “Christ Among Us.” As I delved into this book with serious intent, I learned that Catholicism included
the beliefs of all of the churches of all denominations that I had previously come in contact with. This was all detailed in the book
“Christ Among Us.” I thus became seriously interested in the church myself.
My lady friend’s elderly parents lived in Florida and her mother became ill. Being the dutiful daughter she was, she went to
Florida to take care of her mother. A few weeks after her arrival, her father had a stroke and died shortly thereafter. Her mother’s
problem turned out to be Alzheimer’s disease. After she moved to Florida to care for her mother, I continued going to mass. I
missed only five services, due to health problems or weather, for the following five years. Then these homosexual priests started
showing up in numbers. I found it hard to believe, until their pictures and history showed up in local papers. I was appalled when
they were merely transferred to another parish to continue working their evil on children. Had I done such a crime once, I would be
spending twenty to forty years in prison. When the information reached the Vatican, and they were allowed to continue, I became
disenchanted with the entire farce. I now regard it as a gigantic money machine.
It did not destroy my faith in God, but it sure caused me to look with a jaundiced eye at Bible-thumpers begging you to send
them money as their churches grow larger in size and luxury. I remember a very prominent, well-known televangelist that came up
with the idea of seed faith giving. “If you only have a little and will send that to me, God will multiply it back to you many times
over.” That approach clicked with almost every preacher on TV. Now it seems 80 percent, or more, of them are selling seed faith in
every sermon. Just a few days ago while watching television, I happened to click onto a supposedly religious program. A very good
looking, sexy woman, about twenty-five years old, was frantically, almost hysterically, pleading for her viewers to call and pledge
$77.11 a month for 12 months, and God would shower them with benefits. After her pitch, the nicely-dressed gentleman sitting
next to her came on with his pitch. Directed at high income people in the sports world, he asked for one million dollars that they
would never miss, and God would do oh-so-much for them, as though God could be bribed.
I never did bite on that bait, but I have donated to several requests where I had faith in the cause they were advancing. One
practice that sometimes amuses me is when someone leading the singing is soulfully singing of Heaven with their eyes gazing up
at the ceiling. They talk and sing about streets paved with gold and images of heavenly beings floating around on clouds playing
golden harps. It seems to be insinuating that they will be singing and praising God for all eternity. Now I do not mean to sound
irreverent, but for all eternity is forever. Somewhere along the line it seems to me that boredom would set in, or God would get
tired of it.
I have been mulling over thoughts of Heaven, and where it might be. I came up with what you will think is a crackpot idea. But
is it? One thing that strikes fear in my mind is infinity, something that has no end, like outer space. Example: If we could launch
a rocket into outer space traveling a million miles an hour, it would continue on through eternity and never come to the end of its
journey.
I sometimes think of that when I see pictures taken from outer space of the beautiful globe we inhabit. Nothing to date that
we have discovered in space can remotely compare with Earth’s beauty and function in so many ways. I have been thinking how
wonderful it would be that, if when Christ returns to earth, as everyone to some extent believes He will, if in one fell swoop He
would eliminate everything evil that existed, including those individuals who were thinking evil thoughts, and eliminate hunger
and every disease of every kind, forever, and allow His raptured people to continue living the good life on this big beautiful planet
Earth. That would truly be “Heaven on Earth,” - something to think about.

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Journey Through Time

But there are some who have forgot

Did you ever stop to realize

Your soldiers fight in all these places

Perhaps your sweetheart, friend, or son

Their goal’s the same on land and sea

So prepare, work, and pray

Ralph Raymond Bradley, U.S. Army

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