What it would be like to step out the door of an airplane a couple of thousand feet up, in the
dark, with people shooting at you, is beyond my ability to imagine. But John
did that on D-Day in 1944. That would be 71 years ago yesterday. I’ve heard that
many people who survived it had flashbacks on the date every year for the rest
of their lives.
I used to try to take
John for lunch or a couple of beers on the day, until he died. I worked with him
at the L.A. Times in the early 60s. He was a photographer and I was a writer,
and we sometimes teamed on an assignment. Nothing dramatic; we worked for the Promotion
Department, not hard news.
He drove one of those slick little 57 Ford two-seaters with
the portholes. When we finished whatever it was -- publicizing a retail
advertising client, interviewing a
contest winner -- John would drive us back to the Redwood Room, the bar located
physically in a corner of the building the newspaper was in; the bar was sort of an annex.
The bartender and all the waitresses would greet him by name, and before it was
over they knew me just as well.
Lou Nightly -- the
banner over the front window announced “Lou Wilson Nightly at the Piano," and
the “Wilson” dropped out early on -- Lou Nightly would assign a theme song to
each of the regulars and would launch into it when he saw one coming through
the door. Mine was “Danny Boy.” I don't know why, you‘d have to ask Lou.
Too late now, I’m sure.
John was one of three WWII guys I became friends with, all
named John, oddly. Whether it was the war, or the Depression before that, that
shaped them, or just coincidence, all had something -- "integrity" is a word that comes to mind. When you were a friend, that was it.
Probably the same for an enemy, but I didn’t have to deal with that part.
We visited John at the VA hospital, a few days before he
died, as it turned out. We were directed to a day room, but when I looked in there
was only one man in it and it wasn’t John. The attendant insisted, though, and when I looked
really closely, yes it was him. The cancer had aged him so much so fast I hadn’t
recognized him.
