The economy, in a slow recovery from the Great Depression, went into a frantic rush to tool up for the needs of a nation at war. All the cars, refrigerators, stoves, toasters, alarm clocks, washing machines, all the civilized necessities we were accustomed to, were no longer available. Those factories now produced guns, ammo, jeeps, tanks, housing, schools, hospitals, clothing and health care for the military. The labor force for all of this was depleted as men were pulled into the service. The women hung up their dishtowels and with the help of neighbors and grandparents to care for their children, joined the war effort by working in the factories. And the song “Rosie the Riveter” was born.  

Toward the end of the war, I worked for a short while in the General Motors Stamping Plant that had in peace time produced auto bodies but then made shell casings. That was a fun job. I drove a three-wheeled tow motor with half-inch steel plate body. We pulled racks of shells from one place to another, we pulled bins of scrap to the trash area, and then when the war was almost over, all the tow motor drivers and any other drivers of utility vehicles helped relocate the huge presses by pushing or pulling them an inch at a time. And that is what I did in the Great War.  During those long war years, this country was no longer a happy-go-lucky place to live. There were constant reminders that we were at war, from the numerous gold stars mounted on blue velvet hanging in the front windows of families that had lost a son or daughter to the war, to the black-out drills, to the skimpy gas rationing, and the 35 mile per hour speed limit everywhere.  Hitch-hiking became a way of life for many. We felt perfectly safe, stopping to give a lift.

There were no weather reports from the day war was declared until the peace treaty was signed. We learned to read the sky ourselves.  The government advertised broadly the sale of war bonds to raise money for the war.  Their signs and slogans were everywhere. I also remember vividly one sign that warned “Loose Lips Sink Ships.”

But there was also vitality in the land, a feeling of unity and courage. Patriotism was in full bloom and our world was worth whatever it took to preserve it. A whole generation of young people was decimated to stop the power struggle in Europe and the ruthless advances of Japan on our holdings in the South Pacific. 

Even though my mother was sure that Roosevelt was the Antichrist, she knew that the evil had to be stopped, and there was prayer in the land and in the schools that God would help us to bring an end to the horribleness of war.

Every day, every week, every year, the losses in human life and property mounted and it began to feel like it would NEVER end.

When Germany surrendered, we thought that now it would be over, but the war in the Pacific carried on with brutal force.

Don Bouman was aboard the destroyer, the Collett, in the final days of the war. He reported, “Our ship intercepted a message that was going from Tokyo to Washington, asking to end the war. But they were not ready for a complete surrender. The United States and our Allies told them there would be nothing accepted except a full surrender. It was another month or so before that happened.”  I remember hearing the newscast about a bomb so huge that if dropped in New York Harbor, it would empty it of water. I heard it but didn’t grasp the magnitude of this bomb.  We did know that the Allies had assembled the largest armada in the South Pacific in history, but that the Japanese were ready to fight to the last man. Their history and religion demanded it.  When the first Atom Bomb was dropped, we cringed at the devastation and prayed that the slaughter of our men and their men would stop, but days passed and the killing when on. The second bomb finally convinced them to surrender. 

When the war finally ended, the battleship Missouri sailed into Tokyo Harbor and anchored not far from Don’s ship. The final signing of the papers, the declaration ending the war and the Japanese full surrender was made on the bow of the Missouri. Don said that through binoculars, he was able to watch the whole thing. He could see the expression on their faces and

the kind of clothes they wore – a real thrill for a man who had not set foot on land for three and a half years. He was ready to come home.  We lived in Grand Rapids, Michigan at that time. Our Lynda was 2 years old. We heard on the radio that there was to be a big celebration in Campau Square that evening and we decided to go. We knew better than to drive, so we took the bus as close as we could get. So with Lynda on her Dad’s shoulders, we joined the mob in downtown Grand Rapids.  It was shoulder to shoulder, rejoicing, hugging, crying, laughing, and sharing with strangers about those we knew and their part in the terrible struggle.