Forrest B. Prince was my uncle, my father’s brother, for whom I was named. I was born in 1954, so of course I never knew my Uncle Forrest.
If he hadn’t died serving his country my life sure would have been different. For one thing I probably wouldn’t have the name Forrest. Maybe my father’s life would have been so different that I would have never come along. But that’s not what happened.
It wasn’t easy growing up with the name Forrest. I got teased a lot: Forry-fire, Forry-fire. Hey, Trees! Fatty-Forry, Fatty-Forry. I even despised the nickname Forry and when I got older I insisted on people, even my own sisters and close friends, always using my full name; Forry just seemed juvenile.
Today I wouldn’t trade my name for the world. It’s not very common, it means just what it sounds like, and I have a very proud reason to bear it.
Just before he joined the Marines, Uncle Forrest was working for Lockheed, in Burbank, CA, as a Skin Fitter. Not long after his death Lockheed dedicated a PV-1 Ventura bomber to him as a Fighting Memorial.
I served in the U.S. Navy, from 1979 to 1985. I sure never got an aircraft dedicated to me but I did work on the Navy’s newest jet at the time, the F/A-18 Hornet. I like to think Uncle Forrest would have been proud of me.