As the photo might indicate, Dad is a member of "The Greatest Generation." Last December, he celebrated his 87th birthday. His wife (my stepmother) died at the beginning of March, and Dad has been undergoing chemotherapy for lung cancer since the beginning of the year. At one point, I thought that I might write some sort of tribute to him after he passed, but the old guy believes in living. I could wind up waiting a very long time writing that tribute. How much better if I have the opportunity to tell him what I think of him while he's still here with us.
The photo might be a tad misleading. He was never a bomber or fighter pilot. In fact, he never served in any combat capacity during the entire war. Oh, he wanted to, it just never happened.
At the time the US entered WWII, the majority of Americans had never even flown in an aircraft. A large percentage of Americans had never seen an airplane up close and personal, and many had never even seen one fly by overhead.
My father introduced himself to flying. As a teenager, before the war, he spent his free time hanging around the airfield outside of Kansas City, Missouri, talking it up with the mechanics and pilots. His fantasy was to become an airplane mechanic. But someone at the airfield showed him an old bi-plane practically abandoned in one of the hangers. After buying it for less than $100.00, he learned how to repair it. After repairing, as rumors have it, he taught himself to fly it. Yes, you read that correctly.
When the war broke out, because of my father's vast experience in aviation, the Army hired him as a civilian to teach many, many others how to fly. Think of all of those war movies involving American flyers. In real life, the first stop for those boys was to spend a little time with my Dad in Cape Girardeau. These kids weren't John Waynes ready to save the world, they were scared children who were there on the basis of quickly administered aptitude examinations, given in order to determine the branch of service for which they were best suited.
My father served in the capacity of flight instructor for a couple of years. The Army then decided to close down the training base and conscript the civilian trainers into the service. My father was given two choices. He could fly the hump in the CBI program, or he could go in through general enlistment and take his chances.
My mother objected strenuously to the CBI program (my father's preference), so my father went in through general enlistment as a buck private, and was transferred to Oklahoma. Oklahoma was then experiencing an epidemic of sorts, and so incoming servicemen were given unproven drugs to avoid infection. Shortly it was discovered that the drugs caused ear and eye problems. Because of that, all of the servicemen who came in with my father were taken out of combat training and directed toward non-combat occupations.
After the war, my father had no trouble finding odd jobs as a pilot. He also had no trouble finding surplus aircraft that he could restore and sell. He is pictured below with a friend after purchasing the same model aircraft he taught in, a PT-19.
One would think that this period was the most exciting time of my father's life; but this was but one diversionary episode in a life that could possibly make Jack London blush. The circumstances of my father's birth would serve as the introduction to a life beyond compare.
He was born in Tehran, Iran. My grandmother was born there as well. It wasn't Iran at the time, of course, it was Persia. Dad's grandfather was the head of the American Red Cross in the Middle East in the early part of the 20th century. At the time, the American Red Cross was a medical missionary organization. We still have some Middle Eastern newspaper clippings from the time which proclaim Dr. William Vanneman (my great grandfather) as the most trusted westerner in the entire Middle East. For a time he even served as the personal physician of the Prince's (subsequently the Shaw's) harem. We have an article describing a caravan across the desert with my great grandfather in attendance, shuttling the Prince to his coronation. It was a caravan which stretched for miles with thousands of people, camels, donkeys, horses, and guardsmen. My grandmother, having completed her lower education in American and French compounds (able, at the time, to speak seven languages) left for the United States to attend Vasar College. She was there when WWI broke out and my great grandfather disappeared off of the face of the Earth.
She met my grandfather, an Army airman, on a military base in Texas. They fell in love and were soon married. I have copies of the letters between them when they were courting, Grandpa's letters to his mother telling her about the perfect girl he'd found, and all of their correspondence through the dramatic events of the years which followed.
When the war ended, my grandparents made arrangements to travel to Persia in search of Dr. Vanneman. They enrolled as missionaries in order to compile the necessary funds, but they participated in many occupations while in the Middle East. My grandmother once pulled a cart through the streets of Tabriz, loading the bodies of starvation victims. There are indications in their letters which suggest a temptation on their part toward canibalism, if not a brief flirtation with the practice. WWI had not been good to that part of the world which had embraced my grandmother's happy childhood. Within their first year my father was born in poor health. Proper food for him, and medical attention was hard to come by.
Ultimately my grandmother went to work in Tehran as a railroad dispatcher. There was only one track through Tehran, so trains would stop outside of the city and telegraph to the dispatch office for permission to pass through, that way avoiding potential head on collisions with trains passing in the opposite direction. To my grandmother's shock, she received a telegram stating that medical patients were on board the train waiting outside the city, and the author of the telegram was seeking immediate access so he could get his patients to hospital. The telegram was signed, Dr. William Vanneman.
As it turned out, my great grandfather had been kidnapped by the Turks who had applied to him more than a little pressure to turn over the funds for the American Red Cross. The money was hidden for him by his friends in the market place. He never told them where the money was because he didn't know (all according to his plan). He only knew that the money had been hidden.
After reuniting, my family began their trek back to America. They fled by coach across the desert, avoiding highwaymen and tribal warriors. All of this with a very sick child in tow. Eventually they reached India and boarded a ship, the Victoria, which took them to England.
On a very cool side note: My father has posession of a xerox copy of the passenger manafest for that voyage. Listed were "Conan Doyle, Sir Arthur (Nanny, two children)"
From there my family came back to America. Grandpa set up shop in Kansas City, Missouri, where he entered the business insurance industry and became one of Kansas City's all time leading citizens. They made three brothers and a sister to keep my dad company. Eventually the first born brother went on to become a Vice President for Chase Manhattan, the second born brother followed in my grandfather's footsteps, the sister married a doctor of her own and raised several of my cousins, and the youngest brother seemed to draw inspiration from my father. As for my father?
End of part one. In part two, I'll tell you a little about Dad's early years in KC, the post war years, my ultimate relationship with him, and you'll hear a little from Dad, in his own words.