I suppose I could have been a Doctor, or at least a Master. I got my BS in 1939, technically not yet aged 21. The significance of this was that in those days the Army required that a commissioned officer be at least 21 years of age. So when the new second lieutenants marched across that stage at graduation to receive their commissions, I received a rolled-up sheet of white paper. It led to some interesting efforts, getting that commission. When I became eligible I was asked to take a physical examination. By that time I was working at my first job, in Buffalo, and was directed to the local Marine recruiting office. I've always had somewhat high blood pressure, and I had to make several visits, and take a heart X-ray, before I received the commission. I like to compare all that fuss with my actual entry into the Army in 1941, three days after Pearl Harbor, when they'd pass anyone who could stand without a cane. I was discharged from Lovell General Hospital February 7, 1945, and went on terminal leave, which I completed April 24. The war, still raging, was going into its final months. I had to decide what to do. With the GI Bill underway, I decided to go back for a Master's, at Syracuse University. I could complete it in a year, if I tried. I did all the class work, but lost interest in my thesis, and never did complete that, because Mary and I were married in December, and I went to work in the business world. I suppose I should regret not having the degree, but I never have. Knowing what I do today, and having to do it over again, I think I'd have accumulated some fast money by buying up military surplus and peddling it. Then I could have gone into some sort of enterprise. Then, again, I could have been a young bankrupt. One important thing I've since learned is that one never regrets a decision.

In any case, Mary's father offered me the chance to come into his business, and I accepted. Mr. O'Donnell had just purchased controlling stock in the Great Northern Warehouses, Inc., with a solidly built eight-story edifice put up at a time when railroads moved everything between cities, and drays moved everything around cities. It was perfectly suited to the twenties, but an obsolete hulk in the forties, and hadn't shown a profit in many years. Nevertheless, it was modernized to the extent possible. The short receiving bays, long enough for only wagons, were closed off, and much new dockage built. A two-story addition was put on, designed to take advantage of the two railroad sidings (New York Central and Lackawanna). Most important of all, a fleet of fork trucks was purchased, and all freight, both for storage and for handling, was palletized. We never did overcome the build-in disadvantage of low ceilings, but the mechanization did improve the bottom line. After putting the firm on a better financial footing, Mr. O’Donnell finally, years later, sold the building to a furniture retailer, who could and did use the low ceilings--and his bulky product--to an advantage which could never have paid off in commercial warehousing. I'll get back to career later.

When we met, she was Mary Catherine O'Donnell, a cadet dietician at Lovell General Hospital, Fort Devens, Massachusetts. I was wounded August 4, 1943, in the closing days of the Sicilian campaign. It was known as the "Million Dollar Wound", not bad enough to kill, but enough to take me back to the United States, although it took a few months to get there. After several days at the evacuation hospital in Sicily, I was flown back to the 12th General Hospital at Oran, where I acquired a traction rig. After a bit I was fitted with a spica (two-legged) cast, and transported to Charleston, South Carolina, on the hospital ship Arcadia, which had a bent propeller shaft from a grounding in the Mediterranean, and shook like

it had the DT's. No matter; we were going home. I spent a couple of weeks in a hospital there, and was transported to Rhoads General Hospital in Utica, New York. Another change of cast. Finally, in December, 1943, I came by New York Central to Fort Devens, and made my home there for nearly fourteen months. That's where I met Mary. By then I was twenty-five, and Mary, not long out of Syracuse University, was twenty-two. As Mary tells it, I was supposed to have complained about the food, and she, as the lowest ranker on the staff, was sent to find out why. I don't recall being anything but a docile patient, but that's her story. Anyway, she came around frequently, and I began to see her in a romantic light. I was confined to bed or wheelchair for most of the time she was still at the hospital, but about March 15, 1944, I had an orthopedic brace, and was able to stand. The first day I tried it, after nearly eight months on my back, I had to be put back down, but after a couple of days I became re-accustomed to standing. Right at about that time, Mary left for Fort Benning, to be commissioned and assigned to a unit. In May, 1944, I was home (Rhode Island) on the second of several 30-day sick leaves, as there was little to do except wait for healing. I think It was at this time that I made my first trip to Syracuse, by train, to meet the O'Donnells. They came down to the station, only nine years old at the time, to greet me. Rails were still the only way to travel, and everything was jammed. Mary had come home, and was with her family. I made another trip to Syracuse later, with my mother. This time I drove. My father had to work, and couldn't come. I still had the brace on, and couldn't bend my knee, but had learned to drive one-footedly. By turning my left foot sideways, I could control the clutch with my toe, and the brake with my heel. It worked out very nicely. Mary was able to make one trip to Westerly, just before she went overseas. There are some pictures taken in Wilcox Park. I last saw her, before she left, in Providence, at the Holmes house. We went to the Biltmore Hotel in Providence, drank champagne, and danced. Yes, danced! It probably looked silly, as I had to leave my crutches at the table, but dance we did. Mary returned in 1945, disabled, and spent several months at an Army hospital in Denver. I had been retired from the Army, and on 7 February 1945 went on terminal leave, to leave active service 24 April. May returned to Syracuse in September, I think, and we were married by Mr. O'Donnell's cousin, Father John Daley, on 29 December 1945, at Most Holy Rosary Church. The reception, quite plush for those lean post-war days, was at the Bellevue Country Club. A few of the guests were fraternity brothers, but most were friends of the O'Donnells. There are pictures somewhere, if the kids haven't thrown them away, or any of several dogs chewed them up. It wasn't much of a honeymoon. I had to get back to classes at the University, and travel of any sort was difficult. We did have a car. These days it's hard to imagine a shortage of automobiles, but in 1945 there was a four-year gap in production to fill. Fortunately, Mr. O'Donnell was a new Ford dealer. We've often said that in those postwar days you couldn't but a new car for love nor money. Well, in our case, not for money, anyway. We flew--the upscale way to go--in a DC-3 to New York, and spent several days at the Hotel Pierre. We'd had reservations on the Empire State Express, in case of bad weather, and a friend, Ed Kelley, drove the car

to New York for us. Unfortunately, he drove it without oil, and the little driving we did around New York was un-lubricated. Ford later make it good through warranty. We moved into our first home, which was waiting for us. You'd have to have been there to understand the desperate nature of the shortage of housing. Remember--there had been, before the war, ten or twelve years of deep depression, during which not much of anything had been built. Then, '41-'45, virtually no civilian building of any sort. So there was little to start with. Then dump fifteen or sixteen million guys and gals onto the scene, all fresh out of the military, and all anxious to settle down, and you can imagine the chaos resulting. We were lucky in that Mrs. O'Donnell owned some rental property around the area. None of it would be described as Park Place in a Monopoly game, but much of it was quite adequate. She had a four-apartment house in Liverpool, at 204 Third Street, and she saved one of the apartments for us. It was what used to be called a railroad flat, as the rooms were strung out one behind the other, like a train. We paid forty dollars per month, and considered ourselves lucky to be housed. This was our home for over four years. We were lucky in that Mrs. O'Donnell owned some rental property around the area. None of it would be described as Park Place in a Monopoly game, but much of it was quite adequate. She had a four-apartment house in Liverpool, at 204 Third Street, and she saved one of the apartments for us. It was what used to be called a railroad flat, as the rooms were strung out one behind the other, like a train. We paid forty dollars per month, and considered ourselves lucky to be housed. This was our home for over four years. It was supposed to be two-bedroom, but we fixed up one of the bedrooms as a den of sorts. We got a Wurlitzer miniature piano--five octaves--which fit nicely into the space, and made for many a musical interlude. There was a four-car garage behind the building. Trying to get into any space other than the very first one, required a lot of backing and filling. There was a basement, frequently flooded, where the washing we had two washers, one on each side, or one for two tenants. Things worked out very well until the Pfohls (Betty was Mary's sister) moved in a few months after we did. Betty, living on the other side of the house, used to steal our light bulb, rather than replace her own. I took care of that by cementing the light bulb in the socket, which

foiled the thefts, but caused me some trouble when it eventually blew out. Once, during the frequent flooding, Mary complained to her mother, the landlady, about the basement floor, which was under about nine inches of water. Mrs. O'Donnell, eager to oblige, sent a man out with a little (about a half-pound) bag of calcium chloride--the thing you might hang in a damp closet. I was able to make myself useful once when the Pfohls said they'd like some electrical outlets. I volunteered. So they went off to a football game, and I spent the afternoon putting in baseboard outlets. I am myself amazed to recall my own expertise--in so many ways. The only clinker was that this old building had for a center support a huge 18" wooden girder down the center of the first floor. I spent most of the time drilling through it. Mary was as good cook, and a good entertainer. We had some nice dinner parties there, and even an occasional barbecue in the miniscule yard. The guests were the Pfohls, later the Clarks and Quigleys (siblings of Mary), or close friends like Frank and Betty Read. We had, for a short time, next-door neighbors, the…