As I write this in late October 2016, I’m faced with a choice: I can focus on and think about two very similar events coming up fast, or two other events occurring a bit later. The first two both feature cackling witches, prancing goblins, people hiding their true identities behind masks; fake super-heroes and caped crusaders, nasty tricks and cheap treats, raucous noise and messy mornings-after. That’s Halloween and the national elections.

Then, on November 10th and 11th, we have the 241st birthday of the Marine Corps and Veterans Day. I don’t think I have to explain my celebration of the first event—not to those of you who know me. On Veterans Day, we—the GunBums crew—do something a little different. We share tales of veterans few have ever heard of, or, the almost-forgotten, the overlooked stories, and I’d like to share a couple of them with you. For 2016 we decided to focus on World War II.

Bill spent his days mostly looking down; just the nature of his job. When he wasn’t sweeping and mopping hallway floors he was scrubbing sinks and toilets in the dormitory bathrooms. Daily, students flowed around him like a river, and he might well have been a slow-moving log in the stream. Like countless other janitors at countless other schools, he was virtually invisible; just the quiet, soft-spoken man behind the broom. But this school was the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and one day this all changed.

A student, Cadet James Moschgat, Class of ’77, was reading a book on the fierce fighting up the boot of Italy during World War II. He glanced at a grainy photo, then did a double-take on it, and murmured to a couple of classmates, “Holy cow, you’re not going to believe this, but I think our janitor has a Medal of Honor.” The photo was old, and of a much younger man, but the resemblance was still striking. The following day Cadet Moschgat hesitantly showed the photo to Bill and asked if it was him.

ep; that’s me,” Bill said. Moschgat asked why Bill never spoke of it, and he replied “That was one day in my life and it happened a long time ago.”

You can look up the official citation, but the essence is this: On September 13, 1943, young Private William Crawford was his infantry unit’s scout, ranging out ahead of his platoon. Fighting up a steep rocky grade filled with fortified German positions, twice they were pinned down by machinegun and mortar fire. Not once but twice, without orders or direction, Bill rushed forward alone through heavy fire and with his rifle and hand grenades, wiped out several machinegun nests, and flushing out more Germans, turned their own machinegun on them as they retreated. In a furious storm of fire, smoke and dust, Bill simply—vanished.

His comrades couldn’t find his body. The destruction was such he was presumed killed in action. But those who had watched his deeds in awe reported them. He was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously and the decoration was presented to his father. But Bill wasn’t quite finished. Late in 1944, he and a handful of other unreported POW’s were rescued. His dad gladly handed him the medal.

Bill retired as a master sergeant in 1967, returned to his home state of Colorado and became a janitor at the Air Force Academy. After his heroism was revealed Bill was invited to talk to students there. He spoke not of his own achievements, but about the qualities and characteristics he felt necessary to be a good soldier and a good leader. Not surprisingly, he told them about the dignity to be found in any job—if you did it honestly, thoroughly and well.

Traditionally, living recipients of the Medal of Honor are personally decorated by the sitting president. Bill didn’t have the experience, because, well… he was “dead” at the time. At the Academy’s graduation ceremony in 1984, President Ronald Reagan corrected the oversight.

Bill died at 81 on March 15, 2000. He is the only non-Air Force, US Army enlisted man buried at the United States Air Force Academy Cemetery, and they hold “their man behind the broom” in high honor.

Bats, Balls, Gloves & Guts

How many of you old baseball fans remember the name Bob Feller? The All-Star Cleveland Indians pitcher was literally on his way to sign his fat 1942 contract when news of the bombing of Pearl Harbor came over the radio in his car. “That was it,” he said. He hurriedly tidied up his personal affairs and two days later enlisted in the Navy, becoming the first American professional sports star to sign up. It was no small sacrifice. In 1936, at just 17 years old, he made his first Major League “start” with the Indians against the St. Louis Browns. He struck out their first three batters in the first inning, and threw 15 more strikeouts that afternoon. A genuine phenomenon, Bob was on the cover of Time magazine in April 1937.

Bob served aboard the USS Alabama throughout the war and saw combat in the Pacific, including the “Marianas Turkey Shoot” (the battle of the Philippine Sea) in June 1944.

“We shot down over 470 Japanese airplanes in one day,” he later said in an interview. “And that was the end of the Japanese Naval Air Force.”

Chief Petty Officer “Bullet Bob” Feller was discharged at the war’s end in late 1945. In the 1946 season he threw 348 strikeouts, a record which stood for 19 years, and pitched the Indians to a World Series win in 1948. Fellow baseball Hall of Famer Ted Williams called Feller “the fastest and best pitcher I ever saw during my career.”

And what about the war record of legendary horsehide-thumper Ted Williams, the guy who had what’s been called “the finest rookie year in baseball history” in 1939? Ted enlisted in ’42, was commissioned a 2nd lieutenant in the Marines and trained as a fighter pilot, but arrived in the Pacific too late to see combat. He made up for this when he was recalled for the Korean War, flying 39 ground-attack missions in an F9F Grumman Panther. Most of those missions took him deep into North Korean and Red Chinese-held territory, and he had his share of close calls. His fellow squadron member and sometimes wingman, astronaut John Glenn recalled a notable one:

“Once, he was on fire (a fuel tank was hit and blazing, his radio was knocked out and his landing gear wouldn’t deploy) and had to belly-land the plane back in. He slid it in on the belly. It came up the runway about 1,500 feet before he was able to jump out and run off the wingtip. He was an excellent pilot and I give him a lot of credit.” Ted didn’t see it quite this way.

“Everybody tries to make a hero out of me over the Korean thing,” he wrote. “I was no hero. There were maybe 75 pilots in our two squadrons and 99 percent of them did a better job than I did. But I liked flying! It was the second-best thing that ever happened to me.” Ted returned to his “first-best” thing in 1953—and into the record books.
So Little Space

Too many stories, too little space. Which promising NFL rookie left the game after his first season, fought heroically as a platoon leader, had both legs blown off, and as he was dying, jokingly told a combat surgeon, “Well, doc, the New York Giants lost a mighty good end today.” What famed football coach flew 30 combat missions over Europe as co-pilot of a B-17 Flying Fortress? And who the heck was Columbus Darwin Smith? There’s your homework, folks. Connor OUT

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