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| A pair of Douglas C-47 Skytrains. |
(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator
George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere
in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Memories of a country boy from
Sweet Water” was originally published in the Feb. 21, 2002 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
As with most everyone, there are memories of past events
that stand out above all others. As I have stated in some of my writings, I was
born a country boy who grew up near the small town of Sweet Water.
Due to many things beyond our control, I didn’t have the
opportunity to do much traveling outside of the immediate area. I did, however,
get the chance to make a trip to Mobile on a couple of occasions before my
graduation from high school. Then, due to the fact that our football team went
undefeated my senior year, the citizens of Sweet Water took up money and the
team was presented a trip to Montgomery for the annual Blue & Gray Game.
A fairly wealthy merchant in town hired a man with a cattle
truck to carry us to Montgomery and return. We had it good though. We had 50
cents given to us for our lunch, a ticket to the game and we had a tarpaulin
over us to keep out the weather.
Although these trips were very important to this country
boy, there were others that superseded those by far. High school graduation was
on a Friday night. Since I had enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps prior to
graduation, I was scheduled to depart the next morning, Saturday, to begin Boot
Camp.
Catching the Greyhound bus in Thomasville, I was to begin a
new adventure of a lifetime. I was entering a whole new world, as the bunch of
recruits of which I was one made our way from Birmingham to later arrive at
Parris Island, S.C.
Due to the fact that I was in good physical condition, I
ended the 16 weeks of boot camp with good markings.
The war had not been over long, but the military had already
begun to cut back on its money for training. We all know that this was a
mistake, but nevertheless, it happened. The Marines, however, decided later
that it would be the proper avenue, since they were supposed to be ready at a
moment’s notice, to reorganize the famed 2nd Raider Battalion. This
battalion has been absorbed by the 1st Marine Division shortly after
the war.
This would mean that those who volunteered for the Raiders
would have to go through parachute training, or what is now known as “Jump
School” as did the members of the old Raider Battalion.
Not realizing what lay ahead, this country boy, who had
never set foot in an airplane, decided to cast his lot along with a couple of
his friends, and join the Raiders. Besides the $55 a month, we were going to be
paid $25 extra for going to parachute school.
I could not understand just how I was going to handle all
that money. Remembering that I had bought the most expensive class ring that
had cost $12, due to the fact that I wore the largest size in the class, I now
might be able to own me one of them fine wrist watches that I wanted so much.
The day we reported to the parachute training center was one
to remember. Those who thought that Marine boot camp was rough came to realize
that it was like a school picnic compared to the parachute training that we
faced. My platoon training instructor, I was later to find out, was a survivor
of the famed Bataan Death March. He told us in no uncertain terms that we would
graduate this training at the head of the training cycle.
At this time, I had begun to wonder if this country boy from
Sweet Water had made the right decision. But, my pride and loyalty to my
buddies held me to my decision.
We would come to learn that our instructor was one of the
toughest that the Corps had produced. We would also learn that he was one of
the finest men and the straightest and fairest the Corps had come up with.
After interviewing each member of the platoon for a period
of about two hours, he let it be known that he, too, was a country boy from the
hills of Virginia. He had survived on almost nothing on a very small farm way
back there in the hill country.
At his death, some years later, I had the honor to be a
member of his military funeral team. In a small backwoods country churchyard
high in the hill country of Virginia, one of the finest men that I had ever
known was laid to rest.
That eight weeks of parachute training school will forever
be remembered. But encouraged and highly supported by our fine instructor, the
whole platoon made it to graduation with flying colors.
As was expected of us, our platoon graduated at the top of
the class. No one dropped out during the entire training period. Our fine
instructor was a well-pleased Marine; he, too, received a commendation for his
leadership. We had become to know him more than as instructor, he had become
more like a father to the members of the platoon.
Then, that day came when we were to make our first jump. The
day was Tuesday, the 11th of February 1947. Strapped in our
parachute equipment, we made our way out to the large C-47s that waited near
the landing zone. I thought those planes were some of the largest that I had ever
seen.
Before entering the large planes, our instructor yelled at
us that if anyone paused or hesitated in the doorway of the plane when it came
their time to jump he “was going to put that number 12 jump boot that he was
wearing right up their behinds.” Each knew that he would do it; we knew we had
better jump when the signal came.
As the large twin-engine cargo plane climbed to the required
altitude for the jump, a nervous and excited bunch of young men waited to hear
the command from the instructor standing by the door to “Stand Up and Hook Up.”
After what seemed forever, the order was given. All stood
and hooked their static lines to the cable. As each in turn stepped to the
door, a slap on the left shoulder by the instructor and a shout of “Go” was the
signal to jump.
Riding in the first airplane that he had ever ridden in, a
frightened country boy from Sweet Water, Ala., stepped to the door. Upon
receiving the signal to jump, this frightened country boy stepped out into the
morning sky.
(Singleton, the author
of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of
79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime
resident of Monroeville, he was born during a late-night thunderstorm on Dec.
14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946,
served as a U.S. Marine in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand,
lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964
and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from
June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled
“Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The
Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County
that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column
appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He is buried in
Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s
other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the
Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented
here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort
to keep his work and memory alive.)
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