Navy "Boots" in WWII
An Oral History

Introduction

by Everett Richardson
as told to Julie Olson North Bend, Oregon Irving, Texas

Hi, my name's Julie Olson and I'm a GenXer. I know nothing about world conflict or military history. Having been born just six days after the definitive 1960s spectacle of Woodstock and growing up during the Reagan era, World War II is as hard for me to envision as the fall of Rome or the Black Death. I've heard stories, of course – my mother's recollections of camouflage net covering the roadways in Southern California, my grandmother laughing at the memory of not being able to get stockings.

From my great uncles and other men who actually served in the war, I've heard – nothing. Common wisdom says these men – these survivors of the worst we can do to each other – would rather forget what they experienced, not think about what they lost, and keep moving on with their lives even after all these years. Understandable, but not enough. We need one more act of heroism from them.

I believe the theory that those who do not know the past are doomed to repeat it. Therefore, when David Tschanz began talking about collecting oral histories from World War II's rank and file, I quickly volunteered to help.

What most strikes me about Everett Richardson and other vets I've interviewed is their insistence that they're nothing special despite their involvement in changing the tide of history. I've decided this reaction is a quiet blend of humility, respect for the world view the war created, and guilt for having survived at all, no matter what injuries they sustained.

I'm a sucker for the little details that surface as they tell their stories, such as Ev's offhand remarks about seeing Frank Sinatra perform live and about marrying his high school sweetheart on a 72-hour pass. I wonder about the girl who died in a munitions plant accident; if I had been born in a different era, it could have been me.

I try to see beyond Ev's simple words to the vivid images he admits he still can't talk about. The young faces of his dead shipmates. The post where he stood so many hours of duty, twisted and smoking after a hit by a suicide plane. The life-and-death terror of a full-force typhoon. The boils that rose on his body for years after the war as metal fragments, unwelcome reminders of exploding violence, worked their way through his flesh. As each shadowy image makes itself part of my memory, I come to understand a little more about what they mean by "war is all hell." And if I can learn, so can others – if more who served are willing to tell their stories.

Ed note: Everett V. Richardson, Jr. is currently aged 74.

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