The Troop 1954
Wednesday Newsletter

This one really doesn't have too much to do with the Scouts, but I think you'll like it anyway

Copyright 2005 The Buffalo News Buffalo News (New York)

February 18, 2005 Friday

TRAINING AS MESSENGER WAS THE ULTIMATE THRILL

by DON BOOTH

Back in the early '40s, communities across the country tried to recruit squads of air raid wardens, firemen and telephone persons. Those of us in high school who had bikes and were in good shape were signed up as "messengers." We were excited about the responsibility of speeding along on our bikes through the black of night with an emergency dispatch during an air raid.

I lived in Warsaw, where the obvious targets were the Warsaw Elevator Co. and the Embury Lantern Factory. Of course, the primary targets would doubtless be in Buffalo or Rochester, but we felt like worthy secondary targets.

There was an attitude of superiority as we gathered at the Town Hall to be told about our duties and the responsibilities that rested on the super-charged vehicles under our control. The fate of the war in Western New York -- the aircraft plants of Curtiss Wright and Bell Aerospace -- rested in our hands.

Other recruits were assigned to sit passively in the dark with their airplane identification charts -- both enemy and friendly -- that they might be required to identify in the case of an air raid.

But we would be required to dodge bomb craters, take refuge from strafing dive bombers and possibly stop to give first aid to a fainting fireman or two on the way to deliver our precious dispatches. Or so we imagined.

We had one night of first-aid training to supplement what we'd learned in Boy Scouts. We had another night learning how to repair a flat tire on our bikes and make sure we had good fresh batteries in all of our headlights and tail lights. But when we stood inspection before the chief of police, we were ordered to leave our lights turned off in a drill or actual attack.

Every corner had its warden, with his big white night stick, a whistle and a white hard hat with an emblazoned "CD" on it. His duty was to rap on something and holler, "Hey, buddy, put out that light. Don't you know there's a blackout going on?"

Several of us were beginning to smoke cigarettes, so the skill of lighting up without getting the wardens upset took some practice. One kid had a little accident and, in the dark, got the skirt of his coat wrapped up in the sprocket of his bike and went head-first into some bushes. We thought he should receive a Purple Heart.

There was a cardinal rule that a messenger must carry out his assignment, no matter what. He was told to have no opinion, to make no comments about his message and not to expect any commendation for a job well done.

A couple of the older fellows came up with stories of messengers in history who had to eat their messages when caught. There were also some who brought news to the king that his army had lost the battle. Those messengers were killed. Bad news isn't popular.

We experimented with the Morse Code we'd learned as Boy Scouts. I ran a wire through the garden to my buddy George's bedroom window. It buzzed a couple of times but never worked very well. We blamed saboteurs.

I've always been proud of being a "messenger." Two years later, I was part of a crew on a seaplane off Saipan, and I got the message that it was VJ Day. The war was over. That was one of the best messages I ever received.

DON BOOTH lives in East Aurora.