Engaged to a Sailor
Erral was thrilled with her ring -- just a single little diamond on a gold band. She wore it with pride, showing it off to her teachers and friends as a symbol of her love and her commitment to her sailor boy. She had started her last year of high school when I left for the Navy on November 5, 1945, my first trip on a train.
We kept our connection by almost daily letters, and they were filled with reassurances. She had beautiful handwriting, and it was always a thrill to see an incoming envelope she had addressed -- there was one almost every day, usually sealed with a kiss.
While I was in boot camp, there was a terrible car accident. Erral was badly injured. She suffered a fractured clavicle and a cracked pelvis, and spent more than a month in the hospital. She was trussed up with weights and couldn't even touch the hospital bed. The news was devastating. I wanted to be with her but there was nothing I could do; the Navy doesn't grant leave to visit girlfriends in the hospital. The letters kept coming, though, and there were never any complaints; just concerns for me and how I was doing. Always thinking of others, her unselfishness and compassion always came shining through.
On my leave after boot camp, I sped to Portland as fast as the train would take me. Erral was almost recovered by then and it was almost as if nothing had happened. She was whole again and we spent as much time as we could together for my six days of leave. It was a new kind of fun we had. I was now her sailor boy and she was my girl back home. She even tried on my uniform to see what it was like.
The leave was over too soon, and I had to go back -- this time, to travel even farther away, to Jacksonville, Florida. It would be a longer separation -- for as long as six months. There were two schools to go through before there would be any more leave. The first was Aviation Fundamentals where I earned my choice of an advanced school that would prepare me for an aviation rate. My choice was Control Tower Operator School but I nearly ended up being permanently stationed in Florida when orders were issued by the C.O. of the school assigning me as an instructor. And that would have meant no leave until November. I watched with dismay as my classmates all shipped out to stateside billets close to their homes -- with me stuck in Jacksonville, teaching instead of doing what I had trained and qualified for.
Letters were our substitute for togetherness. They never stopped, and almost every day I could count on getting one -- usually sealed with a kiss. The letters -- 921 in all -- were a tremendous bond. We wrote each day we were apart, and some days more than once, even writing after every phone call. Erral's letters portrayed her extraordinary vision, her dreams, and her determination for our future. There was never a doubt we would be together as soon as we could. And there were even thoughts of her coming to Florida, just to be closer.
It seemed like a long separation but it was finally over. Luck finally played its hand. There was a shortage of control tower operators, and billets needed to be filled throughout the Navy. My instructor assignment was overruled in Washington and I managed to get orders to report to Whidbey Island Naval Air Station -- as close to Portland as I could get. My orders allowed travel time by train, a few days leave, plus a delay en route and I sped across the country as fast as I could. It took several airplane rides, but I finally made it after a day and a half. It was a precious time we had, and a lot of fun. And flying instead of riding on trains bought us a few extra days that were priceless.
Erral had no problems with my wearing a uniform and liked to see me in whites, the summer uniform of the command I was coming from. We went downtown, me in my jaunty white uniform, proud to have Erral on my arm. It wasn't long before the Shore Patrol stopped us and began haranguing us for my being out of uniform. Whites were not authorized in the northwest; only blues. Mostly because of Erral's good looks, and my ignorance, we were spared from having me tossed in the brig. Erral was not phased in the least, and I got off with a warning to wear blues next time. Her presence had saved me. What a team we were beginning to be.
I reported in at Whidbey on August 12, 1946 and was assigned to the Control Tower, where we worked round-the-clock shifts. While this sounded like a bad deal to some, it was advantageous to the Tower crew because we arranged our schedules so we could have Friday to Monday off every other weekend. It didn't take long for me to establish a routine of catching a hop on the courier plane going to Sand Point Naval Air Station at Seattle on Friday mornings and hitchhiking the rest of the way to Portland. It usually took all day but I was there to see Erral by Friday night and we could spend the weekend seeing each other. She was always waiting -- with total faith I would always show up. And I always did.
Those intermittent weekends, interspersed between our weeks apart, made us yearn even more to be together. Erral was as dedicated to me as I was to her, and we wanted very much to find a way of curing our fortnightly loneliness. One way was to get married. Many times, we had talked about our commitment to each other and the possibility of someday being married -- without fully understanding the obligations that would mean. We just wanted to be together. We decided one way to do it would be to elope. We had not thought through the consequences of what that would mean; tearing her from her folks and possible estrangement from them. No problem with my folks. Both of them highly approved of Erral, and thought she was a real prize. For me, she seemed much more than I deserved. Deserving or not, I wanted to be with her, and she with me. We had to find a way.
In December 1946, our two-section tower crew very creatively arranged our work schedules so we could take extended liberties over the Christmas holidays. My liberty was in the first section and I was able to spend Christmas with Erral and our folks in Portland. But it meant several shifts in a row after Christmas, plus duty in the tower on New Years Eve. Flying was shut down on December 31 but the tower still had to be manned, and man it we did. I had the duty but was joined by three tower buddies to see in the New Year, and we had concocted a special plan to observe midnight and announce the entry of January 1, 1947. Loudly! Very loudly! We were excited with the prospect of making a lot of noise, and as the seconds ticked off on the last minute of 1946, all hands were ready with their assigned duties. With just a few seconds to go, the tower phone rang.
A buddy answered and handed the phone to me, saying the operator had a person-to-person call for "Mr. Glenn Plymate." I was dumbfounded. And even more so at the stroke of midnight as the crash siren began its wail over the whole base, and as each of the others in the Tower joined in, one activating the crash phones and the two others keying microphones on operations frequencies to wish all who could hear, "Happy New Year from Navy Whidbey Tower!"
With all the bedlam I couldn't hear at first who was calling, but soon realized it was Erral, and she was wishing me a Happy New Year for 1947. What a great surprise! I don't know how she managed to find a phone number for the Tower, and how she managed to place a call to a military base precisely at midnight. But she did. And it was so typical of her; how resourceful she was and how determined she was -- and how thoughtful she was, to bring me cheer at the exact time it would mean the most. Right to the second! It made me want to be with her all the more.
But there were 10 days until my next liberty and waiting was getting to be almost more than we could handle. So, on January 11, 1947 we drove across the Columbia River and took out a marriage license in Vancouver, Washington, where we knew there was no waiting period. We took the license to a minister. He wanted to make sure we knew what we were doing but was only cursory in his caution; he was ready to perform the ceremony. This slight hesitation was enough to make us pause, and re-think what we were about to do. Our proposal of marriage was mutual and Erral had accepted, but was it the right thing to take her from her folks without their knowledge and consent? We backed off and decided to let our parents know we wanted to be married -- now! This was my first realization of Erral's strong commitment to family, and I felt much more comfortable than going along with the spontaneous adventure we had almost embarked upon.
It took awhile to approach Erral's parents, but we sat down one evening and revealed our desires. There was a natural hesitation on her dad's part since he wanted his daughter to be properly provided for, but her mother accepted the situation since, in her intuitive way, she knew we loved each other and there was probably nothing they could do to stop us from becoming man and wife (we never told them about the Vancouver marriage license).
Of course, her dad wanted to know how I could provide for his daughter on sailor's pay and what her future would be like. I tried my best to satisfy him with general answers about how I was dedicated to taking care of her and I had every belief we would find a way. I had worked since I was 10 and always got by, so was pretty confident I could find a way to satisfy the basics.
I could see he was very concerned about the uncertainty of our future, but then realized I had a strategy he couldn't dodge: He and Erral's mother had eloped when she was 18, and everything had worked out okay for them. With an example like that, I had him; there was no way he could refuse letting us get married. He agreed, reluctantly, and her mother knew it would happen anyway, no matter what. We talked about timing, what we'd need to do in preparation -- and set the date for May 25, 1947.
It would be a large wedding after all, like Erral had really wished for.