It came about in the usual way: they met some young women.
The encounter was at a service station/grocery store situated out on the main highway. Dad and his friends had been driving around that morning and were nearby when the gas gauge hit EMPTY. The young women had stopped to buy gas and go to the bathroom while the attendant serviced their car.
Young women. Young men. They struck up a conversation.
The young women said, "We're going to a dance, tonight. Y'all should come."
That's really all it took.
Oh, after the women pulled away there was a bit of a debate ... but not much of one. The dance was at a bar in another state. That was a factor. But not enough of one to discourage even the most cautious of the foursome. Money ... now that was a real concern. Only two of them were working at the time ... and payday had been yesterday. Some of that money had already gone to cigarettes and beer. And some more had just gone to feed the gas tank.
Still, they had been friends since grade school; they were used to pooling their funds so they could share fun times. A quick check of available cash showed they would have enough to afford some beers and a bit to eat ... so why not? Dancing with girls —girls they had not known since childhood— awaited a mere three hours away.
The entire discussion lasted less than five minutes.
I keep calling them young men because that's what they were; not boys, men. Two were 19 and two were 20, but all were living at home on their respective family farms. Dad (one of the 20-year olds ... but only for three weeks) had worked for a while in Detroit at a meat processor; but the job ran out, so he had had no choice but to return home. The other three had never lived anywhere else. In better economic times, none of them would have been living at home. But as 1941 was coming to a close, many people were still light on money. FDR's various government-sponsored jobs and economic stimuli had been effective in leading the country out of the Great Depression, but not even the most optimistic thought it a quick recovery.
So that's how they came to have the freedom and time to drive to a dance in another state on a Saturday afternoon. Boys would need permission to go; men did not. Off they went.
Turns out there was no dance.
But there was a bar, and the young women were there. And the young men did dance with the young women. They all smoked and enjoyed a beer or two ... or three. So, from the young men's perspective, it was a win all round.
Perhaps the most unexpected part of the evening was the invitation, near closing time, for the young men to stay over for Sunday lunch. If Dad and his friends could, the young women said, they would cook fried chicken and the trimmings for an afternoon picnic. It was one of the warmest December's on record; upper 60's at midday ... Jackets would be needed, but a picnic sounded nice.
Another quick discussion. Another quick cash check. There was a motor court nearby. If all four men stayed in one room, the money would stretch. So, when the bar closed, the young women left for their respective lodgings and the young men made their way to the motor court.
The next day was sunny and dry. By lunchtime, the temp was a pleasant 68 degrees. Dad and his buddies met their new friends in the local park as planned. The chicken was tender and delicious. The company was enjoyable. They whiled away the afternoon, only stopping when the first chill breeze came sweeping across the little pond around which the park was situated. It would have ended, soon, anyway, The Sun was starting to slide down the sky, and it usually slid down pretty quickly in December, no matter how nice the day.
So, having said their goodbyes, the new acquaintances parted ways: the women back to their local, and presumably warm, homes. Dad and his friends climbed into their own car and started back toward West Kentucky. It wasn't long, even with jackets, before they felt the need to turn on the cabin heater.
Dark fell upon them swiftly.
It was about half way into the trip home that one of them pointed out what should have already been known. The fuel gauge was once again approaching zero. It was not an uncommon event for these young men. They never completely filled the tank, only adding enough for the driving they had in mind. But the serendipity drive out of state had distracted them, allowed the usual state of affairs to slip their minds.
They started looking for any gas station that was open ... at night ... on a Sunday. Eventually —and very luckily it seemed— they spotted a light that grew to a place, a place that soon defined itself as a gas station ... and it was, blessedly, open. They pulled off the highway and up to the pumps.
And waited.
No one came out to fill the tank.
It was Dad's turn at the wheel. He backed up and, again, ran over the hose he knew would ring a bell within the building.
Still, no one came.
To add to the mystery, they could see shadows moving about inside the station. Not sure what to make of it, but truly feeling the need for gas, they turned off the engine and walked up to the station door.
Everything changed when they entered.
There were over a dozen people, all men, standing, sitting, leaning all about the single room that doubled as office and sales floor. All of the men were facing a radio placed in the center of the room.
Everyone was talking.
For a few seconds, no one even noticed Dad and his friends had entered. Eventually, though, one of the leaners saw them and elbowed the leaner next to him. That fellow turned out to be the owner.
He told Dad and friends that he could, yes, unlock one of the pumps and sell them gas; but made sure they understood that, usually, the station would not even be open that time of night; that, were it not for the news, all these men would be at their homes instead of crowded into his station.
Dad and friends were puzzled by all this. The radio in their car had not worked in months, and there had been no extra money with which to get it repaired. So they asked: what could be so big that it resulted in all this?
"It's Pearl Harbor," said the station owner. "The Japanese attacked our base in Hawaii while they were all havin' their breakfasts. It came over the radio about 1:30 this afternoon. People've been comin' in here ever since to try to get an update. We're guessin' it's gonna be war." All of this came out in an unbroken stream.
But the young men caught it, all of it. And, being the ages they were, they understood what it might mean for them, personally.
And that's when they had the next discussion. A quick check of the pooled cash presented them with a dilemma: there was enough to buy gas or to buy cigarettes, but not enough for both.
And, suddenly, cigarettes seemed very important.
So, while the other men in the gas station cussed and discussed the unprovoked Japanese attack on U.S. soil, Dad and his friends debated cigarettes vs gasoline. They had a little over an hour of driving ahead of them. Would the fuel last long enough for them to get home? Or, if they bought the cigarettes, would they find themselves pushing the car part of the way? And if so, how much of the way?
This debate did not end quickly.
Back and forth they went, sometimes shifting sides, giving their all to the analysis of the problem before them: gasoline or cigarettes? It seemed to them a matter, almost, of life and death. Standing there in the too hot room, the cacophony of voices all but drowning out the radio, their debate became heated, and these four childhood friends almost came to blows.
The winning argument came from the other 20-year old: "If we run out of gas, we'll have cigarettes to keep us warm."
And that was that.
The four of them quietly filed out into the night of December 7, 1941, climbed into their doubtful conveyance, and pulled away from all the noise and confusion. For the longest time, no one said anything. Eventually, though, they got to it.
"Are you going to volunteer?"
Now that the cigarettes vs gasoline debate was settled, and they were once more in the quiet, relative safety of the car, they could talk about it, examine it, consider the future that had completely changed over the course of one very nice day. Try to get some sort of handle on what they would do.
The gas ran out about 20 minutes from Dad's house, the nearest. They took turns —three behind, one steering— pushing it down the highway, along the farm-to-market road, into the long rutted driveway, and all the way up to Dad's house.
That whole journey —riding, pushing— they talked about the likelihood of war. None of them even mentioned the dance, the beers, the young women, or the picnic.
Or how nice the weather had been that whole first week of December, 1941.
