It was January, 1943. We were in the second full year of the war. Jobs were plentiful and my dad found work at the Evansville Shipyards which was located along the Ohio River on what is now the parking lot of Bristol Myers. The Evansville Shipyards was heralded as the world’s largest inland shipyard, making it difficult to hit by enemy air attacks. Many of the Landing Ship Tanks (LSTs) were made there. Our troops used LSTs in amphibious landings, most notably at Normandy on D-Day. Mother had a job at Chrysler Ordinance making ammunition. This was a converted plant that had previously made Chrysler and Plymouth automobiles. Aside from flipping hamburgers at Pop Durham’s café in Archer City, this was the only job outside the home my mother had ever had and she was always nervous about doing a good job. The novelty song, “Rosie the Riveter,” was popular and accurately portrayed the role of the woman in a war plant.
Our house was on West Louisiana street just east of Pigeon Creek, a little Ohio River tributary which was where Evansville’s west side began. The many houseboats jammed on the creek bank was an impressive sight. Laundry strung out on make-shift lines clearly defined the use of the boats. They were not for cruising the creek. I arrived on a weekend and was to enroll in St. Boniface Grade School Monday morning. Mother and I looked out the screen door in the back and she pointed out the two steeples on St. Boniface Church about 12 or 15 blocks away. “Just follow the steeples and you will find it,” she said, adding “I have talked to the pastor so they know you are coming.”
Monday morning I warily walked up to Maryland Street and crossed Pigeon Creek, keeping the steeples in view. I was in a strange town, barely 13-years-old trying to stand as tall as my 5 foot 2 inch frame would allow. I passed some large furniture factories that temporarily blocked my view of the steeples. Much to my relief, I picked them up again and found my way to the church. I had left Carmi in somewhat of a rush and had failed to get my report card to show what grade I was in and what my grades were. “What if they wouldn’t let me go to their school?” I wondered. The school was a two-story building in back of the church. I asked a student where the eighth grade was. “It’s upstairs, first door on the right,” he answered.
I went upstairs and opened the door to the eighth grade and told the nun who I was and that I came to join the class. I was proud of myself for finding the school and the Eighth Grade room but I was shocked to learn that the pastor had not told the nuns I was coming. Sister asked where I came from and if I had a report card or anything to identify me. I told her no but she gave me a seat anyway. I guess things worked out since I graduated a few months later.
It was now the middle of February and even though the basketball season was about over, I talked mother into buying some gym shoes. I would never have dared ask this in previous years but now there was a little money and mother said OK. The shoes were a shiny black with strings that laced high up the ankle. These were the best shoes I ever had. After a few days I went to the gym to watch the basketball team play a game. I was feeling really springy with my new shoes on so I joined the kids who were shooting the ball at the basket before the teams came out for the game.
Father Egloff was the assistant pastor and basketball coach. Coaching must have been in the job description for an assistant pastor. He asked some of the boys who I was? When he found out I was a new boy in the eighth grade his eyes lit up because the team was struggling and could use a new player. Obviously he was a much better judge of talent than the Carmi teacher. He approached me after the game and asked if I would like to play on the team. I demurred briefly thinking that the season was about over and the team was set. But I said yes when I learned there were a couple of big games left in the season and a parochial league tourney in March.
Some of my new friends took me to Bobby Hermann’s house to get his uniform. Bobby had developed some serious heart problems and couldn’t play anymore. Now I had a uniform and a big game was coming up against St. Joseph’s that featured the high scoring Eddie Schultheis. Earlier Eddie had led St. Joe to an easy win over St. Boniface but now Father Egloff had a secret weapon. He installed the box and one defense with me guarding Schultheis wherever he went with the other four players defending in a zone. We beat St. Joseph’s that day and Father Egloff was more excited than I was. He showed everybody the scorecard exclaiming, “And Schultheis got zero points.”
The number one basketball fan in St. Boniface parish was the nun who met me at the door on my first day. Perhaps she didn’t check my story too thoroughly because she sensed that I might help the basketball team. On mornings following a basketball game she put the box score on the blackboard with the names of the players and the points scored. We spent the first part of those mornings talking about the game which was a pleasant deviation from our studies. This little break didn’t deter Sister from insisting on lots of homework and strict attention to the lessons in class. Her way of rewarding students for good work was to move you forward in your row of seats. The row next to the wall was for the top students. Cletus Rode occupied the front seat before I got there. After the first month that was my seat until we graduated.
March soon came and the parochial Grade School Tournament was at hand. Sister cautioned us not to be too confident because there were eight schools in the tournament including St. Benedict’s the perennial favorite. St. Ben’s, she warned, was not only the biggest Catholic school in town but it was full of rich kids who often looked down on poor West Siders. The games were played at Memorial, the city’s only Catholic high school. Our first game was against St. Mary’s and we won handily. Next was St. Anthony’s which was a struggle but we won. St. Benedict defeated St. Joseph’s and stood menacingly between us and the championship.
Our tallest player was Clarence “Lefty” Altstadt, who was about 5-5. Others on the team were Harold “Chub” Forche, Charles “Red” Lawrence, and John Betz, the oldest but the smallest. St. Ben’s featured a player that looked to be over six feet tall but their star was Bill Mattingly, also a six-footer who could shoot the ball with uncanny accuracy from near the center line. It was intimidating to watch his pre-game warm-up. The game was nip and tuck until Red Lawrence hit a couple impossible shots from the right corner. After we won the game, Father Egloff bought us all a cold drink to celebrate. I remember his asking me how I learned to jump so high. I had grabbed most of the loose balls, a good share of the rebounds, and hit a few baskets to help us win.
The next morning Evansville was soaked with a torrential rain. I had heard the kids talk about the terrible flood of 1937 and as I watched the rain pour down, it looked like that kind of flood again. I wanted to go to school and bask in the glory of our big win but there was no way I was going out in the rain. Besides it was Good Friday and we would probably spend half the day in church. About noon, the rain abated and Clete Rode rode up on his bike, soaking wet. We did not have a telephone so he brought a message.
“Get your coat on and I will tote you to school. We’re celebrating our win and Sister wants you there,” he said. By the time we got to school the celebration was about over but sure enough, Sister had the box score on the blackboard. I was glad I came even if we did spend the rest of the afternoon in church with the long and sorrowful Good Friday liturgy. It was March of 1943 and the school year was not over but I had already been a member of three eighth grades and played on three different basketball teams.
