Notes

1. Vernon’s mother, Mrs. Ella Lindberg, passed away in 1947, his father in 1967. They are buried in Weiler Cemetery.

2. Durneices Dean was Vernon’s high school sweetheart. Arvella Ittel, her best friend, remembers that Durneices was apparently well-off and always well-dressed. They were surprised that she would date such a simple farm boy as Vernon. No wonder Vernon made it a point to wash up and have his clothes pressed at the Borland home before going to school. Durneices died of cancer some years ago.

3. 319th BG began their move to North Africa on November 14, 1942 and flew their first mission on November 28, 1942.

4. A list of all those on board the two planes that crashed on November 12, 1942 are as follows:

Lt Col Alvord Rutherford KIA
1Llt Arthur K Perry Jr KIA
1Llt James R Howell KIA
1Llt William P Hollingsworth Jr KIA
2Lt Harold C Biggers Jr KIA
Sgt Arnold F Bettge KIA
Sgt Albert T Bender KIA
Sgt John J Gubala KIA
Sgt Vernon B Lindberg KIA
Capt Frank M Tuttle KIA
1Llt William A Bloom Jr KIA

Lt Elmer A Riketts POW
2Llt Elmer A Michetta POW
Pvt Orley R Colestock POW

no confirmation who was on which plane (http://www.armyairforces.com as of Sept. 2007 )

5. Lynn and Linda Gage of Warren tell an interesting story of how Yankee Bush got its name.

Linda’s maiden name is Wilcox, and her ancestors were some of the earliest settlers on the hill known as Yankee Bush. The first Wilcoxes moved here from Brattleboro, Vermont. They had served in the War of 1812 and were given land grants in Warren County by the U.S. government. One of their primary financial enterprises was the making of maple syrup. A maple syrup location is commonly called a “sugar bush.” Since the Wilcoxes were considered Yankees by the German and Swedish immigrants, they referred to the area as Yankee Bush.

6. Letter – from Roger McFarland (unsigned)

Vernon Lindberg was a typical country boy. Growing up on the barren ridge known as Yankee Bush, he knew poverty, hard work and insecurity. His mom was plagued with ill health. His dad, too busy trying to dig out a living from the stony soil, was often unavailable to his boys where they maybe needed him the most.

The church, after Vernon’s conversion, became his life. Socially and spiritually he sought answers to his teen questions from the old saints, friends, and our godly loving pastors. Sunday night after Sunday night he sought peace at the altar of prayer, never sure of how the Lord was viewing him at the moment. Yet his determination to follow the Lord at all costs never really wavered.

We talked much together, being my friend. Sunday afternoons we sought out my little log cabin on the hill behind N. Warren (now Hillcrest area). These sessions before an open Bible by lantern light – the cabin was small and hidden in trees- were followed by an hour or so of prayer and that by bursts of praise to our wonderful Lord.

His favorite song among many was I Will Meet You In The Morning – The Eastern Gate. When Vernon left for over seas assignment in the air corps, he wrote a final letter.. ”Old Buddy”, he wrote, “if I don’t get back I’ll be waiting for you just inside the Northern Gate!” We agreed we were Northerners. We will meet at our northern heavenly gate.

I intend to look for him there! And I know I won’t be disappointed.

7. Letter -From Vernon to Dr. Casler and family. Nov. 9, 1941

Dear Doc & Family,

Hello you old pesky buggar. Praise the Lord, Pal. How is it with your soul? Send me another good old spell, pal, they do me some good. I went to a Methodist Church in Biloxi this morning for church and Sunday School. I sure enjoyed it because it is the first time I have been out in civilization to church in five weeks. It was wonderful to step inside a church. If you can sell the car for $175 go to it, Pal. I want it out of the way if I get a chance to come home and see you, Pal. I can’t pay on that old pesky bugger.

This afternoon I couldn’t get my lesson, Pal, so I just bowed my head and prayed that God would help me and prayed for you and asked Jesus to send you some honey and the folks. I felt a spell coming on then I quit. I sure get sick of old Vern but I have to get along with him just the same. When I read the Bible some passages stand out so plain and are just what I need. We start our classes tomorrow at 2:15 p.m. They run until 10:00 p.m. Not steady because we have to stop for recreation and supper. I spent four hours writing out answers this afternoon and still not done. There is no heat or hot water in our barracks as yet. Shave and take showers with cold water.

Sell the car, Pal. Try the woods that used to belong to us for squirrel hunting. Nordines for rabbits birds and squirrel. Dad will tell you where to go shoot a coyote for me. How are the revivals coming along? We are eating out of our mess kits. Did you ever do it? It was hard to get used to at first. The food here is pretty fair. Nothing but sand here. It’s raining a little this evening. It took us two nights and one day to make the trip down here. Long and tiresome. Crossed Miss. R. on a ferry. It was fun. Will close.

Your old Pal,
Vernon

p.s. The title is in my drawer and is a clear one. Write soon.

8. Letter from Larry Casler about his memories of Vernon - Sept. 30, 2007

During the summers of 1947 and 1948, when I was in the fourth and fifth grades, I had the privilege of spending a week on the Lawrence Lindberg farm on Yankee Bush. I say "privilage" because I didn't view it so at the time, but my reflections on that experience over the years are filled with the nostalgic aroma of having lived, albeit very briefly, in another era.

Not sure how all that came about. Perhaps it was because Mom and Dad, although busy with work and the vicissitudes of life, caught glimpses of my social and cultural disintegration from life on the main street of busy, metropolis, Warren and thought a change of circumstance would be helpful. In later years I have often viewed the experience as a sort of reciprocation by the Lindbergs for the hospitality and kindness our parents showed to their children, Ruth and Vernon, who lived with our family on Irvine Street for several months during the War.

I was very young at the time, and it is difficult to separate my actual contacts with Ruth and Vernon from the stories about them I heard from Mom and Dad. I do, however, have a distinct recollection that they both always seemed to be happy and vivacious, full of humor and song, Vernon with the humor and Ruth with song.

Vernon had a 1935 Plymouth coupe. I loved that car! Before Irvine Street was paved for the first time, he drove over the rocks very slowly, apprehensive about punctures to his worn and bald tires. When he left Warren to join the Army Air Corps he left the Plymouth in the care of my father with instructions to sell it. In the meantime, I spent many happy moments sitting behind the wheel, pretending to be the driver. It seemed to be such an ancient relic in comparison Dad’s sleek, modern, ‘39 Dodge.

I do not remember when Vernon actually left. However, I recall that Dad often reminisced about the good times they spent together. I also have vivid memories of the fearful anticipation by the mothers on our street about visits by “The Army Car” or the “Western Union Man” At the age of five I did not understand the complexities and uncertainties of war, but the blackouts and the not infrequent sound of air raid sirens at night left no doubt that something very serious was taking place.

Life on Yankee Bush in the summer was, from the perspective of 60 years, a unique experience. No kids my age, no radio, no car, and certainly no T.V. Not even a telephone! Somehow I was never bored. My day usually started at 6:00 a.m., waking either to the unmistakable sound of milk cans clanging in the wagon as Mr. Lindberg brought them up to the road, or to the smell of country breakfast in the kitchen.

I helped out with the usual farm duties. Drove the team while Mr. Lindberg pitched hay up onto the wagon, rode on the mower, opened the barn door for the cows at milking time and, worst of all, on hot August afternoons, cleaned out the barn and drove the manure sled out to the pasture to spread the fertilizer. I do not recall that Mr. Lindberg had any “modern” farm machinery, even by pre-war standards. When the horses got balky he would cut loose with a stream of something in Swedish, which the horses readily understood, but which he would never translate for me.

One morning Mr. Lindberg asked me to go down to the pasture and look for one of the cows that failed to show up for milking. I searched for a long time until the sound of a low moo came from behind a clump of bushes. Approaching the area cautiously, for fear of wolves, bears, or other wild creatures that might be lurking nearby, I came around the last bush, goose bumps all over, to discover the cow and her newborn calf having his first meal. I ran at top speed back to the barn. There I found Mr. Lindberg with a large, knowing smile, waiting for me to report the “news.”

I rode the horse, bareback, that went wherever he wanted to go, walked up to the cemetery on the hill, and carried the empty milk cans from the road back down to the milk house. I fought Indians in the woods and defended the barn from all the invaders that would vanquish America.

Somehow all those things were enough to fill the entire week…and provide a lifetime of memories. Mr. Lindberg was always very kind to me. Sunday came too soon, taking me back to busy, metropolis 1940’s Warren to continue my social and cultural rehabilitation.