Memorial Day is here. A time to remember and honor those heroes who paid the ultimate price to defend our country. There are many heroes in our area. And I salute all of them. But today I want to talk about a particular one. One you may not have known of or remember. A boy from Lula. A boy who gave his life for our freedom. His name: Gene Porter Hamilton. Ever hear of him? Everyone knew “Gene Porter” as his mother called him back in the 30’s. She and her husband, Virgil Hamilton, raised Gene over at Lula where Gene went to school and his dad Virgil Hamilton was a wellknown grocer.

By the time that the war started in 1941, Virgil and Gene’s mom, Ova, had moved to Stonewall and lived in a large two-storied house. The house stood atop a hill right next to the Jesse-Stonewall highway. Gene Porter left this secure home in Stonewall to serve his country, joining the Army Air Corps. He wanted to be a part of those who were serving America’s Armed Forces. As nose gunner on a B-24 bomber, Gene Hamilton flew frequently on missions and these bomber groups had a high mortality rate.

Ova was worried. Very worried. I become aware of her worry and even agony about her oldest boy after I moved to Stonewall. One of my best friends was Gene’s kid brother, Davis Lee. My aunt Oma was kin to Ova and Virgil and at times I heard my Aunt Oma trying to reason with Ova about her boy. Oma’s advice was consistent. “Don’t worry so much about Gene.” Instead, she urged Ova to focus on her two boys still at home. “They need you too.” Oma was right in that she was neglecting her younger sons. The middle boy was named Bobby Joe.

Bobby Joe later graduated from East Central and moved off to Kansas and taught school. Davis was left alone with his mom there in that big old house. Virgil meanwhile worked more and more long hours. Of course, Ova was right. Like a lot of mothers her worse fears were realized. The deadly telegram arrived. Her boy was dead. His plane did go down. All eleven aboard were dead. Gene Porter Hamilton was now a hero. End of story? Not at all. The war ended and Mrs. Hamilton demanded that the body of her son be returned from England so she could bury him at Lula. She made it happen. Gene’s body came home in April 1945 and I was standing out in front of their home with Davis Lee when the big Cadillac Criswell funeral hearse arrived.

I knew all this would be hard not only on Ova Hamilton but on my best friend, Davis Lee, Ova’s youngest son. I thought it strange 9-year-old Davis Lee didn’t spend that day with his mom, but he told me and Aunt Oma that Ova told him to stay outside. Mom’s sister Oma had told us Ova was in a “state.” And she didn’t know what she would do next. The dad (Virgil) was nowhere to be seen. He had gone on to work as usual. I guess. I think dealing with the situation at home was just beyond him.

Gene Porter’s casket was placed in the living room, by the stairs. An American flag covered it. People were all over the place, including some press people. So many flowers arrived that they started setting them up in the dining room too. And Davis Lee? His mom instructed him to ride his bike with me. And that’s what he did. All day. More or less. Virgil’s cousin was married to my aunt so suddenly I had discovered that I, too, was sort of kin to the hero. I wasn’t too sure that was a good deal but I felt, at 10 years of age, a little more important knowing that.

Meanwhile, back at the house, the crowd had thinned, and Oma discovered that Ova had an ulterior plan. A plan that may have played into the fact that Virgil went on to work. She remarked after they had placed the casket in the living room, “How do I know this is my boy?”, in loud sobs. The officer who had escorted the body was bamboozled by her question. She then demanded the casket be opened. Oma then called mom over at phone #17 and told her to come get Davis Lee and me — take them over to your house over there and the “why.” “Everything is going downhill over here,” she said. I was mesmerized by events. Ova was centerstage.

By now she was moaning and crying about her boy lying in the casket in her living room — and “I don’t even know if it’s him.” The officer in charge was pale and even afraid to leave the side of the casket. He was again explaining that the body of her son was retrieved from the ocean then a grave and was unviewable and under no circumstances would he allow the casket to be opened. The officer finally vanished. Gave up? I don’t know. My mom was there by now. And while I was greatly interested myself in viewing these remains my mom knew me pretty well and she nabbed Davis Lee and me and took us over to our house where we spent the night. Davis Lee went home early the next morning to go to the funeral with Ova and Virgil. My mind and concerns were with Gene Porter Hamilton. Like Ova, I wondered about his identity. About how you could open a casket and most of all — had they opened it up.

Of course, we all went over to Lula School too — To the Gym. The funeral was to take place there and it was a hot terribly crowded place. Multitudes of mourners and kin and even news reporters had arrived. In fact, I had never seen so many people in one spot. Seemed like hundreds stood outside, too. More flowers had been brought in. Many from politicians and people of prominence. All the flowers from the house too. It was a scene and experience I’ll never forget. The heat was terrible and so are my memories of those moments.

Later that day we buried Gene Porter out at the Lula Cemetery. It was very quiet and yet like a scary bad movie. And I suppose these moments were just as Ova had thought they would be. Again, there were reporters snapping pictures with big cameras as Gene Porter Hamilton’s casket was lowered into the home sod at Lula cemetery. Gene was home at last like his mom had wanted. There were the tributes from the honor rifle squad. Taps was played. The flag presentation took place. A few final words and loud sobs. Then we went home. On the way back to Stonewall I asked mom, “did Mrs. Hamilton ever get to see Gene Porter?” Mom said, something like hush. But I was far from finished with the matter. Davis Lee vanished into the arms of his mama.

That evening Aunt Oma came over and I still had a burning need to know if the casket was opened or not. It seemed a forbidden subject. I knew that Aunt Oma “knew”, and I bided my time. Finally, Oma told me to go to our front porch and wait. She said she would join me soon. Eventually Aunt Oma slipped out. “Yes,” Oma said, “Ova did open that casket.” His body was indeed in somewhat bad shape but not as bad as feared — at least by Oma. He was in his dress uniform. He was recognizable. On his chest and clutched in his hand, were his dog tags and his many commendation medals. Ova checked him out until she knew the body was that of her son, Gene Porter Hamilton, a hometown hero forever. Forever 20 years old. Identified for sure. Ova was now satisfied.

The rest of us need to remember to be thankful for Gene Porter for his sacrifice and to Ova, his dad Virgil, brothers Bobby Joe and Davis Lee for their sacrifice too. This family did sacrifice greatly, like so many in America. Not so long ago. The price was great.

Gene’s date of death was February 13, 1945. He served with the 735 Bomb Squad; his plane was named “Dogs Life.” Gene Porter was a SGT Aerial Gunner

It was 67 years and 105 days from the date of his death to this Memorial Day service and pictures of the plane and crew on the computer. Ova, Virgil, Bobby Joe and Davis Lee are dead. Ova passed away April 5, 1952, Virgil on September 15, 1977, and both are buried at Lula. Bobby Joe was buried in Kansas last year, and Davis Lee died two years ago in Ada.

Be sure and go to church Sunday

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.