It was the last days of August, and the heat was already oppressive as the sun’s rays peaked through the east tree row on Frank Loftiss’ farm. Stepping through rows of waist-high cotton, my thoughts turned to the comfort of the bed that I had left before sunrise. I was seventeen that summer of 1962, and Frank had hired me to move the half mile of irrigation pipes that watered his cotton field. Mr. Loftiss’ land abutted our eighty-acre farm.
One of the disadvantages of farming is that a farmer’s work is always on display for the passerby. Farmers took great pride in their crops; the straightness of the cotton rows, the absence of weeds, the fruit-laden stalks; Frank’s product was always the pride of the section.
The pay was two dollars a move, the standard for that job. I could navigate the move in one hour, balancing the 40’ x 4” aluminum tubes like a highwire walker clutching his balance pole.
The cool, muddy earth felt good as it oozed through my toes. There was an art to moving irrigation pipes. Inserting one end of the long tubes into the end of another while standing 20 feet from the target and balancing the pipe, I could quickly insert one end into the other, and with a slight turn, lock them into place. It was a skill easily learned after much practice and a considerable amount of mild swearing.
I enjoyed working for Frank. He was a good man. He also wanted me to chop cotton that summer, but I was already committed to one of our other neighbors, Bill Perkey.
I finished the work easily in forty-five minutes. As I flipped the pump switch to start the watering, I knew I had to hurry to make it to “two-a-days” football practice at 7:00 a.m. “Two-a-days” were mostly conditioning drills in the morning and evening before the official start of football season. But first I had to check all the sprinklers. Frequently, cotton blossoms would find themselves lodged in the pipes, and nothing choked a sprinkler like a blossom. Not today though-thirty beautiful sprinklers created rainbows across the field.
Dad’s ole ’49 Ford pickup complained as I pushed the accelerator to the floor and left Frank’s farm headed for home. Mom would have a full breakfast for the family.
Football practice dragged, and I wanted it to end. I was ready for my first hour American history class with Mrs. Kistler. Her classes were not that interesting, but she liked me, and even let me sleep once. She was married to a major in the Air Force, and if we boys in the class could get her to talk about her husband, we could usually get through class without any work.
But today I did not want to sleep, and no one was trying to divert Mrs. Kistler. We were talking about JFK, Krushchev, and the situation in Cuba. There was talk of war between the two superpowers, and we were eager to listen. Mrs. Kistler did not disappoint. She told us that her husband was preparing for the worst. He had been assigned to the “alert” barracks where B-52 crew members would stay and await orders. The large bombers had been placed on alert for weeks and were lined up on the taxiway near the runway at Clinton Sherman Air Force base. President Kennedy had ordered the Russians to remove missiles from Cuba. Today, Mrs. Kistler had brought records with the sounds of the different sirens we would hear in case of a nuclear attack. Johnny Davis, my best friend in the senior class, was making light of the situation, but I could see by the look on our teacher’s face and the seriousness in her voice, that Johnny was wrong.
That evening the talk at the family supper table was of the poor condition of Dad’s cotton. My dad was a “dry-land” cotton farmer. Dry-land cotton farmers were at the mercy of the weather, whereas farmers who had irrigation wells could provide the water needed for growing healthy cotton. Some years ample rain would fall, but this was not one of those years. Dad said that if didn’t rain soon, it would be a lean winter. I thought it would be a good idea to take his mind off his situation
“My history teacher said there might be war if Russia won’t take their missiles out of Cuba,” I spouted. Doyle, my little brother, two and half years my younger but five inches taller, almost missed his mouth with a very large spoonful of mashed potatoes, his favorite.
“I hope your teacher is wrong,” Mom answered. “You will be eighteen in a few months.”
I didn’t quite understand why mom would mention my birthday. Then it struck me that she was thinking about what I had said about Mrs. Kistler.
“Johnny is joining the marines when we graduate next spring,” I interjected. He wants me to join with him.” Everyone stopped eating and looked my way.
“I was hoping you would try college, son,” Dad said. “I’d prefer that you did that instead of the marines.”
Dad had two bothers who served in WW2 and I knew what he was thinking.
“How is Frank’s cotton?” he asked.
“Well, if the weevils stay out of it, it will be really good,” I answered, pretending to know what I was talking about.
“Since you mentioned your teacher and the possiblility of war, did you know you were working for a war hero?” Dad asked, changing the topic abrubtly.
I assumed he was referring to Uncle Frank Greteman, his younger brother who slogged through the jungles of the South Pacific for three long years. But, he was talking about a different Frank. He was talking about his neighbor, Frank Loftiss.
I left the conversation and vowed to learn more about my neighbor.
I learned that Frank was too young to serve in 1943 unless his parents signed for him. Two of Frank’s high school friends, Bill Frye and Baker Duggins, had already left for basic training. What must have crossed the minds of his parents as they inked the papers to send their son off to war!?! Another son was already in uniform. But, as so many parents did during the war, they yielded to their young son’s wishes. So, when a seventeen-year old boy’s nights and days should be filled with girls and cars and school, Frank Loftiss’ thoughts turned to the Germans and the Japanese.
The train crawled to a stop at the Canute depot that late autumn day. There on the platform stood a lone passenger. Bill and Baker had already left for basic training. After tearful good-byes, Frank’s parents waved as the Union Pacific, bound for San Diego, disappeared into the evening light.
After basic training, the young recruit was promised a 30 day leave, but orders to deploy to Hawaii came instead. On the island Frank trained for warfare in the South Pacific.
Aboard the USS Logan, bound for Saipan, Frank met some fellow Oklahomans, even a 15 year-old from Cordell who had lied about his age. After a fellow soldier wrote a letter to his parents, the Navy sent the younster back home.
The battle for Saipan was labled “Pacific D-Day.” First Platoon, Co. A, 1st Battalion, 8th Regiment, 2nd Marine Division was Frank’s unit. Wave after wave of marines battled the Japanese from early June 1944 to July. The Japanese lost over 29,000 troops and civilian casualties were high. The nicknames given by the Americans to the features of the battle--”Hell’s Pocket”, “Purple Heart Ridge” and “Death Valley” indicated the severity of the fighting. By July 6, the Japanese had nowhere to retreat. Under the command of Japanese General Saito, the remaining able-bodied Japanese troops-about 4,000 men- were ordered to join in the largest banzai attack of the war. Amazingly, behind the charging Japanese troops, came the wounded, with bandaged heads, crutches, and barely armed. The 1st and 2nd battalions lost over 650 American troops killed and wounded. By July 9, the island was secured. General Saito committed sucicide in a cave.
Frank was in the third wave of the attack. They slept where they advanced. For twenty days he went without changing clothes or removing his boots. The foxhole was his home, digging new ones after each advance, sleeping only for an hour at a time and on duty for an hour. Frank received a head wound by “friendly fire” from an American mortar, and was treated at a makeshift hospital. He spent one night at the hospital, but the next morning he noticed that his equipment had been placed on the same pile as deceased soldiers’ clothes. Frank decided it was time for him to get back to his unit.
When Saipan fell, many entire Japanese families committed suicide. Believing that surrender was dishonorable, they dressed in their finest clothes and jumped from the cliffs into the ocean. (Battle of Saipan)
After Saipan was secured, Frank’s unit was dispatched to the island of Tinian, about five miles away. The fighting was fierce on Tinian, with wave after wave of Japanese.
Running out of ammo and crouching in a foxhole next to his buddy Baker, they both decided to save their last bullets from themselves rather than be captured by the Japanese.
Tinian fell in a few days, and Frank and his unit found themselves back on Saipan where they were preparing for the invasion of Okinawa. After the fall of Okinawa, Frank and his unit were depolyed to Nagasaki. Nagasaki was the site of one of the two atomic bombs used on Japan. Fank was sent to Sasebo for a few weeks to help destroy Japanese war planes and ships. It was there that Frank received news that he would be going home.
On January 9, 1946, young Frank Loftiss, who had just recently celebrated his twentieth birthday, left the bloody battlefields of WW2. Ironically, the same two friends who joined with Frank, Bill and Baker, accompanied Frank on the trip back home.
Frank Loftiss fought in the most primitive conditions possible across the coral islands of the South Pacific. But he and countless others answered the call. They faced great odds but never complained. They won the war and saved the world.
Like all the heroes of WW2, Frank came home modest about his accomplishments. He married Donne McDonald and went about building a life. They raised two children on a farm in Washita County.
Frank is from that generation that came of age during the Great Depression and WW2. His generation was united, not only by a common purpose, but also common values as well-duty, honor, courage, service, love of country, love of family, and above all, responsibility for oneself. Frank and Donne braved droughts, blizzards, failed crops, and hard times, but have led lives enriched by the values Frank so courageously and fearlessly defended. They are a part of that generation that gave so much and asked for so little.
To say that I love Frank Lofitiss and everything that he epitomizes would be an understatement. Simply put, I am proud that I know him and was privileged to grow up near him. His life of sacrifice and achievement, duty, and honor, is a monument to our time. Frank will turn 96 on Thursday, November 11. Yes, Veterans’ Day! Take a moment on that day to think of him.
(This story was written with background information obtained from “Heroes In Our Midst” by Judy Haught.)