Dutch Clarke - The Early Years. Brian Ratty

      For my Grandchildren: Alex, Emma, Maren and Seamus. I give you this story with all my love and affection. May your life be full of adventure, love, laughter and success.

      God bless you all.

      AUTHOR’S NOTE

      On May 31, 1942, my life began in a world that was full of turmoil and struggling for its very survival. World War II and related events would have a great impact on my life. There is no greater group of people who walked the face of this earth than the World War II generation. They saved the world from corruption and tyranny at a cost in human lives that counted into the millions.

      During the war my family lived and worked in the small coastal town of Seaside, Oregon. Here, my father went to work with his father at nearby naval air stations in both Warrenton and Tongue Point. They both worked as civilian contractors for the United States Department of the Navy.

      Soon after the war, my family moved back to Portland, Oregon, where my family lived for many years with my mother’s sister. It was a simple time of simple needs and love. The phone, a party line, would ring twice for our family and three times for our neighbor. Our doors were never locked, and the people next door would always be there if you needed help, or just a friendly visit on the front porch. Our home was full of laughter, love and work.

      As the boys came home from the war, so did images of the conflict. These pictures graced the covers and pages of such magazines as Life, Colliers and The Saturday Evening Post. They told a story about a country unprepared for war and about people pursuing normal lives until their way of life was threatened. Each story had its own hero, its own villain and its own destiny.

      There was no escaping the aftermath of war in our community. We could see it in the faces of the people who were lucky enough to return. We heard about it on the radio and followed it in the newsreels at our local theaters. The war had taken and changed many lives.

      In the early days of television, the nation was exposed to film documentaries such as “Victory At Sea” and “Industry on Parade.” These stories and images depicted a sleeping nation coming to life to cope and conquer the dark clouds of a world at war. It was at this time that I became aware of the great photojournalists of my time, Robert Capra, Margaret Bourke White and W. Eugene Smith. Their stories and images riveted my imagination about our country’s history and about how important it was to somehow capture and tell a great story.

      For over thirty-five years I have been a professional photographer, inspired by these fine photojournalist. Today I write and photographic, not for profit or praise but pure pleasure. If others find my work interesting, entertaining and informative then I will have realized my rewards.

      Everybody has a few good stories in them-maybe this is one of mine.

      Brian D. Ratty

      Acknowledgments

      Rewriting, reediting and recreating this book (first published in 2002) for my grandchildren was a joyful adventure. I have been blessed in having a supportive and thoughtful community of friends and colleagues as well as an encouraging family, all to whom I offer my heartfelt thanks.

      Special thanks to Judith Meyers for a masterful editing job. And thanks to Melissa Weintraub for professional proofreading and polishing. Also to map artist, Scott MacNeil for helping with the illustrations. And special gratitude to Richard Rodgers for his music, Victory At Sea. This classic symphony was never far from my ears during the years of working this book.

      Finally my heart felt thanks to my wife, Tess, who tolerated my absorption on this project with the same grace and humor that she has brought to all our ‘adventures’ these past thirty-seven years.

      Everyone who helped me added strength and benefits to this book: any errors, misinterpretations or mistakes this story may contain are solely my own responsibility.

      Chapter One

      The Trailhead

      My gut had said no and my head and heart had agreed, so why was I on this miserable trail? Lost in the remote recesses of my mind I knew the answer: family.

      Dirty gray clouds drifted across the landscape, changing shape as they traversed the blue-gray mountains and billowed across the tree tops. What lay underneath this dingy canopy was my fate.

      Relieved that I had started, but upset that I had given in, I was blindly following this unforgiving path. At least the next year would bring closure to this foolish family notion.

      A solitary eagle flew above me, its high-pitched shriek piercing the morning silence with needlelike shrillness that seemed to tell me to get off its trail, turn around and go back. The magnificent bald eagle reminded me that I was an intruder in its habitat, a visitor at best. As it flew over trees in the distance, I became aware of all the sounds around me. The breeze moving through the trees as it tried to chase the clouds from the tops. The sounds of my animals as we moved down the narrow game trail, the rhythm of their hooves striking the solid ground, the breathing of my horse and the two pack mules that followed. The swishing and scraping of the dew-covered underbrush as it snapped across my chaps and then against the packs of the mules behind. Loud yet muted, these rich sounds reminded me of the lonely silence that was to come.

      The morning was cool, damp and steel-gray, with diffused sunlight filtering through billowing clouds that hung low in the eastern sky. There was no rain yet, but it looked like it might start any time. One thing I knew I could count on, over the next year, was rain, drizzle and more rain. This was no surprise, as it was springtime in Western British Columbia. Whatever Mother Nature had in store for me, I had made provisions for, or so I hoped.

      Tugging on my watch chain, I reeled the cool, gold case into my hand. As I did so, my fingers brushed the engraved back, giving me solace. It opened with a solid click. The time was 8:11 a.m. I’d been on the trail just over two hours. With dawn brushing our

Скачать книгу