Larry had barely settled into the well worn seat when the train lurched forward. Now I’ve done it. There’s no turning back. In the distance, an insistent horn bellowed a staccato rhythm not unlike that of Morse Code—Long…short short long…short—the telltale signal of a train saying “See you later.”
Outside the somewhat grimy windows on both sides of the Pullman car, the view was limited to dozens of other cars on adjacent tracks—one pulling into the huge terminal, others at rest. The passengers all looked the same—soldiers, sailors, merchant marines—all in uniform—interspersed with civilian boys, not quite men, probably on a train for the first time. Some were headed to uncertain destinations, others passing through or perhaps making a welcome—but all too brief—visit home.
The dark haired, fresh faced young man barely noticed any of it, his mind awash with conflicting images of his family and thoughts of patriotism and the future and duty…but where did his duty really lie? Had he done the right thing signing up for service in the Navy? Mom did sign her approval on his enlistment papers. Maybe he rationalized, “Well, if I hadn’t enlisted, I would have been drafted—I could have ended up anywhere. Not sure I would have fit in with the Army.” Did he know that Air Force flight crews going to Europe had about 25 missions in their tour of duty? Did he know that only 1 in 3 of those crews survived the full tour with many lost before five missions? What was it like on a ship in the ocean? He’d never even seen the ocean except in pictures. It could be exciting to see other parts of the world but this isn’t a vacation and why did the world have to be at war when he graduated from high school?
Minutes ago he was one of hundreds making their way through the massive Union Terminal with its art deco styling and rotunda resembling the shell of an enormous opera house. Inside, the dome was ringed by massive murals constructed of tiny colored tiles and featuring people of all walks of life who made Cincinnati great—an artistic metaphor mirroring the activity of the populace passing below. Standing in the long queue in front of the window, which looked like an oversize gilded bird cage, Larry shifted from one foot to the other while waiting his turn. He wondered whether his cousin Milton was selling train tickets today.
It was slightly more than 10 years ago when Union Terminal, the first unified rail station in Cincinnati, opened for business. In addition to trains coming and going, the facility offered plush men’s and women’s lounges with restrooms and bathtubs for passengers who desired a respite from a long journey. Travelers could purchase everything from clothing, toys, and books, to the latest newspapers and periodicals right off of the newsstand. After a light meal, an air conditioned movie in the newsreel theater was just the place to pass time while waiting for a train.
When it was time to leave, passengers boarded from one of 16 gates in the 450 foot long concourse which straddled the tracks behind the rotunda. Luggage was taken by elevator to a room under the tracks where a tunnel and ramps led to the platforms for loading.
A mere three months ago, when Larry was probably more concerned about mid-term exams than what was going on at Cincinnati’s train hub, he might have seen this article in one local paper and wondered about his future.
Buried on page 29 of the March 19, 1943 Cincinnati Post, an article by Alfred Segal mused about the “Poignant Realities of Conflict Seen in Railway Station.” The author “went to Union Terminal to look for the war.” It was the waning weeks of winter in the Ohio valley and by many accounts, the war seemed far away. Oh sure, there were updates in the three daily papers, the Cincinnati Enquirer, The Cincinnati Post, and The Cincinnati Times-Star, and radio provided daily commentary. Those who could afford it, caught the MovieTone newsreels at a local theater before the main feature. Still, it seemed like one day was just like the last—business as usual if you will.
“Downtown you’d scarcely know there’s a war on. The way things go on as usual. Women shopping for spring outfits. Men rushing around on their ordinary business. People in cocktail lounges.”
“‘You’ve got to go to the railway station to see the war and to feel it,’ we were told and that’s where we went, and took a seat and watched the war march past. The thousands of soldiers and sailors marching to their mysterious destinies.”
“It was around 6 and every train was pouring them out singly and in companies. They were passing through, stopping off to change trains, marching double-file to dinner in the terminal’s restaurant.”
“People hurrying to their trains stopped to look at them with the kind of reverence that takes its hat off. They looked like all America: The scholarly-looking soldier with the spectacles. The slender one who may have been a window trimmer at the Emporium of Four Corners, Wis. The 18 year-old who only a few days ago put his school books away. Negro boys. Chinese. An Indian. Two Filipinos.”
“An enormous poster hangs from the rainbow-like dome of the terminal: Three powerful bared arms stretch upward: The arm of a soldier with a rifle flanked by the arms of workmen, and over all the words: ‘Strong in the strength of the Lord, we who fight the people’s cause will never stop until the cause is won.’”
“Yes, that’s how interminable it looked: The march through the station never stopped. This seemed a cross-roads on the American way and never a moment without the tramp of footsteps marching.”