Red Ball Express

The 30th Division of the First Army swept across France. The young infantry soldier had been separated from his division after being hospitalized. When he was ready to return to his unit he was accidentally reassigned to the wrong division. In the confusion of war during a time when an infantryman’s life expectancy was a matter of days, if he was damn lucky, the soldier had trouble catching up to his proper unit. The circumstances most likely saved his life, but also gave him an opportunity to go to Paris on the Red Ball Express, “a mostly colored unit moving supplies to the front.” That was 1944.

From the 10026 foot summit of Haleakalā after watching the sun rise over a low cloud bank, Dad met two young men from southern California who had just climbed to the volcano from sea level. They congratulated themselves on their accent—a bush whack of sorts using nothing but a map and compass. Looking at the relief map in the Visitor’s Center, the two planned their next route with high fives and “Dude, it is a straight line from here.” referring to their destination, a trek across the crater and descent into Kaupo.

Dad and I looked at each other. When I was in my early twenties I hike the crater trail and came out the far side near Hana. That took two days, and I had not climbed the mountain the day before. A few years later, Dad and Mom also hiked it and took three days.

On the drive back down the mountain, Dad reflected on the duo’s adventure. “They were foolish to climb that mountain like that.”

“Dad, when you went to Paris, you were foolish. These two kids are not at any risk of getting shot by a sniper or end up AWOL.” Dad laughed in agreement. That was today.