Bob Kuhn retired from the hi tech Industry after having started in the power grid tube industry moving to the new semiconductor industry before the name Silicon Valley first evolved. He is now retired with his wife Sue in Calistoga Ca.
Embedded Files
P-40 aircraft stationed at Pearl Harbor during WWII.
The Great Gum Heist
The Great Gum Heist
At the start of the war with Japan, our town of Woodland was hit hard. One of our local boys, Hans Christiason, was among the first Americans killed. Hans, a P-40 pilot stationed at Wheeler Field in Hawaii, was shot down while running for his plane during the attack on Pearl Harbor.
He was well-known and liked by everyone in town—a good friend of my brother, who was also in the Army Air Corps and had just been ferried out of Hickam Field on his way to North Africa. Both young men had been active in the Boy Scouts, working on countless Scout projects together.
The town learned of Hans’s death when his photo appeared in the December 12, 1941, issue of Life magazine, in a group picture of forty servicemen killed at Pearl Harbor. He was pictured alongside Colin Kelly.
Woodland had immense pride in its men in service. Several of our local boys were also stationed on Corregidor, later captured and forced to endure the infamous Bataan Death March.
Life on the Home Front
Life on the Home Front
The war brought shortages of nearly everything—materials, food, gasoline, and tires. But anything that could help our servicemen was gladly given up. Fruit from South America disappeared from grocery stores, along with salad oil, mayonnaise, chocolate, candy, and gum. Families were rationed to eight ounces of beef per week.
Victory gardens sprang up everywhere as families grew their own vegetables. Non-essential workers received gas ration books that allowed only three gallons a week for the family car.
As the war dragged on, we grew used to these shortages. People accepted them as part of the collective effort. Kids went door-to-door collecting old pots, pans, and newspapers for the war drive—our contribution to “Ike,” General Eisenhower.
We did without, even simple pleasures like a Hershey Bar or a stick of gum. But morale was high; the war was turning in our favor.
Then, one day in 1944, everything changed—at least for a few hours.
The Great Train Wreck
The Great Train Wreck
Just four city blocks from our school, a train derailed near a big rice mill on Kentucky Avenue.
In those days, there were no cell phones, beepers, or social media. Our communications network was simpler—but fast. When the last school bell rang at 2:00 p.m., every kid in town knew about the wreck by 2:01.
About 400 of us jumped on bicycles, roller skates, scooters—or just ran—toward the scene. It was like the Oklahoma Land Rush, only noisier and dustier.
When we arrived, the sight was breathtaking. A giant locomotive leaned halfway over, freight cars scattered like toys. Some carried military cargo—field cannons, Jeeps, and half-tracks.
Then someone spotted it: a shattered wooden freight car spilling mysterious cardboard boxes. Boys pried one open and froze in disbelief. Inside were hundreds of small boxes—chewing gum!
A wartime miracle.
Kids grabbed what they could carry and fled the scene like pirates claiming shipwrecked treasure. My cousin Ron and I weren’t gum chewers, so we weren’t tempted. But then we saw something even better—boxes filled with Popsicle Pete wrappers and sticks.
In those days, comic books advertised prizes you could mail away for by sending Popsicle Pete wrappers—100 wrappers and 25 cents could get you a first baseman’s mitt!
We grabbed a box and ran to Ron’s house. In his backyard, we buried our treasure. Later, we planned to dig it up, dirty up the wrappers to make them look “used,” and mail them in for prizes. For now, we’d wait—just in case.
Trouble at School
Trouble at School
Monday came. Around 10 a.m., two men in suits, fedoras, and sunglasses entered our classroom. They said nothing, just watched. After a few minutes, one handed our teacher a paper and left.
Then our teacher began pointing out students—kids who were chewing gum—and sent them to the principal’s office.
We soon found out who the men were: FBI agents.
That derailed train? A U.S. government train. The gum was government property.
Holy smokes—this wasn’t like a shipwreck after all! Nothing was “finders keepers.” The gum-chewers had removed government material. We figured we’d never see them again—they’d surely been sent to San Quentin or Alcatraz.
Facing the Music
Facing the Music
After school, Ron and I decided we’d better dispose of our buried loot. But before we could, his dad—my Uncle Tod—spotted us digging in the yard. It didn’t take long for him to put two and two together.
He marched us straight to the police station. With gas rationing still in effect, we had to walk the whole way.
As we passed the benches outside the fire station—where local firemen liked to sit—someone called out, “Hey Bobby! You getting arrested?” Mortifying.
Inside, the police chief looked at us like we were Al Capone and John Dillinger. We got the lecture of our young lives about stealing government property and depriving our fighting men of popsicles and chewing gum.
We promised never to get into such “skullduggery” again, and he let us go—two very lucky boys.
Epilogue
Epilogue
The following week, Army Air Corps crews came from Mather Field in Sacramento to clear the wreck and right the derailed cars.
We didn’t go back to watch. Once was enough. Some lessons you only need to learn once.
~ Bob Kuhn
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