Thomas Heeg stories

My grandfather, Thomas Heeg grew up on a dairy farm in Elmhurst, Queens, NY.  I don't know how big it was, but from old maps of the area, probably not much more than an acre if that, but sufficient for them to provide a milk delivery service.  My grandfather would drive the horse drawn milk wagon to his rounds every morning to deliver the fresh milk.  The horse being shod with metal shoes of course, made a pretty good conductor to the ground.  One day a storm came up and a bolt of lightning struck and killed the horse and threw my grandfather off the wagon.  Another time, lightning struck the barn and set it afire.

He and my grandmother owned a small grocery store in the old style where the worker would fill the order for the customer and pull the product off the shelf.  A friend of his asked him to go into business with him on the model where the customer would get the goods themselves and bring them to the cashier.  My grandfather thought that was a bad idea and his friend went on to open King Kullen supermarkets and made a fortune.

In his later years, he became a supervisor in a plating company and spent his vacations working on a friend's farm.  When he came back he would razz my grandmother by raving about the fresh home-cooked food on the farm.  Until two weeks before he died, he got up every morning at 5 am and took two busses and a train to work every day.  He smoked Kools and big cigars pretty regularly, had a beer with dinner and went to bed every night a 9pm, no matter who was there.  His hands were as big as catcher's mitts and his fingers were easily an inch in diameter.

Even when he was about 81 when all the brothers got together to help Uncle Ed build his dock in Massapequa, Poppy was there pushing wheelbarrows of dirt with everyone else.

Factory story

Somehow in the 1930s when my father was barely in his 20s, he was a supervisor in a lock factory.  He had about 3 guys in his department.  The biggest guy, who was about 30, came to my father one day and asked for a raise from his $.19/hour to $.22 an hour.  Why - he was getting married and needed the extra money to support his wife.  Kind of puts the value of money in perspective.

Dad the cop

So, before my father was in FDNY, he was in the New York City Water Department Police.  Primary duty - guard the Kensico Reservoir in Valhalla, NY.  Life was pretty quiet on the dam, so him and his buddy would party in town at night, often with the mayor.  One time in particular, they stayed out too late, probably imbibed a bit too much and were pretty tired for work.  The dam had a road that went across the top and of course the dam walls extended up along side the roadway.  The water was at least 100' down on one side.  So my father decided to take a nap on the top of the wall. During his snooze, he rolled over...and fell into the road.  If he'd rolled the other way, it probably would have been curtains.

Another quiet day, he decided to clean his revolver and laid the parts on the top of the wall.  His friend came along and in the process of chatting, probably used some extra emphasis or was handling the gun parts.  In any event, somehow the cylinder got bumped and rolled off the side into the reservoir.

They also had a couple of Indian motorcycles to patrol the reservoir.  Have/had a great photo of my Dad in a Marlon Brando pose on it.  They used to help out the city cops when things got dull or the cops needed backup.  He recalled parties that got out of hand where the cops would bust in with nightsticks in hand and just start swinging and bustin heads.  Didn't care who they hit, just as long as they broke it up.  I'm pretty sure the black's parties got the worst of it.

John Heeg, Sr War stories, cont'd.

So we left John Heeg, Sr. at an airbase in eastern England.  Given that all the British men were off fighting the Germans, when the GIs went to town, there were quite a number of British women waiting for them.  Consequently when my father and his friends found a bunch of women looking for more than ale, they went back to one of the women's houses.  Their staff sergeant came with them, but he was a bit older and was trying to hit on one of the women's mothers.  Well they get to the house and everyone is pairing up, and Sarge and Mom get into some kind of disagreement which escalates.  That pretty much ended anyone's chances of getting any that night and they all got the boot from Mom.  But I'm sure there were plenty of other nights when things went better.

Sometimes the mechanics had to fly across the channel to disassemble crashed bombers to retrieve any sensitive parts or get the downed plane in operational order so it could be flown out.  So the Army would secure the area and the engineers would plow a makeshift dirt runway and the mechanics would be flown in.  So one night, my father said they were flown to Cassel in North Eastern France near the Belgian border.  They get the bombsights off and any else sensitive and salvageable.  It gets near nightfall and they hear about one of the Lebensborn enclaves nearby.  This was one of Hitler's breeding camps where he brought in blond haired, blue eyed beauties from the conquered territories to breed with the similar members of the SS.  The closest one I could find is Lamorlaye, southeast of Cassel, although at 142 miles away, seems unlikely and perhaps they were closer to Lamorlaye, and just crossed the channel at Cassel. 

So they pile into a deuce and a half and head on over to the nearest Lebensborn whereever it was.  They get there and since the Germans had been long gone, it seemed the residents were too happy to see some GIs show up.  My father said there were loads of little kids progressing in height from little ones to probably about 5 years old.  So they party with the women and my father heads off for a romp with one of them, and thoroughly enjoys himself a bit too long.  When he finally decides it is time to go, he realizes that the truck has already left.  So with nothing but a sidearm (1911 Colt, semiauto .45) he starts off on foot to head back to the plane. 

Traveling in the direction he can best determine, he travels through woods and can hear the refugees doing the same and them shooting at any other suspicious noises.  He finally comes to a road and waits for someone to come along.  Soon enough two jeeps come down the road and he flags them down.  In the first is a Major and his girlfriend and in the second his escort.  The major tells my father to get into the second jeep.  They drive along for some time and suddenly my father recognizes something and tells the escort to stop and let him out.  He goes through some woods and there is his plane.

john Heeg Sr's War Stories

My father enlisted while he was in the fire department.  Not sure why - maybe the adventure, or maybe he was assigned to fireboat duty at that time (which he hated).  But FDNY gave them credit for the time they served in the military, so I guess he figured it was a wash.  Obviously already in better shape than many other enlistees, since he was able to run an 8 minute mile for his FDNY physical exam.  He connected with one guy who was a gambler and on the cross country train ride, the fellow gambled constantly and was probably fairly good.  My father acted as his banker and bodyguard, checking in on him from time to time, holding on to his excess winnings or providing a cash infusion when things went the other way.  They were stationed in a camp in Utah for training, maybe basic, and they took hikes in the mountains for conditioning.  My father loved the hikes and the scenery, but said a lot of guys just complained the whole time.  When they had furlough, him and his friend would get up before everyone else and get spiffed up in their dress uniforms.  They would head into town to the nearest factory as the women were lining up for their day shift.  They would connect up with a couple hotties, then go into town, get a hotel room and sleep till the girls got off shift.  Then they would pick up the girls and hit the bars, maybe dinner, then take them back to the hotel.

When training was over, he wanted to be a pilot, but they said he was too old at 25 already.  (At that age, they figured men might start questioning the sense of flying through flak, enemy fighters, and the other risks required).  So they wanted to make him a door gunner instead and he told them to stuff it, since he knew the survival rate was about 0%.  Fortunately they had a mechanical test and they had them disassemble and reassemble something.  Since he had a good background in taking things apart and fixing them, he completed the test faster than anyone else by organizing the parts as he took them off.  So they made him a ball turret mechanic - that's a glass ball that is on the bottom of the B-25 Mitchell Bomber that contained two 50 cal machine guns and a seat for a gunner.  The gunner could turn the ball using foot pedals and elevate the guns by the handles.  Very cold seat, since there was no heat and the glass provided no protection against the outside temps.  Must have been a heck of a view for as short a time as one could live in that spot.

So he was shipped off to England on an LST, which having a flat bottom, wasn't a very smooth sail across the North Atlantic.  But he and the cook were about the only ones who weren't sea sick, so he ate pretty well on the trip.  He ended up at an airbase, in Kent.  Things were fairly relaxed as far as military standards go.  They would get the call that a mission was going and get up in the night and prep the planes.  Sometimes the planes wouldn't make it off the runway and they would have to collect the remains of the airmen.  He remembered one propaganda plane loaded with leaflets that crashed and they had to get the leaflets loaded onto another plane.  He said they were scooping up body parts with the leaftlets and throwing them into bags to put it on the other plane.

Once one of the bomber pilots he knew wanted to take out a P-51 for fun, so he signed it out and he asked my father to come along.  So the pilot, used to flying bigger lumbering bombers felt like he was in a sports car.  He flew along the tops of trains and beat them to trestles, then flew under the trestles, among other tricks.  Sometimes when flying in the bombers, the pilots would fly up steeply, then loop over into a dive, so the guys in the back could be weightless for a bit.  My father said they had one short guy who would run in mid air as soon as they did.   More to come.

My bike trip to Geraldine's house

I wrote this in response to someone's question online regarding the day to day experience of a long distance bike rider and how there can be a lot of differences depending upon how you approach it, what support you have, the amount of preplanning, and how you plan to eat and sleep on the road. I remember reading in the early 70's of a 70 year old former racer, Ed Delong, who for his birthday, rode across America along, with little more than a credit card and some changes of clothes forwarded to general post offices along the route.  In 1974, my choice was to try bicycle camping, round trip from Long Island to Philadelphia and back. It was around 300 miles given the roundabout route I took.

I had trained fairly well and could easily do 75 to 100 miles a day without gear, and 50-75 with all the 35 lbs of gear (bike was a 10speed Atala). I took along a camping cook set, sleeping bag, small stove, water, some food (planned on shopping for most meals), tarp, tools, tires, tubes, maps, and two changes of clothes. I had a handlebar bag and panniers from the Touring Cyclist shop.

I got up at 4 am, left the house and about a mile or so later, blew out the sides of both tires from too much pressure. Changed the tubes and stuffed the ragged tubes in the sides of the tires to keep the tubes in. Got to Manhattan when a bike store opened and replaced the tires. Took the PATH train to Hoboken and rode up through Passaic, where I got hit by a car, crushing the back wheel, but otherwise okay. Had a friend pick me up and take me to a bike shop to get another wheel. Stayed at my friend's house for the night. We left together the next morning and had a great day and found a county park to set up camp about half way across Northern NJ. That night, the creek I was sleeping next to overflowed from the downpour that was happening. I slept in 3" of water for the rest of the night.

The next morning I took my very heavy sleeping back to a laundromat and dried it out. My friend rode back home and I rode on to the Delaware River. Camped on an island in the river and had a great night. Next day I rode into Philly, but couldn't find my cousin's house because all the street signs were missing.  Finally found a fire truck and they gave me directions and I stayed with cousin Geraldine for a couple days. One night her boyfriend and I rode our bikes to his garage and I tuned up my spokes there.  On the way back, I jumped the bike over a pothole and when I landed the bike wobbled like crazy.  When we got to their place I got off the bike, picked it up, and the front wheel fell off because the quick release had popped open on the jump.

Going back to NY, I made it up to Lakehurst and set up camp at the airport where we used to go parachute jumping. I was bitten in the eyelid that night by a mosquito and my eye was swollen shut for the rest of the day. I rode up the east side of NJ and made it to Rahway and a dead end in the refineries with nothing but the Jersey Turnpike between me and the Goethels Bridge. Hopped the fence and almost rode the mile to an overpass I needed to get to, but got a ticket for riding on the turnpike (which in my opinion was a lot safer than riding on Route 1).

Hitchhiked in a flatbed truck over the bridge and rode through Staten Island to the ferry and went up through Manhattan to cousin Christine's place. Rode back to Long Island the next day. The next long trip I took was an organized trip with sag wagons, food stops and places to sleep at night. Never went bike camping again.

Firehouse

It was so much fun when we would visit the firehouse.  The firemen were almost like uncles to us.  Margaret spent many weekends at the home of one fireman, Bill Moclaire.  He had a daughter who would have been Margaret's age but had passed away when she was about 3 from a heart defect. 
My father drove the pumper and when the truck was washed, he would bring it to our house, load all the neighborhood kids in the back and take them for a ride while John & I sat up front.  There was once a large fire a couple blocks from our house and my mother rushed us over there to watch them put the fire out.  Three houses burned down that night.  It was great to have Dad be a fireman but unfortunately, the salary was so poor at that time, that he had to work other jobs(landscaping, painting, handyman) on his days off.  I know that he was making $8,000 a year when my uncle was making over $20,000 on the merchant ships.