All these 'fogies' want is some recognition of WWII service

Michael Boosalis still laughs when recalling his "one day in the Navy." In 1944, Boosalis was a 16-year-old "snotty-nosed punk" who sneaked out of his house and down to the Great Northern Depot to join the service.

He wasn't in line long before his "Old Man" appeared, yanking him out of line and back to reality, cursing a blue streak in Greek.

Four months later, President Franklin Roosevelt signed a law making it legal for those who were at least 16 1/2 to help with the war effort. Now that he had Uncle Sam's blessing, Boosalis' father "couldn't get me down there fast enough."

Boosalis, 81, is a warm and emotional man, a teller of tales, a great-grandfather and grateful American who cherishes his war contributions and decades of postwar work in construction. "We were building America," he said.

But on a recent Monday at the American Legion Post No. 435 in Richfield, the mood was subdued. Nearly 30 men had come to this monthly gathering of the Viking Chapter to share stories and photographs, drink coffee (donations welcome) and plan a summer picnic. Like most World War II vets, they are in their 80s and their ranks are shrinking fast. Unlike the others, these men still carry a special burden.

"Memorial Day came and went and, again, they forgot us," Boosalis says of the recent Armed Forces celebration in Washington. "It's heartbreaking to us. We're old fogies now. What else we got?"

Boosalis was a member of the Merchant Marine, the seamen who sailed the cargo ships that delivered essential supplies and personnel all over the world for U.S. and Allied forces. Bombs, gasoline, guns and ammunition, food, planes, medicine, and millions of barrels of oil.

"You can't believe the stuff we hauled overseas," Boosalis said.

Robert Nordby, sitting nearby, heartily agreed. "Jeeps, tanks, how did they get there?" Nordby said. "We got them there! That was up to us, and they've forgotten all about us."

'Highest casualty rates'

Approximately 240,000 men (and a handful of women) served in the Merchant Marine. More than 9,000 died and 12,000 were wounded. That means the Mariners suffered the highest casualty rate of any service during the conflict, with 1 in 29 killed in action. (It's worthy to note, too, that theirs were the only integrated ships.)

They have fought for decades since to gain full military benefits and, more important to them, affirmation.

"We wouldn't turn down money," said Boosalis, of Minneapolis, "but all we want now is to be recognized publicly."

Some detractors considered these nonmilitary civilians and Reservists to be "draft-dodgers" or lesser fighters because some had health limitations, such as asthma or color-blindness, that precluded them from other service. While the seamen were overseen by the government's war shipping administration, they worked as independent contractors for private steamship companies, paid about $75 a month, which was double the salary of sailors.

Few understood that if a Merchant Marine ship was sunk, (about 800 met that fate) those lucky enough to survive the sinking were still out of a job. Mariners did not receive military discharges with veterans benefits until 1988.

Memorials are springing up, from Duluth to Crystal, and a plaque was placed in the Court of Honor at the Minnesota State Capitol within the past few years. A "Belated Thank You to the Merchant Mariners of World War II Act" awaits passage in the U.S. Senate.

On this Monday, though, all you see are men who know their roles were essential. Ossie Helgerson, of Burnsville, reported to the group on his trip to Washington in October on a Freedom Honor Flight. He saw both Merchant Marine memorials there, and walked up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial without help.

"There wasn't a dry eye in the place," he said.

Bill Henry, of Lindstrom, joined the Merchant Marine at 17, and saw 33 countries by the time he was 22. Ralph Kobeska, of St. Paul, also cherishes his time overseas. "We got to see an awful lot of the world."

Boosalis served in the Merchant Marine from 1944 to 1947, primarily in the South Pacific. He returned to Minneapolis on Dec. 31, 1947, expecting the welcome of the prodigal son.

"Where the hell have you been all this time?" his father asked.

He married Stella in 1948; they have four children, 14 grandchildren and six great-grandchildren. To his delight, his grandchildren have shown an interest in his seafaring adventures. He has two huge maps in his basement, thumb-tacks highlighting his ports of call, and many photographs.

"Stella wants me to get a life," he said. "She thinks my stories are too salty for her grandkids."

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Postscript: Happy news for NWA baggage handler Eric Besvold, who was featured in this column March 8. Besvold, who developed the Fallen Soldier program to honor returning war dead, was named Employee of the Year at MSP International Airport. The award included $1,000 and a trophy.

Gail Rosenblum • 612-673-7350 • gail.rosenblum@startribune.com