Bill Dalton
I was asked if I remembered a helicopter crashing into Haggetts Pond. I didn't, but the other day I found a front-page Townsman article dated June 22, 1961. It's headline was: "Helicopter Crashed, Sank at Haggetts." I thought I was on to something.
There was a picture of two men, neither worse for the wear, standing in front of the pond. There was no helicopter; it was under water. The picture showed Robert Walker, the pilot, and Kim Bolten, of 15 Geneva Road, a road next to the pond.
The caption and story said the photo was taken following the crash of the helicopter in which the two were riding, and that it sank very swiftly - in two seconds - yet, Walker and Bolten managed to slip out of the cockpit and swim to shore.
Walker's expression was more serious than Bolten's, but we'd expect that as it was his helicopter that was under water. The story did not mention if and when the helicopter was to be recovered, or if the oil and gas would befoul the pond's water, which was and is Andover's drinking water.
The caption below the picture said that they "enjoyed an opportunity to change clothes when the photo was taken." (I assume the caption meant "they enjoyed an opportunity to change clothes before the photo was taken.")
World War I story
In response to my World War I columns, I was told a rather sad story.
"Shell shock" was a trauma that some combat troops suffered who were in the front lines of the war. For months at a time, the lines moved little, and the men lived in semi-permanent trenches and underground huts while the constant pounding of exploding shell imperilled their existence week after week after week.
For some of these men, it was too much to cope with, and they entered a semi-catatonic state called "shell shock." Today, most would remain in veterans' hospitals if they suffered such trauma, but back then many were released to the care of their families in hopes that they'd improve in a normal environment. One of these shell-shocked lads returned to Andover and his family. Each day, the family dressed him up neatly and sent him out for a walk.
As years passed, boys grew up who had little or no knowledge of the war. They didn't understand why a neatly-attired, shell-shocked man silently walked about town with his eyes cast down to the sidewalk. He became the brunt of these little boy's idea of humor.
He would never speak even if spoken to, and the little boys would try to talk to him, and then they'd lie in front of him on the sidewalks to see what he'd do. When he approached their prone bodies, he very simply walked around them, without saying a word.
When those little boys grew up, they must have remembered and regretted their prank and wondered what sadness was imbedded in that poor man's brain and if they contributed to that sadness.
Calling Class of 1938
Marion Dennison Moore, Punchard High School Class of 1938, wonders if any of her classmates are still living, and if so, whether they would they get in touch with her through her daughter's e-mail: jmarble01969@yahoo.com. Ms. Moore's mailing address is 5841 Joanne Drive, Racine, WI.
Bill Dalton writes a weekly column for the Andover Townsman and enjoys receiving e-mails at billdalton@andovertownie.com
