The Tenth Mission - A Wartime Experience of a Bonners Ferry Boy - in his own words - Part I

Arden Oral (Lanny) Lannigan was born June 10, 1925 in Smith Center, Kansas. His family was one of the thousands losing their farm to the Dust Bowl. The family ultimately settled in Bonners Ferry, Idaho clearing stump land with dynamite, building a log house and enduring the worst of the depression. Without these hard experiences, he doubted that he would have survived his WWII experience. Here is his story in his own words:

The Tenth Mission

Wartime Experience of Bonners Ferry Boy

by: A.O. (Lanny) Lannigan

I was cleaning the barn about noon on Sunday, December 7, 1941 when my Dad came to tell me that he had just heard on the radio that the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. I was only 16 years old.

Visions of being the finest fighter pilot in the war began to swirl through my adolescent mind. "If that war lasts long enough, I am going to be a fighter pilot," I announced to my Mom and Dad.

Far from any war front, I lived with my folks on an 80 acre stump ranch 4 1/2 miles from Bonners Ferry, Idaho. Our family had carved out an existence of what had been "nature in the raw" mostly by hand. It was, and still is, a rugged character-building area in the state.

By eight or nine years old I had learned to swing an axe with authority (left or right handed), shoot straight and be bucked off an Indian pony three times and still get back on. Our whole family worked 12 hours a day, usually 7 days a week with very little time off for good behavior. we didn't complain....this is what it took for survival.

I attended Sheridan Grade School and then was a high school student at Bonners Ferry High School. During high school I never deviated from the grand ideal that was firmly planted in my head: I was going to be a fighter pilot. It took all the math and physics courses I could, and a special course in aircraft and mechanics - preparing for my debut in World War II as the greatest fighter pilot alive.

Summers I was one of the youngest packers (9 mules and 2 horses) in the Smith Creek Ranger District for the United State Forest Service. Dad had taught me about mules, horses and cattle. And, he took the time to teach me how to read a compass. I did well in the rough environment on the forest service job and even taught the other lookout and smoke chaser kids how to read compasses and take readings.

I was eligible to join the service when I turned 17 years old, and on May 23, 1943 was invited to the terrifying metropolis of Spokane, Washington where I went by bus to take the exams. Never did a greener, more rustic but determined young man apply for a room at that hotel across the street from the bus depot. There were no rooms available, but the kindly landlady took pity on me and let me sleep in the laundry room, which was full of dripping wet laundry. The price was right - only $1.25 a night.

Thanks to a relentless, almost badgering teacher, Mr. Russell Soderling, I was well prepared for the service exams. I finished 21st out of 160 men, and was chosen as on of 15 men (and boys) to be accepted. Told to go home and wait for a call, I returned to the stump ranch to await a call from the United States Army Air Force.

The call came on December 10. Uncle Sam wanted me to report to Fort Douglas, Utah on December 27, 1943. To meet that deadline my Mother had to drive me to the train station in Bonners Ferry. Believe me it sure wasn't easy for her. Months before, when I asked her to sign the papers allowing me to enter the service, she had refused. "I didn't raise my sons to be soldiers," she explained to me that day. I had gone to Dad to get the required parental signature required to join the service.

Now Mom was taking her little boy to the station to take the Empire Builder train into Spokane: on Christmas Day no less. It was a dark and snowy morning. We both cried as she put me on the train. And off I went to join the service.

My low moment came a few months later while in basic training in Denver. Although enlisted to become flight officers, through no fault of our own, our entire class was sent to gunner school. I wanted to be a fighter pilot. I had passed all the tests to be a pilot. An, now our entire class plus hundreds more arrived at the Las Vegas Gunnery School to hear an officer announce, "Welcome aboard, you're going to be career gunners." I hated it, but after two weeks of moping and grumbling, I decided to buck up and just get out there to be the best darned gunner in the service.