Attempting to condense the life of the late Stanley Richard Williams Jr. in a column is no easy task.
For one thing, the longtime Aurora resident who died Jan. 25 just a few months shy of his 100th birthday had lived many lifetimes in that near century on Earth.
Williams, who moved to Plainfield about nine years ago but remained connected to local groups and activities, could easily be referred to as a Renaissance man: He was intellectually curious and as at-home backpacking across the High Sierras as he was writing poetry or creating beautiful calligraphy.
Williams was also widely regarded in the world of bowling as a player, a coach and a perfectionist as a ball driller, which I learned is considered artistry in itself by serious bowlers.
But we are mostly remembering Williams today for two years of that incredibly long and full life.
One of our few remaining local World War II veterans before his death, this Navy man served as a signalman third class aboard a U.S. Landing Craft Infantry ship, which fired heavy mortar shells onto enemy beaches just before the Marines and Army landed in Pacific Theater battles.
These ships, which also provided fire support after troops moved inland, carried out one of the most dangerous close-shore missions of the war, according to several historical sources. In an interview with the Library of Congress Veterans History Project, Williams mentioned not only having survived multiple typhoons but six Kamikaze attacks during the invasions of Iwo Jima and Okinawa, as well as attacks by suicide swimmers and suicide boats.
Because the role of mortar ships was to get close to shore, “we were always in harm’s fire,” Williams had stated, adamantly refusing, even when pressed by the interviewer, to go into detail about his battle experiences. Later in the conversation, however, he mentioned Marine pilots shot down by friendly fire and the different forms of fear he and others went through.
“I hate war,” Williams replied when asked what life lessons he learned from his two years in the military.
“I walked out,” he also noted, referring to his discharge on June 7, 1946, “and forgot the war.”
For most of his life Richard Williams seemed to do just that.
Born and raised in West Virginia, he moved to southern California in his last year of high school when his father – a master musician forced to change careers because of the Depression – went to work in a steel mill. And his mother let him enlist in the Navy the day before he turned 18 with the promise he’d finish high school first.
Williams trained as a signalman in large part because as a Boy Scout he was proficient in Morse Code and semaphore. After just a few weeks in basic training at San Diego, he was sent to Pearl Harbor to work and study. And a short time later, the teen was in the Philippines on a mortar ship bridge sending and receiving communications primarily by visual means, including signal flags and flashing lights.
In her husband’s written accounts wife Christine provided to me, Williams went into more detail, recalling that as the “leading signalman on board” this vessel – designated only as LCI (M) 352 – “I would on occasion be caught in the signal stand above the level of the conning tower, and when batteries were being fired, would often come down from there with tears coming down my face due to the concussions.”
After the war, Williams used the GI Bill to earn an English degree from Long Beach State College, where he also studied art and psychology. His plan, he noted in an autobiography, was to become a high school or college teacher. But a family situation forced him to take a different career path.
A gifted bowler, Williams gave up professional competition after an injury but became a sought-after coach and ball driller, also carving out a career managing bowling centers and pro shops. According to his obituary and other written accounts, he was a longtime Scoutmaster who not only ran youth camps but was a leader in adult back country excursions with L.A. County Parks and Recreation.
Williams was, indeed, many things throughout his life. But he was not always a joiner. In the Library of Congress interview, he described himself as more a loner because he did not “drink, smoke or carouse” like his peers. Nor was he the type to join veterans groups after the war and sit around a bar telling war stories, he added.
Still, after he and wife Christine moved to Aurora in 1990, he eventually joined the local American Legion and VFW posts, as well as the Aurora Veterans Breakfast Club. He got to know many of his fellow vets on Honor Flight Chicago’s second trip to Washington, D.C., a 2008 event The Beacon-News covered with a reporter, who described Williams as a “deep thinker who has seen everything.”
Williams “keeps to himself,” the writer also noted, which likely had something to do with the hearing loss he suffered from the multiple concussions sustained during battles in the Pacific. Williams was also legally blind from macular degeneration, which forced him after 2005 to give up his beloved art and turn instead to writing.
The author of more than 3,000 poems, Williams published four books, according to Christine, and at one point was named poet laureate for Honor Flight Chicago.
While it might have been like “pulling teeth to get anything out of him” about his own personal accounts of the war, he was immensely patriotic, she told me, and enjoyed sharing the adventures of the other years of his life.
“Dick was an amazing man with a lot of stories and experiences,” agreed Mike Eckburg, longtime commander of Roosevelt-Aurora American Legion Post 84. “He was a genius with facts” and could “discuss just about anything.”
Eckburg also praised his good friend’s poetry, noting that Williams’ books were not only part of many veterans’ personal libraries, his weekly poems in The Voice community newspaper were a treat for readers over the years.
He loved learning, he loved history – Abraham Lincoln was his idol – and he loved his books, Christine Williams told me, adding that her husband of 45 years was also known for his sense of fun and tender heart.
“I cry involuntarily when you wave the flag, bring up children or show Mother’s apple pie,” Richard Williams wrote in an autobiography.
“He was a character … he won my heart,” said Christine, who had hoped to throw a big party for her husband when he hit 100.
Instead, a memorial will be held at 10:30 a.m. on the veteran/poet/author’s May 11th birthday at Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery in Elwood, with a luncheon to follow in the couple’s Plainfield home.
“Richard lived 10 times in his lifetime with all he did,” Christine said. “He was a remarkable man.”
dcrosby@tribpub.com
