My Father, William Howard Huston, was born to Joseph and Margaret Huston on June 2, 1920 in Keokuk, Iowa. He had one older brother, John. When the boys were very young they moved to Cedar Rapids. My Grandparents never talked to me about my Father and I know nothing about his childhood or school years. I do know that he grew up very poor. When he was old enough he drove a mail truck in Cedar Rapids and did mechanic work.

My Father enlisted in the Iowa National Guard, 34th Infantry on December 27, 1940. The famous Red Bull Division. On February 10, 1941 he was inducted into the Army. He was stationed at Camp Claiborne, Louisiana for his basic training. When he finished his training he went home for 30 days leave. My Mother said he came right to her house and they were together every day. When he left he was sent to Camp Polk., Louisiana. My Mother joined him there and they were married on the base, in the chapel. My Father was allowed to find housing off base and mother said he found a tiny cabin for them and they were so happy there. By the first of October 1942, My Father knew he was being sent to Ft. Hood, Texas and his Captain was sending my Father to Officer Candidate School when he got there.

My Mother was two months pregnant with me and very sick with pneumonia, so the Captain told my Father he needed to get her on the train with the other wives and send her home. She begged to stay, but my Father was leaving, she had to go. She said my Father told her how much he loved her and their baby. He said we are going to have a little girl that looks just like her mom and he named me. He said we have a job to do so that our baby can grow up in a free country. When he finished his training he went home. You have to go home and take care of our baby. When the convoy left camp, my Dad was on a motorcycle carrying orders from the front to the back, his front tire went in a pothole, he was thrown and the motorcycle came down on him. He died the next day from skull fractures. My mother and his parents arrived back at the camp two hours after he died.

One of my Dad's friends stood guard over his flag draped coffin on the train ride home. I have that flag, it's the only thing I have. From as far back as I have memories; my sweet Mother told me stories about my Dad. I would ask to hear them again. Through her eyes, I knew him. I've missed him all my life and so did my Mom. Her last words were, Bill is that you?

In Loving Memory