The author, John Marek, is a writer and executive director of the Anson Economic Development Partnership.
Although often referred to as a Duck “boat,” the General Motors DUKW utility vehicle is really more of a floating truck. Designed for use as an amphibious assault transport during WWII, its role was to cross a few hundred yards of water between the ship and beach, then drive up out of the water, delivering troops and supplies to the frontlines. Sporting just a 90-horsepower GMC 270 engine, it was hardly a speedster on either land or water, but it served its purpose admirably in the invasion of Sicily, on D-Day and during the invasion of several Japanese-held islands.
More than 21,000 DUKWs were built between 1942 and 1945, and when the war ended the majority of the remaining inventory were sold off as war surplus for pennies on the dollar. Some of them made their way to tour companies where they can be seen to this day offering visitors a unique experience on the roads and waterways of Boston, Seattle and Branson. Others were acquired by the police and fire departments of coastal towns for use as search and rescue vehicles. My hometown of Port Clinton, Ohio, was one of those communities. While I am sure our patriotically-painted red, white and blue Duck did indeed help rescue a few stranded boaters and flood victims over the years, its better-known duty was to lead the annual Memorial Day parade.
The Memorial Day parades of my youth were appropriately solemn affairs. In those waning years of the ’60s, the majority of adult males, and more than a few females, had served in either WWII or the Korean War. One of our elementary schools was named Bataan Memorial in honor of the 32 native sons who perished in that infamous death march. The average person on the street had a close friend or family member who died serving their country, so the Memorial Day parade was a near universally personal occasion. My father, who was not prone to spontaneous flower-wearing, but who had served in France in WWII and knew his share of fallen comrades, always donned one of the paper poppies sold by the VFW on the street corners.
As a Cub Scout, and later Webelos, I marched in a half-dozen Memorial Day parades; sometimes choking in the exhaust wake of the Duck, sometimes trailing the high school marching band. Late May in northern Ohio can be a time of weather extremes. More often than not, it was pleasantly warm, but near-freezing or scorching hot were not unusual. I remember marching one year in a mid-40s drizzle that resulted in sniffles lasting until the 4th of July, and the next year having the kid next to me pass out from the heat. Such was life in Vacationland.
In contrast to the solemnity of the parade, the rest of Memorial Day weekend in Port Clinton was a joyous celebration. The town’s major industry was, and still is, tourism, and that weekend was the start of the lucrative (and all too short) summer tourist season. These days, the town hosts a three-day Walleye Festival at its waterfront park, but back then it was a less organized calendar of church fish fries, chicken barbecues, ice cream socials and art fairs.
Port Clinton Fire and Rescue retired its Duck in the early ’90s, the understandable victim of escalating maintenance costs on its 50-year-old body and drive train. While I am sure the modern Memorial Day parades feature their share of sparkling new fire trucks, battle-worn HUMVEES and sleek police cruisers, for me it just wouldn’t be the same without that WWII “veteran,” one of the last physical vestiges of a period in our history that will soon be known only through pictures in books and archival footage.