QNCW, The QRP CW Journal

by Scott Laughlin / N7NET

February 2007

A sign reading Estate Sale caught my attention. Slowing, I wheeled into Herman’s drive and dogged the old Ford to a stop. We’d never met and shook. We’d never even QSOed. In fact, I didn’t even know his call. Now it was too late for any of that.

His yard was filled with portable towers, guy wires, coax, heavy transmitters, and antenna tuners, but nothing here would meet my budget. Then I noticed a sign over the door that read, More Inside.

His shack was a museum Equipment was everywhere. On the walls hung world maps and hundreds of QSL cards. However, what caught my attention was a photo of a B-17 with her flight crew.

“Herman, my father, was the radio operator on that bomber,” said a voice.

Turning, I found a short man of slight build. He was perhaps ten years my senior. His head was a glossy bald.

“Which one is he?” I asked, stepping closer to the photo, and studying the faces.

“The smallest of the group, the one on the end,” he said pointing an index finger. “He was five foot four and a quarter, and he probably never weighed ninety pounds.”

“Somewhere, I heard your father was already an operator when Fort Sam Houston came on the air with their Spark Gap.”

“True. He was.” He cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

“I hoped there might be a stray key lying about, maybe your father’s favorite?”

Stooping, he reached into a pasteboard box and grabbed something. “Here you go,” he said. “This is a J-38, or was. These things are getting more rare with each passing day. My father, being a ham prior to his draft into World War II, spoke Morse. This may have been the one he took to war with him. Many hams did, you know. I guess it’s kind of like a trumpet player always has a mouthpiece in his pocket.”

“That’s an interesting analogy,” I said, plucking the key from his grasp and turning it in my hand. “The armature is rusted in place.”

“I know,” he said wistfully. “But you could breathe life back into this puppy. Then you would own the very key my father may have used over Tokyo.”

A host of possibilities raced through my head. There’s no way of telling what might be hidden beneath this rust.

“How much?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Twenty bucks?” I echoed. For certain, a J-38 in working order could be found for less money, but not one bringing with it a legacy. What if the B-17 tail number were etched somewhere on this key?

“How about five bucks and I’ll save you a trip the dump?” I countered.

“Let’s get serious.”

“I am serious,” I said, smiling, and shoving a five-spot toward him while slipping the rusty J-38 in my shirt pocket.

He blinked, and shifted his weight again. “Well…, you add another five to that one and you have a deal.”

After arriving home, and taking time for a closer inspection, it was obvious that this J-38 would actually bring twenty dollars a ton on the scrap steel market. What a blunder. I should have walked away. But my remorse was countered by words echoing in my head. ‘This J-38 may be the same one my father used over Tokyo.’ What if…, I thought. My time was cheap. After a liberal soaking with WD-40, I slipped the key into a baggie and pinched the seal.

A polished apple tastes sweetest, say voices from the past. There is truth in these words, for as I labored over this gem, searching for numerals or initials that might disclose its heritage, the possibility of such clues grew less important.

A week later, it was buffed to a high sheen, but something was still lacking. Somewhere, I had a base plate.

From a box of spare parts, I retrieved a Bakelite base that had once served a Southern Pacific station agent. It fit perfectly. Even the nomenclature, J-38, was etched on it. I had something better than a key used over Tokyo

I had a ghost key.

by Scott B. Laughlin
Copyright 2009

Taylor Sullivan was in the fourth grade when he found a damaged issue of Boy’s Life Magazine. It was lying on the curb of a Portland street and the wind had flipped it open, exposing an illustration of a boy speaking into a tomato can. Pausing, he stooped and studied the picture. The article described how to build a crude telephone using things commonly found around the house—a length of string and two vegetable cans.
His mother had scolded him about handling things he found on the ground. He considered her words, but this seemed important enough to put her warning aside. Rolling up the tattered publication and shoved it into his hip pocket and then he headed home.
Taylor built a tin can telephone and he and Carl, his little brother, used it on the staircase. That’s where he learned that the string had to be taut and in a straight line. If the cord touched anything it stopped transferring audio. It seemed like a perfect solution for communicating between their bedrooms, so he built second system and cut a hole through the wall solely for that purpose.
“Hold the can still, Carl.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not. You’re letting the cord touch the edge of the hole.”
Carl didn’t have a steady hand. After several failures, Taylor enlarged the hole. When that didn’t solve the problem he expanded it even more. Then their father discovered the damaged wall.
The telephone didn’t work well outside and Taylor quickly lost interest in it, but he was hooked on communications. Commercial radio had taken the nation by storm and he couldn’t get enough of it.
In 1937 Taylor’s father purchased a large, floor model radio. The adults gathered around it for the evening news, and he watched them await Gabriel Heeter’s opening statement: “Good evening folks—there’s good news tonight“. While he was curious about the AM broadcasts, he found more adventure in listening to the three shortwave bands. That was where Taylor became acquainted with Morse code and heard his first ham, a man called Marvin.
A neighborhood hardware store sold radio parts and the owner knew Marvin well. He even gave Taylor directions to his house. On his third visit he began learning Morse. In a short time Taylor experienced the thrill of making his first two-way contact, operating under Marvin’s call. After that he began preparing for the test that would fetch him a radio license of his own. Then he set out to earn his WAC (Worked All Continents).

Taylor was 19 when the attack on Pearl Harbor occurred and the United States entered World War II. For national security reasons ham radio privileges were revoked. He enlisted in the Navy and soon thereafter, he was a radioman aboard a submarine. After a week at sea he found two others who, as civilians, had plied the night skies with electromagnetic waves.
Because receivers transmitted a weak signal that the enemy could follow to its source, radio silence was invoked, keeping strict transmission schedules. When not in use, the antennas were disconnected.

However, operating a receiver without an external antenna while the boat was submerged didn’t breach radio silence, so Taylor created a spare time radio activity of his own.
With the Captain’s permission, he used a receiver and began transmitting verses from the New Testament.
When time allowed, a receiver was moved from one strategic location to another. The noisy environment of the boat while underway coupled with a very weak signal made copy a sincere challenge. At a given point in time Taylor declared the quest finished.
Both hams scored high and were issued a WAC, a certificate stating that the bearer had successfully Worked All Compartments.