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<em>Philip Shaw Wood</em>, “Phil,” a good roommate and a truly fine man. As a Plebe, Phil was never in trouble in academics, tactics, or with the upper classes. He always turned on his phonograph as soon as he returned from reveille. All shaving and room police were conducted to the rhythm of the latest recording. Classes he seemed to breeze through with ease, with an especial flair for French. Athletics were done as a requirement, not as truly desired as the old Red Comforter.</p>
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As Spring bloomed, a malady or fever gripped him that I later came to recognize and named "Maine Fever.” It was time for him to dream of Maine and happy holidays in West Gouldsboro with lobster, sailing, and the companionship of his family, a “Down-easter” at heart. Beginning in Plebe Spring, he began building a model of a boat he dreamed of sailing. She was a cutter rig about ten inches long with each part meticulously turned out by hand with loving care. As the winter began, she was put away until the next spring, and the bout with “Maine Fever" began. She was never truly finished to Phil's full satisfaction for presentation to his father. He dearly loved the green forest, rocky coasts, and cold, restless waters of Maine.</p>
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Summer Camp and Yearling Year saw the same ease of academics with pretty “drags” to brighten the weekends’ hopping. Somehow, he always seemed to know an inexhaustible supply of pretty femmes. Yearling Furlo brought a change to Phil that surprised us all, and it began the day he returned to barracks. That very day, before he had even finished unpacking his footlocker from storage. he dashed off into the hills for his first cross-country run. There was to be no more drill with the old Red Comforter every afternoon, but the grim hard driving of a crosscountry runner of just one more step in front of another up one more hill to climb. The change from a relaxed, no-strain life to the demanding regimen of cross-country running was a dramatic switch for all of us who knew him. Life seemed to have developed a lot more purpose.</p>
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Then, somehow the love of sailing and the drive of his running seemed to coalesce into a desire to fly. "Cow” Year Phil’s graduation goal became a set of pilot's wings. From then on, all spare energies, outside running, and academics were devoted to learning all he could of flying. Academics continued a breeze; pretty girls were dragged for fun and laughs, but the goal never changed. With singleness of purpose, he moved toward the Army Air Force. Upon graduation into the Army Air Force with happiness in the challenges met and flying to his heart’s content, he earned his wings.</p>
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After training with a B-24 squadron, he moved with it to Europe and the culmination of the many arduous, long hours of training to perfect himself and his crew. They were delivering the heavy loads of bombs over long distances, straining men and machines to the limit of capability through the black puffs of flak onto target. During a raid on Vienna his ship took hits they thought survivable. However, as they headed back, somewhere in the vicinity of the junction of Italy, Yugoslavia, and the Adriatic, his ship dropped out of the formation and went down. Nothing has ever been found. He went on to another squadron to fly with so many of our classmates—Guckeyson, Waddell, Costain, and the host of other gallant members of ’42 who paid the price ’neath a soldier’s blow.</p>
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His parents, Colonel (Ret) and Mrs. Philip S. Wood, now sail and fish in the summer in West Gouldsboro, Maine, and in Florida in the winter.</p>
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There is a Bronze Issue Marker mounted on a native boulder in Phil’s beloved Maine dedicated to his memory.<br />
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