The Naval Institute’s oral-history collection recently expanded to include that of the late Rear Admiral Wayne E. Meyer (1926–2009), highly regarded as the “Father of Aegis” for his role in developing the weapons system and managing the Aegis shipbuilding project in the 1970s and 1980s. Over the course of 18 interviews conducted with historian Paul Stillwell from 2007–2009, Admiral Meyer covered his entire naval career. He also discussed in great detail his Depression-era childhood, the influence of which is recalled in the excerpt that follows.
I was born and raised in what’s called the gumbo: the Missouri River bottom. In March 1935, when I was about to turn nine, my father moved our family—my mother, grandmother, four kids, and a big dog named Cicero—13 miles from our 800-acre farm in Brunswick, Missouri, to a 120-acre tract of rocks and brush in the hills that cost him $400. We were displaced because he couldn’t pay the mortgage.
The house at the new place dated back to at least 1810 and was put together with wooden pegs. The heating stove was in the front room. From January through March, my dad generally never went to bed. He’d sit up all night and make sure there was wood in the stove. On particularly cold nights, my younger brother and I were allowed to sleep on the floor in front of the stove. We’d wake up with snow drifting around us, pouring in through the leaky windows.
Farming in the hills was problematic. We sold almost no grain and could barely raise enough hay to feed our cattle. We usually had 12 or 13 milk cows which, if we were lucky, would produce a dozen calves a year. Statistically, half of them were heifers, so you’d only end up with six or seven steers. My father would have to find a way to trade or buy young calves so he could get 15 or 20 steers in the feed lot.
My parents were fallen-away Catholics. My mother was a convert—her Baptist family was terribly upset about it, and when they married, her family had a fit. But at our new location in the hills, my parents decided to go back to church. When I was in fifth grade—and I don’t know how in the world they could afford it—they sent me to St. Boniface School, a two-room Catholic school six miles from home.
An incident that year has affected my entire life. The nuns at St. Boniface were from the order of St. Francis. If you had a question, you silently put up your hand until Sister Mary Joanne recognized you. Then you got to your feet, asked your question, and sat back down.
I finally got up enough nerve after a couple of months to ask a question. So I went through the process and—what I’m about to say to you brings tears to my eyes yet today. I stood up and asked her, “Sister, do cattle have souls?” The whole room broke out giggling and carrying on, and I really felt it. It hurt something fearful.
Sister Mary Joanne carried her shillelagh, a 12-inch ruler. She whacked the ruler and called the class to order—this short little woman glaring at them through her glasses. Then she looked back at me and said, “Well, of course cattle have souls. Their souls are physical souls. Your soul is a spiritual soul.” What a beautiful answer. I’ve never forgotten it. She shut the entire room up. From then on I was king of the walk. Never again did anybody challenge me, because I’d asked a question that was far above their intellect [laughter].
Jumping ahead, I graduated from high school in 1943 and enlisted in the Naval Reserve in May. After the war, in February of ’46, I’m home on leave. I’ve recently received a commission and now have a degree. I’m in the barn, talking with my father on a Sunday evening while he milks the cows. He asked me what I was going to do. I said, “Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I really would like to come back home and go into farming with you.”
He jumped up, slammed his bucket down, grabbed me by my shirt, and jerked me off the stool. He came as close to hitting me as he ever had in his whole life. All he did was say to me, “How could you be so goddamn stupid?” That was his statement. It took several weeks for that to sink into me. I’d never appreciated how much that man had suffered for me. I thought of farming as a wonderful vocation. But his children were his joy, and their success was extraordinarily important to him. Though it took a long time for me to realize it, in hindsight, that Sunday evening in the milking barn was a turning point for me.
The Naval Institute gratefully acknowledges the following for their generosity in underwriting Rear Admiral Meyer’s oral history:
Peter M. Edmondo
Vice Admiral John W. Nyquist, USN (Ret.)
Rear Admiral Kathleen K. Paige, USN (Ret.)
Vice Admiral J. Theodore Parker, USN (Ret.)
Vice Admiral William H. Rowden, USN (Ret.)
Lockheed Martin Corporation