Dad's Pigeons
William Don Treadwell is a retired Army captain who lives in Camarillo, Calif., with a flock of goldfinches and a fighting goldfish named Pumpkin.

At the end of World War I, the U.S. Army underwent a vast demobilization program. The "War to End All Wars" was over, and the Yanks were coming home to the United States and clamoring to get back into civilian clothes. There was one notable exception, however, and he was my father, Sgt. 1st Class William C. Treadwell.

While in training before going to France, Dad volunteered to participate in a regimental smoker - a boxing match put on for the morale of the troops. Anyone who cared to get into the ring, whether amateur or professional, could do so. My father had boxed before getting into the Army, but he was definitely an amateur. He was matched with a professional boxer named Packy McFarland. Dad did well for the early part of the match, but then he must have done something to anger his opponent. The bottom line was that Dad spent the next few months in the base hospital nursing a broken nose, broken jaw, and several fractured ribs. Needless to say, this put a damper on his career in the ring.

It was going to take time for his mauled body to heal, so he was assigned to the Signal Corps at Fort Jackson, S.C., and placed as NCO in charge of the post's carrier pigeons - a task to which he remained assigned, even after war's end. This duty was not too taxing on Dad's still-healing body, and because of his Signal Corps background, he was familiar with the birds, which had distinguished themselves in battle by flying through the flak-filled skies to deliver messages when all other communications had been cut off.

With budget restraints, though, caring for the birds became a real challenge. These winged heroes had certain needs, such as exercise. It had taken years of training to develop them into a reliable messenger service. Fortunately, Dad was up to this challenge.

The pigeons also needed to eat, though. Dad tried going through channels to get money to feed them but to no avail. Try as he might, pleading and cajoling, he would get the same answer: "There just isn't any money." He even tried paying for bird seed out of his own pocket, but in those days a soldier's pay was meager.

Dad had become the only friend the birds had, and he finally reached a point of desperation. As in cases of dire necessity, some have to be sacrificed for the welfare of others. Dad concocted a plan. He contacted the mess steward at the Fort Jackson Officers Club and began to trade some birds for money to buy seed to feed the others. I'm sure the officers never realized that the "squab under glass" they were eating had been, at one time, among the greatest heroes to come out of World War I. It was certainly no way to treat a war hero.

Dad finally was mustered out, but he told me that he often wondered what became of his feathered friends and how long they lasted. If they ever erect a monument to the carrier pigeons of the U.S. Army, I think it should be placed in front of the Officers Club at Fort Jackson.

Pigeons always did have a thing for statues.