Carnett: From A-bomb drills to dreams of angels

I patiently awaited the end of the world.

I wasn’t obsessing, mind you, but I was clearly on high-alert status.

It was the fall of 1954, and I was a 9-year-old fifth-grader in Mrs. Ballreich’s class at Lindbergh Elementary School on Costa Mesa’s Eastside. Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, who oversaw the Allied invasion of Nazi-occupied Europe a decade earlier, was president of the United States.

The world was experiencing a perilous escalation of Cold War rhetoric and behavior.

In a letter to Winston Churchill written at about that time, Ike confided that the Soviets were “irredeemably treacherous” and “implacably hostile and seeking our destruction.” He made no secret of the fact that, if need be, he’d fight — and win — a nuclear war.

Many of us felt at the time that a nuclear conflict was more than a remote possibility.

People across this nation were constructing bomb shelters in their backyards and hoarding supplies in anticipation of a nuclear catastrophe launched by the Soviets or Red Chinese. We had regular atom bomb drills in our schools.

I remember that Mrs. Ballreich would give the command and we’d drop to the floor and crawl under our desks. We’d face away from a big bank of windows on one side of our classroom. (It seems that every classroom constructed in the 1940s and ‘50s came outfitted with a huge wall of windows.)

We’d clasp our hands behind our heads, tuck our torsos toward our knees, shelter our faces with our laps and elbows, close our eyes and … wait. Finally we’d get the “all clear.”

But I often wondered what I’d actually do should a huge explosion occur? When the all-clear sounded, would the walls of the classroom still be standing? Would the surrounding neighborhood be a smoking ruin? Would I be allowed to walk home to see if my mom and my dog had survived?

They were thoughts that one could never completely expunge from the recesses of one’s consciousness.

Memorable and provocative events in 1954 include the following: The U.S. conducted atmospheric nuclear tests in the Pacific; the U.S., Britain and France rejected Soviet NATO membership; the Soviet Union tested its first thermonuclear bomb; the Red Chinese shelled the islands of Quemoy and Matsu; a U.S. plane was shot down over Siberia; Joe McCarthy conducted notorious Senate hearings in search of communists; and Willie Mays made a brilliant over-the-shoulder grab of Vic Wertz’s towering drive in the 1954 World Series.

Throughout the 1950s, my family attended a Lutheran church in Newport Beach. Never once do I recall the pastor delivering a fiery end-times-flavored sermon, yet I was well aware of biblical references to Christ’s Second Coming.

I distinctly remember a dream I had while in the fifth grade.

I dreamed I was sitting at my desk when, above the normal classroom din, I began to hear the voices of an angelic choir. But no one else in the classroom seemed to notice or show the slightest interest.

I got up from my desk and walked to the wall of windows. What the choir was singing sounded suspiciously like a chorus from Handel’s “Messiah.” I peered through the windows at the blue sky and saw dozens of angels decked out in white robes, levitating in the ether above the campus.

This must be the end of the world, I thought. But I had no intention of covering my head and throwing myself under a desk. It all seemed too cool!

I awoke with a start.

I’ve never forgotten that dream. At the time, I was relatively certain I’d see its fulfillment before my promotion to the seventh grade. If pressed, I’d have wagered my entire array of aggie shooters from my marbles collection on that proposition.

The good news: Dozens more A-bomb drills took place during my public school career, but none resulted in the dropping of a bomb.

The better news: The angelic choir is still warming up in the bullpen.

And the best news: I kept all my marbles … I think.

JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Wednesdays.