Much of the story is a common one for WVU alumni of the late 1940s and early 1950s: a college career interrupted or postponed by military service, then an energetic return to academic and campus life, followed by a satisfying career and devotion to raising a family.
Robert H. "Punchy" Powell Jr., Class of '47, would have been Class of '43. But in between his WVU matriculation and graduation, he became a lieutenant in the Army Air Corps—a fighter pilot, one of the military's elite.
Powell served with the 8th Air Force in the 352nd Fighter Group stationed at Bodney, England: a tough outfit that came to be known by a tough-sounding name. Flying state-of-the-art Mustang fighter planes with bright blue cowlings, Powell and company destroyed so many enemy aircraft and emplacements that Hermann Goering, supreme commander of Hitler's Luftwaffe, is said to have dubbed them "those bluenosed bastards of Bodney."
A long, long way from where "Punchy" Powell started.
But
only the beginning of a life lived with an adventurous spirit.
Powell, a self-described "poor hillbilly" in his
youth during the Great Depression, worked in and around the coal
mines of
his McDowell County home to earn enough money to enroll at WVU
in 1939. Powell says his mother encouraged—him and supported
his determination to further his education. Her guidance, particularly
in the proper use of the English language, helped make her son's
dreams for college a reality.
Like many other WVU students, then and now, coming to Morgantown was Powell's first time to live away from home. He remembers that the size of the city and campus almost overwhelmed him. Soon, though, the security of companionship with fellow students and the School of Journalism's nurturing, family atmosphere helped him adjust quickly to "big city" life. Working as a reporter for the Daily Athenaeum and attending greek functions also bolstered Powell's sense of belonging at WVU.
Powell credits Mrs. P. I. Reed, his freshman English teacher and wife of the Journalism School's founder and namesake, with his first-year success and for his interest in a journalism career. He says she was a lovely lady—"tough, but fair."
One occasion with
Mrs. Reed remains indelible in his memory. Reed hosted a tea
for her freshman English classes each semester. "It was
a first for this hillbilly and I was quite ill at ease sitting
in her dining room being served tea by the young ladies of her
sophomore English classes," Powell says. Instead of using
the silver sugar tongs, he grabbed a couple of sugar cubes with
his bare fingers and plopped them into his tea. Noticing others
using the tongs, Powell says he was sorely embarrassed. He confided
his gaffe to one of his School of Journalism professors, Paul
Flowers, with whom he would later correspond regarding his combat
missions.
In the meantime, Powell had left WVU to volunteer for the Army Air Corps. His lifelong friend, and fellow WVU student, Earl Ashworth persuaded him to hitchhike to Pikeville, Ky., to take the cadet exam. He passed and, subsequently, graduated from advanced flight training in 1943 with his wings and commission. Soon he was sent overseas. Powell says he volunteered because it was an adventure and "everybody" was joining at that time.
As a warrior serving in a crusading army, Powell was living an incredibly exciting period of his life. New people, new places, new experiences—including his first solo flight, "undoubtedly one of the most fantastic thrills of a lifetime," says Powell. "All the doubts and fears of your ability to do something unusual suddenly evaporate as you take to the air alone in that beautiful blue and gold open-cockpit Stearman [trainer] for the first time, fully knowing that it is now up to you to get it around and down again without 'buying the farm.' Absolutely exhilarating!"
While flying doesn't allow many "free mistakes," Powell did make a few. Luckily, he survived his, with a story or two to tell.
One mistake taught him a lesson he remembers with excruciating clarity. During basic flight training, Powell took off in a BT-13 with the high pitch setting on—similar to trying to drive a car up a steep hill in high gear. Botching the takeoff, Powell barely cleared the fence at the end of the field, and the plane struggled up over some trees until it attained flying speed. Afterward, his instructor, "a tough old Army flyer," made Powell run a lap around the entire air field wearing his cumbersome parachute and count all the fence posts. Exactly. If he failed, Powell would have to repeat the exercise. Thankfully, his count was correct. He never forgot to take off in low pitch again.
A few weeks after Powell sent Paul Flowers news that he had
shot down his first enemy plane, a reply arrived—a copy
of one of Flowers's columns for the Memphis Commercial Appeal,
a leading newspaper of its time. The first paragraph of the column
read, "The boy who didn't know how to use sugar tongs is
now flying a $50,000 fighter plane over Europe and shooting down
enemy planes."
Indeed, in photos taken during the war, many of them posed
beside his Mustang nicknamed
"The West by Gawd Virginian," Powell's boyishness is
striking. 
"The Air Corps gave me my manhood," says Powell, "but much too fast, of course, because we boys became men overnight in combat." As a fighter pilot, Powell experienced both honest adventure and healthy fear, but recalls no sense of being a killer when he shot down an enemy plane. And he did his job very well: Distinguished Flying Cross with two Oak Leaf Clusters, Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters, and a Unit Citation, among other honors.
"The world, as we knew it, was in jeopardy," says Powell. "When the cause is worthwhile, and it was, there is no greater motivation." At a more personal level, "It was him [the enemy pilot] or me, and the Devil to take the loser. It was his skill pitted against mine.
You don't take prisoners in an air battle. You either return to base safely, parachute out into enemy territory and become a POW—or you die. At 22, I preferred to live.
"[Since the war] I have discussed this with some of the same German pilots whom we fought in the air. They felt the same way. We were doing our jobs in an ugly and dangerous war. We who survived were truly blessed."
Returning to finish his journalism degree at WVU after the war, Powell says the campus itself had not changed much, but the students and student population had changed considerably. Student numbers had almost doubled—from about 3,000 to nearly 6,000. Classrooms were packed with students, and professors held classes into the late evening hours. In addition to the white shirts and ties (or sweaters and skirts) of the traditional WVU student's wardrobe, these ex-GIs wore parts of military uniforms.
More students, many of whom were returning war vets with families, were living off campus. Powell, now married to his childhood sweetheart, Betty Wiley, fit this category. They lived in a small apartment in Sunnyside, across from the football stadium. Powell says their bedroom was so small "we had to get in the bed over the footboard," but that "those were some of the really great days of our lifetime."
Soon the Powells were expecting their first child. Robert Wiley was born while his dad was still a student. Two daughters came later—Linda and Betsy.
Powell, along with many of his fellow students returning from the war, was more mature, more serious about his studies, and earned higher grades. The GI Bill helped. However, the responsibility of supporting a family made working several part-time jobs a necessity for Powell. While a student, his most important job was working on the Morgantown Dominion News (now the Dominion Post). Powell remembers long days when he would go to the newspaper plant each evening to proof copy for the morning edition, get home after midnight, and then prepare for an 8 a.m. class.
After graduating in 1947, Powell told his wife his goal was to make $10,000 a year within ten years. His first job after graduation, at the Roanoke (Va.) World News, paid $50 per week—standard Guild wages for beginning reporters in those days. This salary left him a long way to go to reach his goal. A stint back in the service during the Korean War prolonged his journey. However, nine years into his career, his income surpassed his goal by half when he moved to Atlanta, Ga., to work as an advertising sales manager for McGraw-Hill.
"I knew then I had made it," says Powell. He and his family were now living the American Dream that Powell's generation had fought for and helped to make real in the postwar era. In the 1960s Powell joined Technical Publishing Co. as a regional manager representing 16 high-tech magazines, and worked there until retirement in 1987.
"The University and particularly the J-school gave me my first real exposure to the world outside the coal fields, opening my eyes to all that is out there to be learned—and an opportunity to do so," Powell says.
In retirement, Powell serves pro bono as editor-historian for the 352nd Fighter Group Association, keeping in touch with about a thousand 352nd veterans and their families through a quarterly newsletter. In 1990 Powell wrote and published an acclaimed history of his unit, titled The Bluenosed Bastards of Bodney. Now out of print and a collector's item, the book was snapped up by scholars, history and military buffs, aviation enthusiasts, and modelers. He donated copies to the WVU Libraries and to the School of Journalism.
Powell, now 78, does not take for granted those he has encountered along his life's long, high flight. He maintains a strong interest in his alma mater, and he helps organize the 352nd's reunions—forgetting neither his blue and gold roots in the West Virginia hills nor the limitless blue skies over wartime Bodney.
—Ronda Gregory Weese