Ray OConor - She Called Him Raymond: a True Story of Love, Loss, Faith and Healing

Praise for Ray OConors

She Called Him Raymond

A True Story Of Love, Loss, Faith And Healing

Ray OConor abandoned his career to search for his namesake, a heroic B-17 pilot who died in World War II. What he found touches the heart and stirs the soul.

James Bradley

#1 New York Times Best Selling Author of Flags of Our Fathers and The China Mirage.

A remarkable story of family, loyalty and heroism. OConors narrative inspires while tearing a hole in your heart.

Brig. Gen. William Martin, U.S. Army, Ret.

Beautifully written and extraordinarily moving. I couldnt put it down.

Teri P. Gay

Historian and Author of Strength Without Compromise

This gripping narrative that lives in a sons heart, is a story that had to be told.

Winifred Yu

Journalist and Author

A poignant and thrilling American story, told with sensitivity and grace.

Congressman Chris Gibson

Veteran, Operations Desert Storm and Iraqi Freedom

Colonel, U.S. Army, Ret.

A heroic tale of love, life, family, country and devotion. A compellingly written story about people we all knew, or thought we did.

Congressman Bill Owens, Ret.

Former Captain, U.S. Air Force

4869 Main Street

P.O. Box 2200

Manchester Center, VT 05255

www.northshire.com

She Called Him Raymond

A True Story Of Love, Loss, Faith And Healing

Copyright 2014 by Ray OConor

All rights reserved.

ISBN Number: 978-1-60571-257-4

Cover Design & Interior Designed by: Debbi Wraga

I owe a deep debt of gratitude to Helen and Raymond that I will never be able to repay. This story began to unfold for them during the Summer of 1942, and for me, sixty-three years later.

A letter penned in 1944 uncovers the powerful and heartfelt story of Helen Gregg, the daughter of Irish immigrant parents who grew up in the miseries of Hells Kitchen during the Great Depression, and Clarence Raymond Stephenson, a young aspiring B-17 pilot raised in the small, struggling city of Ironton, Ohio. Fate brings them together in New Yorks Central Park in 1942. From the moment their eyes first met, they knew their lives would never be the same.

This captivating and poignant story of their struggles and romance, his exploits as a highly decorated B-17 pilot during World War II, and the tragedy that tears them apart, will inspire you while tugging at your heart.

With sensitivity and grace, Ray OConor reveals a secret about the dashing and brave young aviator who stole Helens heart, and he divulges a promise that Helen made to Raymond in the summer of 1942 that she had to keep, no matter how long or how hard it might be to fulfill.

Theirs is a compelling story of two ordinary people who led extraordinary lives during the most tumultuous period in history.

T his is a narrative non-fiction book. The story is true. The characters are real. During the years that I researched and wrote this book, I found and interviewed all of the individuals who played a significant role who I believed to still be alive. Multiple personal interviews, extensive conversations, and exchanges of letters and emails were critical to the successful completion of this project. In the recreation of scenes, the dialogue was recounted to me in an interview, quoted from records or letters, or deduced from inquiry and investigation.

Hundreds of letters, personal journals, and family records were examined. A myriad of photographs were discovered and collected. Countless hours were spent finding and reviewing military personnel records, combat reports, government documents and other evidence to properly and accurately portray the people, places, and events presented here.

This story moves back and forth over decades. Most of the women and men in this story died before the book was completed. I pray that as I narrate this story on their behalf, I do so effectively, thoroughly, and with the respect and dignity they deserve.

Her head is full of thoughts

she was sure would have faded by now.

Anonymous

M y mom, Helen, was never much for being made a fuss over, but she would have to tolerate a bit of it today. I sat behind the steering wheel of my car for the three and a half hour drive south from Saratoga Springs in upstate New York, to the village of Floral Park on Long Island. I thought of the life our family had shared. It all seemed commonplace, even a little boring. A mom and a dad, daughter and three sons, growing up in middle class America, just like millions of others.

Mom and Dad moved to their small, modest cape-style home about forty years earlier. A simple, two-story, white stucco house with three small bedrooms that my folks, two brothers, sister, and I shared. Mom planted rose bushes along the side yard of the house that yielded beautiful red, pink, and white roses every year. The porch on the front of the house was where our family spent a considerable amount of time sitting, talking, or watching the neighbors and cars pass by along Beverly Avenue.

We played cards on many evenings: rummy, hearts, and a game called Knucks. The object of the game was to dispose of your cards as quickly as possible. The last player holding any cards received a rap on the knuckles from each player with the deck for every card he or she held. Mom played Knucks as a kid on the streets of New York City. Time stood still as we played cards, talked, joked, and shouted hellos to the neighbors who passed by. We enjoyed being a family.

A basketball hoop hung from the front of the garage that my brothers, our friends, and I played hoops on as kids. The garage door served as a backstop for playing Whiffle ball or stickball. The concrete driveway was our basketball court and baseball field.

Just about every house on the street was similar. For the most part the outside of my folks house looked the same as when they bought it. Not much had changed on the inside either. Most of the furnishings that were moved into our house originally, were still contained within. Mom wasnt much for changes. She was committed to getting the most out of the useful life of anything that was purchased or passed down from others in the family.