By Ron Brown
 
May 1, 2009
 
NEAR BLY, Ore. - Sixty four-years-ago, most Americans were hoping for a quick end to World War II.
 
Germany was near surrender, and the Japanese were desperately fighting to protect their homeland. It was out of that desperation that a secret, silent weapon brought the war to Southern Oregon.
 
"I had horrible nightmares. And I don't know whether it was because of what happened to the kids or the way the townspeople reacted," says Former Bly Telephone Operator Cora Conner.
 
Conner was 16-years-old in May of 1945. On weekends, she worked as a long-distance AT&T operator in the family's business in Bly, a town located between Klamath Falls and Lakeview.
 
On Saturday May 5th, Archie Mitchell and his wife took some kids from the local church up towards Gearhart Mountain for a picnic.
 
"They came by to try to convince mom that my sister and me should go with them that day. And Dick and his sister came in. The preacher and the kids were parked out front," says Conner.
 
"For some reason or another, something kept them from being in that group. I guess one reason was... that Archie's car wasn't big enough to hold them," says Ed Patske.
 
It was probably a good thing that Cora and her sister couldn't go, because less than an hour later, tragedy struck.
 
A little know secret Japanese weapon, a balloon bomb, had landed in a tree nearby, and when the curious kids and Archie Mitchell's wife went to see what it was, it exploded. Patske's 14-year-old brother and 13-year-old sister, along with three other kids and Mrs. Mitchell were all killed. The explosion left a crater four-feet deep and 10 feet wide. Even today, a pine tree bears the shrapnel scars, while a monument chronicles the victims' names.
 
For Conner, the scars have taken a long time to heal. Conner was sworn by military officials to keep quiet about what she knew.
 
"By about two or three hours, the townspeople started gathering out in front of the phone office. And it was very uncomfortable. They yelled things at me, and threatened and what not. And I couldn't tell. Couldn't even tell my mother what had happened. Couldn't do anything. And she had to bring me my food. I could go get out to go to the restroom, and that's it. And it's still very hard for me. I don't have nightmares any more," says Conner.
 
The nightmares were from the hurt she felt for those who died, and from delivering death notice telegrams to families of some of her friends. It was a big burden she kept inside until a visit several years ago from some of the Japanese girls who were conscripted to build the balloons that carried the bombs. Ed Patske was one of the townspeople whose pain also had an impact on Cora.
 
"He (Ed Patske) said, 'you know what's happened! You absolutely know what's happened! You better tell us!' And he shook his fist and hollered and waved his arms. And I know he must've been in terrible pain not knowing. But I was in terrible pain that I couldn't talk to him," says Conner.
 
Conner says she still remembers the red plaid shirt, jeans and hunting hat he was wearing that day in May. But more than 40-years-later, she and Ed finally put their pain behind them and became friends. Cora says the visits from the Japanese women also helped heal the hurt for everyone involved. The memorial along a forest road remains a testament to the day World War II came to Southern Oregon and claimed it's only mainland victims.
 
Historians believe that of the 9,000 or so balloon bombs launched over the Pacific, about a thousand made it to the West Coast of the U.S. and Canada. About 600 of those are still not accounted for, and some may still be waiting to be found.