August in A.A. History—day unknown

In 1907, Bill Wilson’s grandfather, Fayette Griffith [left], who, along with his wife Ella, had been raising Bill and his sister Dorothy for about a year, offhandedly remarked to 11-year-old Bill [right], “It’s an odd thing, I’ve been reading a good deal about Australia lately and no one seems to know why Australians are the only people in the world who are able to make a boomerang.”

    Bill was taken aback. “The only people?”
    The following day, Bill borrowed two books about Australia from the library. That night, he went to bed with the second volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica, which featured several columns on the history, uses, and design of a boomerang.
    On Saturday, he visited a local French woodcutter and spent the entire afternoon talking to him. This led to more books and conversations with other Frenchmen about the types of wood best suited for shaping a weapon three feet long and weighing no more than eight ounces [~227 g].
    As summer turned to fall, every scrap of paper in the house was covered with diagrams and calculations. Bill spent increasing amounts of time in the shed next to the house, where the sounds of sawing, carving, and whittling became constant. What had begun as a mere interest evolved into an obsession. Chores were neglected, the cow was never milked on time, eggs were seldom collected, and in November, a note arrived from Miss Milot, his teacher. She expressed her concern: Bill was failing all his classes.
    Now his grandmother was worried. She believed it was plain silly and unnatural. After reading some of his books, she concluded that a returning boomerang was no toy; it was a deadly weapon that could harm both the thrower and the target. She spoke sternly to Willie, as they affectionately called him, as did his grandfather.
    Fayette nodded, agreeing to talk to the boy, but believed the time to worry would be when Bill decided to give up and admit failure.

 

In 1918, while his artillery regiment was delayed outside Winchester, Hampshire, England, by a minor epidemic among the troops, Bill Wilson [left: in France] walked alone to Winchester Cathedral. In his so-called “Original Story”—which is actually his second draft of “Bill’s Story”—he would describe what happened:

    I stood in Winchester Cathedral the day before crossing [into France] with head bowed, for something had touched me then I had never felt before. I had been wondering, in a rare moment of sober reflection, what sense there could be to killing and carnage of which I was soon to become an enthusiastic part. Where could the Deity be—could there be such a thing—Where now was the God of the preachers, the thought of which used to make me so uncomfortable when they talked about him. Here I stood on the edge of the abyss into which thousands were falling that very day. A feeling of despair settled down on me—where was He—why did he not come—and suddenly in that moment of darkness, He was there. I felt an all enveloping, comforting, powerful presence. Tears stood in my eyes, and as I looked about, I saw on the faces of others nearby, that they too had glimpsed the great reality. Much moved, I walked out into the Cathedral yard, where I read the following inscription on a tombstone [right]. “Here lies a Hampshire Grenadier, Who caught his death drinking small good beer—A good soldier is ne’er forgot, whether he dieth by musket or by pot.” A squadron of bombers swept overhead in the bright sunlight, and I cried to myself “Here’s to adventure” and the feeling of being in the great presence disappeared, never to return for many years.