When my parents said their last good bye in early May of 1944, Dad’s letters changed. Gone were the details of daily life: what he was doing, the landscape of the countryside, the actual names of locales. More importantly, not only did the miles from home become more distant, his own emotions and feelings were much harder to gauge…except of course in his effusive over the top love for Mom. That he did continue to express.
“I guess I can tell you it’s raining this afternoon. It doesn’t bother me, only serves to bring you and I closer together. Let’s park beside the pond, listen to the rain and frogs. Sounds nice doesn’t it?” (5/7/44)
Just the day before one of the “permanent party” had smuggled out a letter for him, full of details…Grenier Field, Manchester, New Hampshire…plane is under repair…route has changed…didn’t go to Maine…I’ll see Iceland…But in that same letter he cautions Mom, “Don’t mention anything I have written to anyone except the folks. Don’t write any of it back to me. You will receive other letters, censored ones, from me about ten days after we leave here.”
“Somewhere in England” was all Mom knew. Now, over sixty years later, I am devouring details of Somewhere in England. Of course I would have loved to hear my dad’s version, but books and histories dense with descriptions and details from strategic planning to how airmen peed in their bomber fascinate me. The Mighty Eighth by Gerald Astor focused on eyewitness accounts. I kept saying, “I bet my dad did that. I wonder if he saw that.”
My copy of Masters of the Air by Donald L. Miller is full of post-ettes and underlining, much more complete and detailed than any college textbook I ever read and tried to remember. Now it’s not for an exam. It’s to know my dad.
“In air combat, the technical sergeant who manned the guns placed his head and shoulders inside the revolving dome…when not firing his guns, he stood behind the pilot, looking over his shoulders at the gauges, that monitored the health and functioning of four engines.” (Miller, p. 83) That’s my dad.
But because of my intense reading, I also have an image of the unbelievable, horrific stress, tension, and heartbreak of a bomber crew. In my dad’s last letter dated June 19, 1944, he writes “I haven’t worked at all today (their code for mission) Yet, my dear, it has been a hard day. Someday I can tell you all about it. Don’t worry because I am feeling in good health and as happy as possible.” Certainly bland words for what he faced every day; but now I know what is behind the words. No censor can cut up my dad’s story now.
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