I vaguely knew World War Two was in the trunk, and that my kids did not want me to get rid of WWII. Specifically, it is WWII as experienced by my father, their Gramps.
"The Trunk" is a very heavy storage container slash television stand. No elephants. No magician's assistants or saws. Just a library cataloger on a busman's holiday.
I untied the bundle of ninety-nine letters written by my father to his mother with no plan to read them beyond recording his mailing address and some dates. My Grandma kept all Dad's letters in their envelopes, tied up with string. What a generational indicator! When was the last time you used string?
At the top of the stack Dad is just a dorky college sophomore living on "Q" or "Que" Street in Lincoln. He had worked over the summer of '42 for a mechanical contractor in Grand Island and had a union IHCB&CLU of A Local Union No. 651 permit card. He enlisted in the Army Reserve Corps December 5, 1942, after eating a bunch of bananas to boost his weight to the required level. His enlistment certificate with photo and thumb print were in the trunk.
After a few weeks in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, Dad is shipped to Fort Belvoir, Virginia. Once there, he learns about the Army Specialist Training Program set up by General George Marshall, and sends newspaper clippings to his mother in Nebraska about the program. Suddenly this kid from a town of 1200 people in Nebraska is living and studying at Georgetown University in D.C. for six months, August 1943-March 1944. He writes home about the wry humor and Southern drawl of his physics professor.
March to June 1944 are spent in Camp Swift, Texas. Dad sends his little sister photos of the UT campus tower. From Texas he goes to Fort Dix in Trenton, N. J. where he works the Philadelphia Transit Strike in August 1944. Dad's letter show he was still a nineteen year old asking for spending money, but at least writing home regularly. He was developing political, moral, and philosophical ideas of his own. A tension is building in the letters as he gets closer to deployment. He shows a commitment to keeping his mother informed to decrease her natural worries.
From September 1944, Dad's letters are sent through the postmaster of New York City from "somewhere on the Atlantic Coast." Signing a power of attorney and making financial arrangements for his pay and life insurance to benefit his mother seems to have clicked a switch in his brain.
I did not read all ninety-nine letters. To be honest, most are pretty dull. Dad enumerates the letters and packages he has received from his Ma, his sis, his aunts, his neighbors, teachers, and other townsfolk, and tells what he had for supper. He answers their questions, and requests snacks for the next boxes--candy, fruit cake, Aunt Ada's cookies, cheese, summer sausage, and popcorn. He reports that he cast his first ever election vote from a foreign country.
October 1944 finds Dad writing from "somewhere in France," then "somewhere in Germany." His unit moves through Holland into Germany. He clearly feels responsible to keep his mother reassured of his well-being, and through her his family and greater community. He lets them know he received and appreciates their letters. His commitment to easing the concerns of those on the home front makes me teary. But when he stares evil in the face, he reports that, too. In May1945 he writes from "somewhere in beaten Germany" about how nice it is not getting shot at.
A few letters are tucked into the stack that were written to other family members. A single letter to Dad's aunt, my beloved great Aunt Em, emphasizes how he is going mad and desperately needs to get out of post-surrender Germany. This is a much-changed writer, not just older, but more responsible, clearly exhausted, and injured by his experiences.
The last letter in the stack dates from the end of January 1946, still in Germany.
No comments:
Post a Comment