Geneva Raney & Albert Charbonneau: War Letters, Part 2

Staff sergeant Albert J. Charbonneau (1921-1994), Sept. 1944, seeing for the first time his nephew Ron Mallonee (sister Evie's son) after returning home from New Guinea. Note the deep scar on his lips and chin. This photo will have to do until I locate his studio portrait Mom kept on her bedside table while he was overseas.

On 19 May, 1943, my father, Staff sergeant Albert J. Charbonneau, at the time a waist gunner on a B-24 Liberator, flew with his crew from Topeka, Kansas, to San Francisco. Stopping there for refueling and maintenance, he made a short telephone call to my mother, Jeanne Raney. And then he flew on to Hickam Field, Oahu, Hawaii. He recalled in later years that he and his crew were surprised to see Japanese-American mechanics working on their plane at Hickam. Weren't they all in internment camps? The answer was that only Stateside were Japanese-Americans rounded up and interned for the duration of the war. In Hawaii, they were needed for the war effort. The crew flew on to to Australia, where they were assigned to the 5th Air Force.

The final destination was Jackson Field, Port Moresby, Papua, New Guinea. Officially, the Battle of Port Moresby was ongoing, with Port Moresby still being attacked, but the tide was turning. HERE

Mom wrote on June 9th, acknowledging getting Dad's V mail letter from Hawaii (Victory Mail was written, censored, copied to film, and printed back on paper when it arrived at its destination). She thought Hawaii was his new station and asked about the beautiful girls he must see there.

Jeanne Raney (1925-2014) 1944

. . Believe it or not, I am a telegraph operator at Western Union, It's so much fun. I'm awfully tired at the end of the day, but it is well worth it. My hours are from eight in the morning until five at night. Only eight hours . . .

June 20, 1943
 . . I received you cablegram last week darling. As you know I'm learning to be a telegraph operator. We-ll every day I go up to the telegraph room to check the incoming telegrams for an hour. I pulled one telegram off the crane that just came in from San Francisco. The ink was still damp on it. I looked down and saw Nora [Street] on it. So-oo-o Thought I to myself. "Hmm, maybe I know the people." So I glanced at the name and honestly darling you can imagine my surprise. I just stood there and gasped. I just couldn't seem to understand that it was for me. It was sweet of you darling, to let me know that you are all right. I haven't gotten over the thrill yet . . .

Mom's oldest sibling, Paul Raney (1913-2005)

 I told you didn't I, Dear, that Paul is in the Merchant Marine? He sailed several weeks ago and he should have reached his destination by now -- if everything went off all right. I miss him so very much . . .

Junice Moe Raney (1916-2012)

. . Junice [Mom's sister-in-law, married to Denny Raney] and I had dinner out and then we went to "The Human Comedy" with Mickey Rooney. I sat there and just sobbed. Everybody was crying. It was, without a doubt, the most wonderful picture I've ever seen . . . [After reading this letter about 25 years ago, I was able to rent "The Human Comedy." Mickey Rooney played a telegram delivery boy, who eventually had to deliver the telegram announcing his older brother's death in combat. Everyone was so anxious for their loved ones fighting then, I'm not surprised the audience was in tears. I mentioned it to Mom and she didn't recall seeing it. ]

One of the two B-24s on which Dad was a crew member. The other was called Ace in the Hole, but its photo has disappeared. I don't recall which ship crashed.

Dad finally wrote, and his letter was passed by the censor. Mom received it on July 29th.

July 6, 1943
 . . Now that I am stationed somewhere in New Guinea [unable to state exactly where], and on a permanent base, I can write more often. I haven't yet received any mail from the States, but I expect some within a week or two. We have been bombing the Japs quite often, and doing a very good job of it, starting a lot of fires - that's all that we can see because all our work is at night so far . . . [They were bombing Japanese ships in Simpson Harbor at Rabaul, and other targets.]

Simpson Harbor, Rabaul. Dots on water are Japanese ships. Yellow square is target. From Dad's scrapbook

August 23, 1943
 . . Paul has just come back from Liverpool. Uh-huh. He's in New York now. But he will soon be called back to ship. He's going to get another commission of Lieut. That's all double-talk to me. The only thing I can understand is army and when anything concerning the navy comes [up] with the conversation I'm completely lost. . .

I recall the grass skirt, which he brought home, being a deep burnt sienna color. Photo taken at Port Moresby, 1943.

Dad was not involved with the initial bombing of Wewak from 17 to 21 August 1943, and bad weather kept his plane from dropping its load on 24 August, but his plane made clean-up bombing runs on it 29 August, 28 September, and 28 November. The preparation and timing for the massive August bombing of this large contingent of Japanese planes is fascinating reading, for it saved Port Moresby from a major attack.  HERE

 August 29, 1943
. . Yesterday I became a full-fledged operator. Before, I was merely going to school, trying to cram into this brain of mine the essentials of telegraphy. And yesterday I graduated and now I'm a junior operator. Pat me on the back darling - I'm surprised myself.

Friday I received a letter from Paul. As you know he is now in New York, but he is shoving off soon. He is now commissioned to a Lieut. which is equivalent to a captain in the army. We are quite proud of him. He deserves the best of everything because his life has been one continuous line of dirty deals and bad luck. So drink a silent toast to him and keep your fingers crossed because this mission is going to be more trying than ever before. . . [You can read about Paul Raney's adventurous life during the war HERE]

Mom began working swing shift - 3:30 to midnight - and lest you think the streets of Spokane were empty when she got off work, think again. Men in uniform crowded the sidewalks, lonely to talk to a girl. They came from Farragut near Sandpoint, Geiger Field, Ft. George Wright, and off the trains en-route to somewhere else. One night, a couple of Australian soldiers approached her and her workmate, Monnie, who boarded next door. "Kin I boy ye a cuke?" one asked. "A what?" she answered. "A cuke . . . ye know . . . A Cuka Cula." Because it was wartime, she wrote, she got two days off a month, often on a Sunday, during which time she would become reacquainted with "the folks."

Sept. 20, 1943
 . . . I'm sending you some things that I think you need - I'm taking advantage of the Christmas mailing time. As you probably know, they won't let you send anything overseas without a permit. It's easy to understand that because every inch of valuable space is needed for the essentials that will bring the end of the war nearer . . . I'm very proud of [Paul] - but I get such an awful lost feeling when I come up the steps and have that star staring me in the face. [The blue star flag mothers of servicemen were authorized to hang in a window.] He's very dear to me. . . .[I recall it also hanging for Paul in the window of the large front door during the Korean War.]

In the middle of September Dad went on furlough to Australia - Sydney, I think. He wrote afterwards: . . I had a nice time. It felt good to get back to civilization again. I didn't do much but run around with a few of the fellows on my crew. We went to shows, horse racing, boat racing, dancing and a few other things . . . When I returned . . . I found seven letters waiting for me and every one was from you. . .

Mom also wrote of occasionally visiting Dad's guardians, Ed and Mary Chopot, pictured with Dad's older sister Evie (Charbonneau) Mallonee (1918-2012) in 1942

Oct 3, 1943
. . Remember the time we stayed up all nite and went to the five o'clock mass [when he came home the previous Christmas]? I have to chuckle every time I think of it. The next Sunday Father gave a long sermon about these young people who stay up all nite and go to an early mass. But it was fun, wasn't it. . . We haven't heard from Paul. That of course is understandable seeing that he is Somewhere in the North Atlantic. Before he left he wrote me his usual long letter, giving me encouragement on that - telling me not to do this and so forth [He was12 years older than Mom]. Then he told me where he was going. I really felt quite flattered because I was the only member of the family he told. I haven't told anyone - not even Dad. And I'm not going to tell until he is safely home again. Doggone it - they won't be able to say that it was a slip of my lip that sank his ship. . . .

Dad wrote in early October.
. . Just a few lines to let you know how everything is around this hot and miserable place. When it rains here, it really pours. . . I live in a tent large enough for six persons to live peacefully. . . Everyone has their bunks along the side of the tent, leaving room for a table in the middle. Oh, oh, pardon a minute while I kill a black widow spider that just now jumped on me. . . The place if filthy with them. They're not poison, but they sure give a guy a scare when they jump on you . . . [He must have been mistaken about the spider's genus, probably of the tarantula family. He told me in later years that, and this must have been at a different base, they had a path to a water hole through the jungle where they'd bathe, and a large shiny green spider built a thick web overnight across the path and one of the men walked into it. B-r-r!]  . . . I'm . . . bunked opposite the main exit. There are many exits in this tent; the tent walls are propped up in order to have good ventilation, also leaving many exits for the fox hole, in case of an air raid from the Japs. We hear them coming, and run like hell for the fox hole, then pray that we don't get hit. . . Alongside my bunk I have a clothes rack, which consist of winter flying clothes, and working clothes. . . You may think it funny, darling, to have winter flying clothes here in the South West Pacific, but it's true. It really gets cold up there when you fly high . . . I know for sure it's below zero at times . . . but the change from hot to cold is what I like . . . It makes you feel so cool and refreshing up there, until it starts to freeze, then you want to come down where its warm, but of course you can't. You have to stay up there and take it for a few hours [his flights were averaging 5 to 7 hours, but toward the end, 10 and 11 hours] . . . I also have my mess kit for eating chow, an oxygen mask used for high altitude flying, which is getting plenty of use; a gas mask - I'm sure you've seen those things before, they look so gruesome, but they're a life saver. I also have two large barracks bags . . . a B-4 flying bag, packed with Sunday go-to-meeting clothing . . . alongside the clothes rack I have an apple box with two shelves in it. On the shelves I have toilet articles, gum, which I suppose is hard to get in the States, cigarettes, flashlite, and medical supplies. On top of this apple-box I have the most wonderful thing of all, which is a very beautiful picture of the girl I love, and boy, is she a knock-out. . . I sleep on an air mattress with no blankets needed, plus a mosquito net, which is spread out over the bunk at night . . . On the outside . . . there are two fifty-gallon barrels of water . . . a large tub for cleaning clothes and a foxhole . . . For recreation we have a ping pong table, a little poker now & then and a show three times a week, if the Japs don't bust it up. . . .

On October 12, 1943, two years to the day before I was born, Dad, now a tail-gunner on his B-24, and his crew took off to bomb the Japanese fleet at the port of Rabaul and its five airfields.

One of five airfields at Rabaul. Note distance between Japanese planes, parked in revetments (excavations with earthen walls). From Dad's scrapbook.

Dad's aircraft was one of 349 that day, code-name Operation Cartwheel, flown by the U.S. Fifth Air Force, the Royal Australian Air Force and the Royal New Zealand Air Force, directed by the Allied air commander in the South West Pacific Area, General George Kenney. Dad's plane didn't make it back to base, and the story of what occurred was slow to unfold for security reasons.

He was able to write to her on 25 October from the hospital, using American Red Cross letterhead, which I suppose he hoped was the tip-off, because he couldn't reveal what happened.

My Darling,
It's been a long time since I've written to you and I'm sure I had no intention of waiting so long. . . I would have written had I been able. I hope you understand. Everything seems to be fine from what I can make of it. . . Well, darling, I'll take good care of myself and hope to come back to you in one piece. I feel frightened at the thought of not coming back at all. But we all can't have sunshine and roses. Although I've never mentioned this to you before, for fear it would frighten you, but now I think you have the strength and courage to take it if anything should happen . . .

Probably published in November, 1943

In the meantime, having no word that Dad had been injured, Mom wrote on Oct. 27th.
. . You brother came home. [Raoul Charbonneau (1920-2000), called Smoky by my dad, had enlisted in 1939, now returned from Panama.]  I met him Saturday nite - in fact I went out with him. First we had dinner over at Mary's and Red's [Red being Dad's, Evie's and Raoul's double first cousin, and Mom's brother-in-law] . . .

Omer "Red" Charbonneau (1916-1987) c.1950

. . then we all went out to the White House. We had a pretty good time - but not as much fun as when we went out. He is so different from you. He doesn't resemble you unless his face is turned away and then his profile is like yours. He is much quieter than you and he laughs very seldom. But I can close my eyes and I'd swear that it was you talking. He hasn't got twin devils in his eyes like you, but has got twin dimples (I prefer the devils). He dances very well and I did manage not to step on his toes . . . Then Sunday, he and Mary and Red came over for dinner. Mother and Dad like him, but they like you much more. And everyone was calling him Al. . . Mother said, "Al, do you care for coffee?" Then Dad said, "Pass the bread to Al." . . . I don't imagine I'll see him again, but it was nice meeting him. [After the war, Smoky married Mom's childhood friend, Jackie Merager. A few years after Dad died in 1994, Jackie died of a stroke. Smoky, then in his late 70s, spent much of his time at Mom's, fixing things, watching TV, and eating meals she cooked. They had a pleasant camaraderie until his heart gave out in 2000 at age 81.]

Dad was injured on Oct 12. The telegram was finally sent Oct. 27 to Dad's guardian."Seriously injured" surprises me, but maybe he was.

Oct. 28, 1943
. . I was at the store when Aunt Mary [Dad's guardian, but no relation] called up. She told Mother and when I came back Mother was crying. She loves you very much, too - I knew right away something had happened to you. . . I felt my knees going weak . . .Then Mother told me your were hurt. Part of me died right then. I called up immediately and she [Aunt Mary] was all broken up. Oh, darling - darling - if you only knew how much we love you. Then everyone began calling up - everything was a regular bull ringing affair. But I went to work. I had to go because if I just sat around, I'd go insane. . . I didn't tell anyone but a very dear friend [Monnie] - but she told them and they were so thoughtful and considerate . . . Oh, my darling - if only I could be there with you . . . to hold you in my arms and make you forget what you've been through. We'd forget everything and everyone but us. and we'd think and talk only of our future in our little apartment - and all our dreams and hopes . . . .

Oct. 29, 1943
. . [after writing about her rediscovered love for Dad] Don't tell anyone but I'm skaired - uh-huh - I'm a coward at heart. But nobody's home and they won't be home for a while. You see Uncle Gus [Grandma's older brother who lived with his sister Laura on a farm outside Addy, WA] is terribly sick - his horses ran away with him and drug him for a long time before they could stop them. And he's hurt pretty badly - he's almost seventy and there's not much chance of his pulling through, but Mother and Dad went up there [Uncle Gus survived, but had head injuries and eventually dementia] . . . and I'm all alone. This old house fairly creaks with strange noises. Wish you were here to hold my hand . . . Know what,  darling - I got my first [war] bond today - I've been buying stamps and I finally got my book filled and I cashed it in and now I've got an interest in this land of ours. We'll cash it in ten years from now and put Junior through college . . . .

Augusta Smith (1876-1965) and one of his beloved goats, c.1949

Mom's "home alone" episode continued over the weekend, despite having her girlfriend Monnie stay with her.

Nov. 1, 1943
 . . Before we went to bed we gorged ourselves with scrambled eggs and bacon. It's funny how when it gets dark those of the less braver type simply wilt. Well it was twelve when we got home from work [Monnie worked at Western Union, too, and would become Mom's bridesmaid] and we didn't get to bed before two. . . we were chattering away . . . but then our blood froze because it sounded just like some heavy person coming up the outside steps. Wow! Did we freeze then. Very timidly we turned the porch light on and found out it was only the screen door thumping against the side of the house. But that settled it right there - we were going to protect ourselves even if all the doors had triple locks on them. So, don't laugh, dear, 'cause it wasn't funny then - we took a butcher knife and a flashlight and a rolling pin to bed with us and, oh, yes, I forgot - we also took the dog to bed with us, too. Every five minutes we'd sit up - and look at each other and say in a horrified whisper, "What was that?" . . . [W]e even scared the dog and he spent the night sleeping under the bed . . . .

Mom finally got Dad's letter of 25 October on Red Cross stationary on November 15. She wrote the next day.

Nov. 16
. . This morning I got up and went to six o'clock mass. O-h-h-h it was beautiful - the world I mean, at that time of the morning. It was still awfully dark, so I made Tuffy (the dog - remember?) go with me. [St. Aloysius was five blocks away]. Not that I was afraid or anything - you understand - but I took him along just for company. Ha! . . . All the leaves were heavy with frost and the light from the street lamps shown on them, making them look like a million jewels hiding in the grass. The air was so crisp and cold that I tried to blow smoke rings with my frozen breath . . .There were very few people [at mass] and there was a sacred beautiful silence that can only be found in a House of Worship. The altar glowed with candles and autumn flowers and the air was heavy with incense. Behind me the organ played in a soft whisper. Kneeling there I felt so happy and oh so very grateful to God - because it was yesterday that your letter came . . . That's why I went to six o'clock mass . . . because I wanted to tell God right away how oh so very thankful and grateful to Him I am because the love of my life is getting well again. You see, He knows how much I love you. . . .

Sometimes their letters took a month to reach the other. A letter Dad wrote on November 15 was passed by the Army censor and postmarked November 28. And that was the day Dad went back into action on a bombing run to Wewak. He didn't write about the October 12 crash until January 1944, when the skies were finally being cleared of Japanese planes between Port Morsby and Australia. I'm jumping ahead to tell that story.

Jan. 15, 1944
 . . Here is the little episode I wasn't able to tell you about some time back. . . We were off to bomb Rabaul, got over the target then everything happened at once. Before we knew it we were going down. We were pretty high and had a long way to drop, so if we lengthened our dive we would get out of the Japs' reach when we crashed. It was the most gruesomest feeling I ever had in my life. Knowing you're going to crash and you can't do anything about it. All I could do was pray and let happen what may. The water came closer and closer to us until we hit it. I could feel myself being thrown out of the ship, then everything went black. When I woke up, I was some place in the water with the fish. I finally reached the surface and got my breath back. I then made my way to the life raft. We started paddling to a small island about a mile away. After reaching the island we applied first aid to ourselves, ate what little food we could, so it would last longer, for we had to get well before we could move on. [As I recall from his telling it years later, on their way to bomb Rabaul one of the four engines conked out. The pilot asked for a vote whether to continue the bombing run or return to base. The men voted to go on and drop their bombs - returning to base with a full load of bombs was also dangerous. After dropping their load and turning around to head back to base at Port Moresby, a second engine stopped. Unfortunately, it was on the same side as the first dead engine. Hoping the Japanese didn't intercept his message, the navigator radioed their position to the Royal Australian Air Force as their pilot glided the plane as far as he could. They landed on a coral reef, which ripped the belly out of the plane. The crew was flung out and Dad came to underwater, which was actually about waist-deep. Disoriented and unable to swim, he pulled his Mae West (life vest) and popped to the surface. The man most hurt had a broken back.] That night about 7 p.m. a plane came diving overhead. I thought at first it was a Jap plane. But I'm glad I was wrong. . . The plane was a friendly and dropped us supplies. [A few of the men swam to a nearby island - a tiny one - and found the skeleton of  an Australian flyer sitting against a palm tree. That night as the men were trying to sleep, Dad felt something nibbling at the blood on his face. Rats had smelled blood from miles away and had swum to the island. The men stayed awake the rest of the night.] The following afternoon we were rescued by the Australians [a float plane] and brought to a hospital. I remained there for the following six weeks. . . . [The coral had deeply gashed him along his shin bone from knee to ankle. His face was torn open from his lower lip down his chin; its scar formed a deep line that forked at  his chin. When I was small, I'd run a finger down that scar. There may have been other injuries I didn't know of. Six weeks hospitalization for deep lacerations seems too long now, but the doctors must have been worried about infection. Penicillin was being used in the military by then, but it was still somewhat experimental.]

Dad's crashed B-24 on the coral reef. Appears the tide was out when the photo was taken, possibly by the plane that dropped supplies or the one that rescued them.

But in November, with only the late October letter from the hospital and not knowing how badly he was injured, Mom thought he would be coming home by Christmas to convalesce. That wasn't how it worked in those desperate times. He hadn't yet told her that the time spent on each mission was being tallied up, and he wouldn't come home until he reached a certain number of flying hours. For this bombing run on Rabaul he was granted 7 hours and 15 minutes. It had been a massive raid on that Japanese stronghold (a second plane and its crew had been lost), and heavy bombing continued throughout October and November while Dad was in the hospital, which drove out the Japanese. Dad never made a bombing run to Rabaul again. As he would say, They don't live there anymore."

Rabaul Caldera (volcano) today

When he started flying again, from 28 November until the middle of February 1944, he went up on a bombing run every other day, bombing targets such as Wewak, Cape Gloucester, Gasmata, Alexinhaten, Hansa Bay, Amele, Marove, Cape Hosken, Madang, Momote, Hollandia, But, Dagua, Wakde, Saway, and Biak. Over and over, they hit these Japanese bases that had once been colonial palm and rubber plantations and safe harbors for the Japanese navy and air force. Air power and naval power were chasing the Japanese back up the Pacific.

Dec. 15, 1943
. . Paul is home - really home I mean - he'll be here for Christmas, too. Honestly, I'm so happy. He came in Friday nite and no one knew about it. Then Saturday he came over and spent the day with Mother and Dad. Of course, I knew nothing of this. So Saturday nite after work I was running to catch my bus and I bumped into an old friend - and he said, "Sa-ay, when did Paul get in town? He certainly looked snappy in his uniform." I asked him when he had seen him and he said, "Friday nite." Boy, was I boiling. To think that he had been home two whole days and didn't even call up. . . Sooo-oo-o - Sunday morning I got up and went to an early mass before the folks got up. When I came home there sat Pop with a smug grin on his face. He said, "Know what?" And before I even thought, I said, "yes - Paul is home." Ho- you should have seen the startled expression on their faces. They weren't going to tell me, the rascals, until he walked in on me that day. Oh-h-h - did I ever feel like a heel. But anyway, around noon Junice called up and said that he and Denny [Mom's other older brother married to Junice] were on their way over. . . 

Denny Raney (1915-1991) and his namesake, Dennis Jack Raney, c.1946

. .She no sooner hung up when they were coming up the walk. When I saw him I had the awful urge to run and hide because all of a sudden I was overcome by an unusual shyness. Then he opened the door and with one swoop he had me in his arms. And - oh! I was so mad at myself. I swore up and down I wouldn't cry - but the minute I saw him - we-ell - I was sobbing on his shoulder. I really felt terrible until I peeked up and saw tears running down his cheeks, too. He's been on the North Atlantic, but he received his papers and now he'll be on the South Pacific. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you two ran into each other? . . . He's so terribly thin and he looks so tired. He made my heart ache when I looked at him.

It hardly seems a year ago Christmas that we were together. Remember Christmas dinner and you and Paul were so silly . . . and everyone was making so much noise you couldn't think straight. I couldn't anyway - I was rather dizzy from the wine. It will be the same this year - Noise! Noise! everywhere - everyone will have just a little too much wine - everything will be the same - only you won't be here. But I know every one of us will be thinking of you and knowing that it won't be so very long before you are with us again . . . .

On 13 December, Dad's 403rd Bombardment Squadron of the 43rd Bombardment Group was transferred from Port Moresby across Papua, New Guinea to Dobodura. A 15-airfield complex had been built. It was bombed by the Japanese as recently as October 1943.  And, yet, that same day he and his crew were in the air six hours on a bombing raid to Gasmata, New Britain.

Dec. 21, 1943
. . I bet you're getting tired waiting for me. I'll make it home one of these days. I wonder what it'll be like at home. They have been flying the pants off us lately. Boy, am I tired. I feel like I could sleep for a week. I only wish I could [he would have trouble sleeping the rest of his life.] Well, there's one thing for sure, I'd hate to be in Tojo's shoes, I don't think he's had any sleep for months. . . .

Grandma & Grandpa's house in winter

Dec. 26, 1943
. . What a mad house this was. You know what it was like a year ago - we-ell it was twice as bad this year because all the kids were one year older. [That was you Pat, Jack, Sandra, Chuck, Rich, and Jimmy. Nancy and Frank, too, rest their souls]. . . And after everyone has now gone to bed - and the house is quiet and peaceful - I've turned off the lights and turned the tree lights on. The tree is still in the same place - the swing is still in the same place - I'm still in the same corner of the swing. But where, my Darling - where are you? . . . You're stretched out on the swing with your head in my lap. And I'm running my fingers through your hair - and we're laughing and talking about the future - just as we did a year ago tonight. You're here, my Darling, if only in my thoughts . . . .

Mom's New Year's Telegram to Dad. It was received at Brisbane, Australia. Then mailed to New Guinea, I suppose.

Jan. 2, 1944
. . We tried to be so gay New Year's Eve. Two other girls from the office and I. We worked until twelve. But I don't think any of us minded very much . . . Both of their men were away, too, and so we sort of kept together. I had a quart of Port - a gift from Dennis [her brother Denny]. . .

. . and it was really funny what a quart of Port can do for you. Also, we had tickets for the midnight show at the Fox.[I was curious to know what the movie was, so looked up the Spokesman-Review for 31 Dec 1943. It was Thousands Cheer with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland.] There were several parties we were invited to - but somehow we preferred being alone - it was much nicer that way. After the show - which ended a quarter after three, we went up to the Mandarin for noodles and chow mein. After a half-hour wait we were fortunate to get a booth. We finished drinking our wine, which had turned quite warm. . . We got home at 4:30, which is not bad for New Year's Eve . . . I fell over Tuffy (the dog - remember?) and now I'm invalided with a sprained ankle. Why does everything happen to me? . . . 

Mom and her future bridesmaids Monnie and Betty

 John Wayne made a USO appearance at Port Moresby, and probably up in Dobodura, where Dad would have seen him, but Dad made no mention of it in a letter. In later years he said the crowd of G.I.s was so large and Wayne so far away, he could barely make him out.

Feb. 9, 1944
[Mom's response to Dad's complaint that he hadn't received any letters for a while] . . I will try to write to you every other day from now on. The only time that I can write is when I come home from work at nite. It's about twelve-thirty then. First of all I must read the paper and catch up on all the scandal - then I round up a sandwich and a glass of milk . . .'cause I can't go to sleep if I don't eat something. . . Then I wash my face and brush my hair and wash out what needs to be - and by that time it's two o'clock and before I have half a letter written I doze off . . . .

Mom's Valentine sent to Dad early in 1944

March 4, 1944
. . Mary and Junice are working for the tomorrow of America. Two future presidents are on their way. That will bring me up to being an aunt - let me see - uh-huh - eleven times. Golly - "and may our tribe increase." I feel sorta left out of things. . . . [Junice would have Mary Jean and Mary would have John - may he rest in peace.]

 Dad was changing, sounding angry in his letters. He probably was drinking heavily on the days he wasn't flying, and that's when he'd write to Mom. He wrote some odd letters, using a thesaurus to substitute archaic words for common ones. He called her Valentine "quaint," which pleased her not at all. In his defense, he was not a reader as Mom was, so didn't understand the subtle meanings of words.  She wasn't writing as often. As she later told me, "I was writing to five servicemen overseas, one in a German POW camp." And she was tired, seldom getting a day off from work. And another man in uniform had entered her life . . .

Dad and his B-24 Crew. The photographer must have shown up unexpectedly - Dad still in work clothes far left, the rest of the crew sloppy. Some photos of crews in the 5th Air Force book (which must have been sent Dad after the war) show men naked from the waist up, sweltering in that jungle climate. The plane behind them is Joltin' Janie,which crashed into the sea after take off on Dec. 9, 1943.

March 5, 1944
. . Well, I believe you know as much about this war as I do, so there is no need to go into that subject, besides I dislike it immensely . . . I think I'll go on a toot when I get home. I'm going to get so tight that I'll squeak when I walk. What do you think of that? . . . 

On 12 March, his unit was transferred up the New Guinea coast to Nadzab (see map).

March 17, 1944
. . We've been completing our missions with little opposition for some time. If this keeps up, no telling how soon the Japs will bail. They're still a tough customer and hard to deal with . . . If the post-war loan is voted in for the overseas soldier . . . We could get a nice home, here's hoping. . . .
[As mentioned earlier, Dad was a tail gunner. The B-24 bomber was a long-distance bomber that flew sorties in groups.  P-38 fighter planes would accompany the sortie part of the way, but didn't have enough fuel to go the distance, and would have to turn back to base. It was then that Japanese zeros came at the bombers. I never asked how many times his plane was attacked. Still a child, I asked, "How many zeros did you shoot down?" He answered that he knew he shot down one, and perhaps two. Gunners on other ships were firing, too.]

April 24, 1944
. . It's a little fantastic . . . what [your letters] can do for a person here in the jungle, and in the blue battlefield . . . the thought of your last letter would boost my courage, then I would have more confidence in myself . . . I'm getting so lonesome for you and your letters, I'm really getting scared to fly. Just think, it'll be a year the 22nd of May that I've been in combat . . . My nerves are beginning to crack. But I can't quit; that would prolong my stay in this God forsaken land, and I want to get home to you, Darling, as soon as I can. I've got 46 missions over enemy targets, with 265 flying combat hours. The goal is 300 hours. I hope to finish in 7 more missions, then I'll be coming home. I was sent to Australia on furlough for my own good. I was sure glad to get away from combat for the 12 days that I was gone . . . I guess it will be May by the time this letter gets to you. Spokane in the springtime with its sweet fragrant smell of flowers everywhere. How I wish I were there to take in some beauty for a change . . . I'm lucky to hold the pen somewhat steady . . . .

She wrote an undated letter toward the end of May when the lilacs were in bloom
. . I'm so very happy you got a furlough to Australia. You needed a rest so terribly much.  I'm sure you feel much much better now, don't you? What did you do there? Did you go again to the races and boat riding and dancing? Sounds fun, huh. Bet that is what you really needed - fun, relaxation, and next to home there isn't a better place than Australia - or so I've heard. . . You should see our Victory garden. It's really funny - but nice. The beans and hollyhocks are growing together - and the pansies and onions - and larkspurs and peas. Dad and his artistic ideas. . . Each time you're up there, you're not up there alone with the enemy. He is up there with you. God will never leave you. Pray often and remember that this madness cannot last forever. There will be a turning point . . . You're strong, Al. You can face it. You've shown magnificent courage in [the] face of physical danger, that I know. Don't let this invisible danger threaten your strength. Fight it - and you'll overcome it. Believe me, Darling, you're not a weakling - you're brave and strong - you won't fail - I know you too well. So, carry on, Darling, and remember my prayers are behind you, fighting with you . . . .

Dad had hoped to come home when he reached 300 hours of combat flight time, but because there was a shortage of combat replacement personnel - Europe was the main focus now - he was held for four more missions, 340 hours on 55 missions.

Dad's compass, his silver bomber wings, a water-proof nickel match container, and his leather log book that fit in his pocket.

Dad's log book, showing target, date, flight time, accumulated hours, and mission number

May 30, 1944
. . Altho I haven't heard from you for some time, I feel it my duty to write and let your know how I'm getting along. . . We're pushing the Japs back as best we can. I'm sure they're beginning to understand that they're no longer an unbeatable race . . . Between the food, heat and flying conditions, I endeavor to keep in as good shape as possible, although getting "skinny in Guinea" is far from being perfect. Not long ago a few of us went boar hunting, found two, killed same. What a delicious dish they made. Not that we were versed in the art of cooking, but we get along . . .

Had a rather exciting mission the other day. While over the target, an engine was shot out of commission by ack, ack. These Japs are good in that respect. It wasn't my first experience of that kind. At times, I've found myself wishing in time of danger that you were near to give me confidence and support, that I might carry through, what was expected of me. . .

. . I've quit drinking. My improvements are astounding. I can recall the time when I'd felt better dead than alive. I don't know why a person gets to drinking over here, unless it's because of the dangers of war. I've been in a daze ever since my crack-up. It's about time I woke up. [He wrote that he hadn't gotten a letter since the one dated April 4.]

Dad's last 5 missions, from 27 May to 17 June were over the small island of Biak, on the western side of New Guinea, now belonging to Indonesia, a Japanese stronghold honeycombed with caves . In reading about the Battle for Biak, I realized the bombers were dropping bombs close to American forces, probably in the far north part of the island where the main airfield was. HERE

 He didn't write Mom that he was coming home or, if he did, the letter is lost. He didn't fly home, but came by ship (to California, I think).  He crossed the equator on 31 August 1944 on the U.S.Army Transport Cape Flattery.

Mom finally wrote on July 9, 1944. Although I would think he had left New Guinea before it arrived, there is no forwarding address on the envelope.
. . Quite a bit of time has elapsed since [I received your] last letter - Really too much time and I'm almost ashamed to write this. I've been down to California for awhile and time slipped through my fingers terribly fast. I went down to see Paul graduate. [He'd gone back to Merchant Marine School at Alameda for a few months of advanced studies to gain a promotion.] It was really an adventure for me because I have never traveled anywhere alone - but it was fun and I enjoyed myself very much. [If memory serves, she took a bus down and back. A sailor sat with her and fell asleep with his head resting on her shoulder.] But as for California - well, there really aren't any words to tell you my intense dislike of the place. It's much too cold and disagreeable for my liking. . . I was around Frisco, Oakland and Alameda. I really don't know which was the worse, the sand fleas or the cold weather. But, anyhow, I'm back in sunny ole' Spokane and nothing can make me budge . . . 

Again I am about to become an Aunt. Never let it be said that Mary Agnes isn't doing her part towards the future Americans of Tomorrow. Naturally everyone is excited in the family - they have gone so far as to lay bets with each other concerning the sex of the child. Mary wants a girl very much since she has two boys already. Dad bet her a new dress it would be a boy and she bet him a new hat that it's going to be a girl. Honestly, this family. . . Just sort of keep your fingers crossed that everything will turn out alright. That above all is the main thing . . . [It was a boy, John Charbonneau. Mary would get a girl on her eighth try, and afterward have another boy.]

Mary Agnes (Raney) Charbonneau (1921-2003) c1946

. .Our funny old Victory garden has sprouted up swell and all the Raneys are out patting themselves on the back. We're really nothing but an ole' bunch of farmers - which isn't surprising - that's all we were to begin with. . . [There are no additional letters until Dad came home.]

Because they're silk, the ribbons are shredding with age. The most important medals awarded Dad were the Purple Heart (inscribed with his name on back) for shedding blood for his country, and the Air Medal with two oak leaf clusters (blue and orange silk).

In August or early September, Mom and her future bridesmaids, Betty and Monnie, were transferred from Western Union in Spokane to Western Union in Seattle. They roomed at a lovely large Queen Anne home there. When Dad reached Spokane [stationed at Fort George Wright outside Spokane], Mom took time off to travel by train or bus back to Spokane to see him. She told me years later she'd tried to break off their engagement, realizing that Dad had changed and she hadn't really known him very well to begin with. But he broke down in tears and she lost her resolve. They set a wedding date for November 20th.

Dad soon after returning home

Back in Seattle at the end of September, she wrote:
. . H'lo Man O' my Heart - How can I write this letter - my heart won't be in it - I left it home with you - what a temptation it was not to turn and run back into your arms - But - I didn't, unfortunately. Right now it's five to three (in the morning, not afternoon) We three are writing letters to our "men" - those dear kids. They wouldn't leave me alone until I told them everything from the minute I saw you until I left you. . . I'm still up in the clouds - I have a funny feeling I'm going to stay up there a long long time.

Everything went very smoothly at the office - they were grand about it. I was prepared for the worst. But I'm still very much alive. [She must have left Seattle as soon as she got a phone call - maybe on her day off.] . . . Know what is on the radio now? It Had to Be You - that's so right. Know how it goes? "It had to be you - it had to be you - I wandered around and finally found - Somebody who - could make me be true - And even be glad - just to be sad - thinking of you - Some others I've seen - might never be mean, might never be cross - try to be boss - but they wouldn't do - Nobody else gives me a thrill - For all your faults I love you still - It had to be you - wonderful you - It had to be you." See how right that song is, Al. It always was - it always will be you. I love you - I love you. . . .

It appears he went over to see her in Seattle in early October, for she wrote October 7, 1944:
. . [H]ow terribly lost I feel without you - tonight without thinking my eyes went to the curb. I knew you wouldn't be there - and yet the disappointment at not finding you waiting there brought tears to my eyes. How much do I miss you? So very much . . . I can't quite believe that next month we'll be married. . . I just took my nightly shower - now I'll go jump in my bed and dream of you. Hey - you'd better be there in my dreams waiting for me or you'll be sorry - Yes, you will . . . .

One of a series of "glamor" photographs Dad took of Mom a few days before their marriage

And so, they were married on November 20, 1944. The month was beautiful until Mom's wedding day, when it poured down rain. Years later she mused that she should have known it was an omen. I wish I could say that they had a happy marriage . . .  I wrote a bio-fictional account of Mom's fortitude in her turbulent marriage with my mentally ill father in  A Devil Singing Small on Amazon (free on Kindle if you have Prime; also in paperback).

November 20, 1944

Afterword: Mom stayed by Dad's side for 50 years. He died a month shy of that anniversary. The day of Dad's graveside service in the autumn of 1994, my son Donovan drove her to Holy Cross Cemetery in Spokane. As they approached the cemetery gates, from the car radio came a rendition of "It Had to Be You." Need I say more. The original Dick Haymes and Helen Forrest rendition she listened to in 1944 is HERE (You don't have to sign up, despite what it says)

Dad's hat and Mom's veil

Geneva Raney & Albert Charbonneau: War Letters, Part 1

 

Photo of Mom that Dad carried with him throughout the war , despite her being in pigtails. She'd put her finger on the undeveloped film. The dog must be Tag.

 My parents, Albert Joseph Charbonneau (1921-1994) and Geneva Elizabeth Raney (1925-2014) met at the wedding of Mary Agnes Raney and Omer "Red" Charbonneau, June 1, 1940. Mary was Mom's sister and Red was Dad's double first cousin (two LeBlanc sisters married two Charbonneau brothers). They didn't see each other again (I think) until three memorable days in early autumn, 1942. Originally a reservist in the Air National Guard, and activated on December 8, 1941, Dad had finished Aerial Gunnery School in Las Vegas and was home on leave, staying with his guardians, Ed and Mary Chapot, before going on to his next assignment which, it seemed, he couldn't reveal to her. It was Red who brought them together.  Below are excerpts from their letters, mostly family anecdotes, but with insight into the playfully romantic girl, who was my mother.

Corporal Albert Charbonneau, summer 1942, prior to Aerial Gunnery School in Las Vegas

Oct. 26, 1942
Dear Al . . . [expressing surprise that he wrote and reminiscing about their three evenings spent together before he left]. Do you know that the future president has arrived? Uh-huh! A beautiful little pink bundle of howls. Mary Agnes was rather disappointed. She wanted the second one to be a girl, but after she saw him she fell in love immediately, and there was no question about her wanting to exchange him. I don't blame her. He's quite a fella! [The baby was Richard Charbonneau.]

Now in Salina, Kansas, Dad was training at the 504th Bomb Squadron. "We haven't any airplanes as yet, I suppose they will be here in a week or two. . . The train ride was wonderful. I rode on the Pullman all the way. It took two nights and a day to get here from Salt Lake City."

Jeanne Raney's girlhood home on E. Nora, Spokane

Nov. 5, 1942
Dearest Al . . . I was a surprised to learn that you are in Kansas. Somehow I look on that state as a second home. Mary Agnes and I spent a whole summer there some four years ago, and even yet I haven't forgotten the hospitality the people there put out. They're really grand back there and someday I'd like to go back. [She never did.] But why should I bore you with my hopeless dreaming? . . . I had such a nice dream about you the nite before last. I was sorry when I woke up. You were so very near at the time and when I woke up you were gone. Do you know, Sergeant, you're a very nice person to dream about? The clock on the wall is reminding me that I have a standing date with the Sandman. Awfully sleepy. Goodnite, Al. Take good care of yourself and be very good . . .

Nov. 29, 1942
Dearest Al . . . When you talk of coming home for Christmas -- well I'm without words. I think it would be the most wonderful, the nicest, the most lovely and the most beautiful Christmas I could ever have. With you home, what more could I ask for? . . . How long a leave could you have? I wish it was forever. Goodness! Is that me saying that? I'll give away my secret if I'm not careful. . . Please, don't ever feel gloomy that I'm far away 'cause I'm not really. How can I be when my heart is tucked in your pocket . . .

Dec 18, 1942
My Dearest Jeanne . . . You say the most beautiful things in your letters. They give me startling ideas. Ideas that I would like to accomplish in the near future, I hope. But perhaps you would rather wait until the war is over. Personally, I wouldn't . Oh, what am I saying. I practically proposed to you then . . . I'll phone the moment I arrive in town. That should be on the 24th. Santa is going to be good to me this year. Is it alright to hope? . . . P.S. I don't know whether
I'm falling in love with you or your letters.

1942 Christmas card Dad sent Mom from Kansas, browning around edges. Satin bells and cloth bow.

And so, Dad came home for Christmas and proposed and Mom said yes. Ah, young love. Mom was just 17. Dad was 21.

Envelope of letter Dad wrote Jan. 2, 1943 on train back to Salina, KS.

In Mom's first letter of the New Year to Dad in early January 1943, after gushing about their time together and about missing him. ". . Baby Richard is terribly sick. He's in the hospital now and the house seems so empty without him. [Mary and Red were living with Grandma and Grandpa and Mom.] Every time I go by his crib I look and look and he's not there and then a great big ache comes inside of me and I want to go and bury my head and howl. Oh, darling, I'm so terribly worried. The doctor said it may be bronchitis and for a baby the size of Richard that's awful. [No antibiotics were yet available.] Mary is just sick and if she doesn't watch out she'll be in the hospital, too, so say an extra prayer, Al, that everything will be alright again.

Mary Agnes Raney graduation photo

Mary and I took down the Christmas tree Monday. It was quite a job, lots of fun, though. . . It made me think of those very precious nights when we'd sit in the swing with only the Christmas tree lights for company. [The tree must have been in the dining room because that's where they put the porch glider that Sarah Raney Hamilton now has] . . .

Aunt Laura Smith (1888-1955) and Grandma

. . My aunt Laura came from Addy [Washington], New Years Day. She's going to stay about three weeks. She's never married and she's just the typical old maid. Honestly, Al, I just sit and laugh, she's so funny. She doesn't know she is, though. She's straight and thin and has a long nose and the straightest mouth. Please, darling, don't think I'm making fun of her - I wouldn't stoop that low - but she is so funny. She sleeps with me and it's just like sleeping with an ironing board. I try cuddling up to her and she's so stiff and straight even in her sleep that it's impossible. Mary, Junice and I had so much fun Sunday shocking her. We were talking about the facts of life and she was horrified . . . And, oh, she disapproves of you. She was simply aghast when I told her I was engaged. She gave mother the dickens and then the feathers did fly, while I sat on the side lines chuckling and urging 'em on. Mother said - ahem! quote "Laura Smith! don't you dare say anything about that dear sweet boy or I'll disown you as my sister" and Aunt Laura primly glared at Mother and said, "Why Mary, you know that men are nothing but scatterbrains." And they went around and around. Honestly, I was just sick, I laughed so hard. Mother put up an admirable fight and I really think she won out because she had the last word. . .

I haven't told Dad that you asked me to marry you in June. I don't know what he'll say. I'm going to wait because you may change your mind. . . .

Frank Whitman Raney c1940

Dad arrived back in Salina 24 hours late, but "nothing was done about it," he wrote on Jan. 10. He was a sergeant, so probably got some leeway. "There isn't anything unusual going on around here. Anything that happens has probably happened before, such as one of our bombers crashed the other day, killing ten. But that's nothing new. . . [in a later letter he said they were averaging two plane crashes per month. Training was dangerous.]

Jan. 19, 1943
  . . . Baby Richard is home from the hospital. It's so good to have him back. . . Midyear exams this week. I'm looking forward to them with dread. . . I'm afraid because I've wasted a whole half a year in playing around and now I don't know anymore than I did in the beginning [of the school year] . . . Everyone sends their love and Mother, the siren, sends a very special kiss. Do you know what she said -- She said that she loved you as though you were one of her very own sons. She means it, too. . .

Aunt Laura came down with the flu shortly after she arrived and it appears to have lasted quite a while, for on Jan. 25, Mom wrote, . . Aunt Laura is really sick. I've been sleeping on the swing in the dining room (remember the swing?) and my neck will never get in place again. The nite before last I was deep in a dream of you when I heard the funniest noise. Without thinking I jumped up and ran into the bathroom and there Aunt Laura was on the floor in a faint. Honestly! My heart just stopped beating. It took me a half an hour to bring her out of it. After I got her to bed I felt like fainting. Whatta nite. . . Well, my Darling, twilight is creeping in on wings of darkness and another day is almost over. It is just one day nearer to that hallowed peace for which we are awaiting so eagerly. Until the very near future then . . .

Mom's Valentine to Dad, which didn't reach him in time because he'd been transferred to Topeka, KS

Feb. 17, 1943
My Darling . . . There are five other gals besides myself who have got up a club. All their men are in the service and three are overseas. It's a manless club but it's more fun. Last week we went roller -skating out at Cooks and I can't remember when I had so much fun . . .

Mom's No-Man's Club

March 12, 1943
My Darling . . . The No Man's Club is coming along swell. Last Saturday nite we threw a slumber party at one of the gal's house (Her parents were out of town, of course) and, Darling, if ever you want me to feel really good mix me a drink with gin in it. I went sky-high on only one glass. There were only girls there (Praise the Lord) and I can't remember when I had so much fun. In fact, after the second glass I couldn't remember anything. But never again! Never again!!!

Mom's yearbook Senior photo 1943

Dad had asked for Mom's ring size, but Mom told him to save his money. She didn't say it in so many words, but she really wasn't ready to settle down. She attended her senior prom with an old boyfriend. Dad sent her a ring, anyway, for her birthday. Years later, she said that it was Mary Agnes, who wrote to Dad, telling him he'd better send her sister an engagement ring if he wanted to keep her. The diamond was so small, Mom recalled, you practically needed a magnifying glass to see it. He bought her a much nicer diamond ring when he returned from the South Pacific in 1944.

Dad's birthday card to Mom, 1943. The illustration must have been wishful thinking.

March 21, 1943
My Darling -- Yesterday, on my birthday, my ring came. Oh, Darling -- in my whole eighteen years I never had a more wonderful present. . . Everyone thought it was so beautiful. Of course, Mother cried, but she cried because she was so happy for us. Dad didn't say anything but just held me real tight. I cried and laughed and cried some more, but only because I was so happy. . .

Mom wore the ring in public short time before putting it away. 

Mary and Red moved today to the apartment right above Junice and Denny's. It's the cutest little place. I couldn't help but wish that it belonged to us. I loved the kitchen most of all. It's just darling. Maybe we can have one like it some day. . . Having twelve tall splendid sons, that is, without a doubt, the main ambition in my life . . .

Mom's kiss-off letter, saying she didn't want to marry in June.

Dad pressed Mom to marry him in June, but in her letter of April 5th, she stalled, ". . I couldn't bear to hold you in my arms one night and have your leave me for God knows where, the next. I want my husband to be with me always - and you wouldn't be - you'd be fighting . . ."

Dad was disappointed and angry.

April 8, 1943
Darling, Received your letter today, and it didn't surprise me. I sort of had a feeling I wasn't quite lucky enough to have you for a wife. But I had hopes . . . So, naturally I delayed my going overseas by taking special duty here in Kansas . . . All I've been doing was instructional work in the air, and on the ground. . . As soon as I mail this letter, I'm going to my Commanding Officer, and request for overseas duty. I hardly think I should waste anymore time here in the States. . . . He signed it "Sincerely Yours, Al."

He did, however, send her an Easter card a few days later.

And Mom sent Dad another patriotic card, this one having a red, white and blue cloth ribbon.

 Mom wrote a conciliatory letter: It's spring and everything is gloriously alive - but I'm not happy because I have made you unhappy. I have, haven't I? . . . Darling, you didn't go to your commanding officer, did you? If you did - why did you do a crazy thing like that? I'll be frantic until I get your answer . . . Mother told Aunt Laura I got my ring. She said that she wasn't surprised. She could tell the real thing when she saw it.

They made up and Dad agreed it would be better to wait to after the war was over. He was bored with his duties at the air base outside Topeka. He had asked for overseas duty, but his commander told him he was needed on the base.  Dearest, everything around the air base is dead. I guess I'll be here for some time yet. Last Sunday we had open field day. The place was over-loaded with people from Topeka. We put on a display in Aerial Combat, and other small items, which seemed interesting to them. . .

 May 9, 1943
. . . Do you remember Al Maturne? He's home for a few days and Friday night he stopped over to Junice's and Denny's to see Mary and Red . . . Jackie [Jack Raney], who had been sitting over in the corner taking it all in, said in a very loud voice - "That isn't my Uncle Al!" After we had stopped laughing and Junice had said, "No, that isn't your Uncle Al," he again declared in the same loud voice, "That isn't even Al." Poor Al Maturne. He was so embarrassed . . . I think he [Jack] has a hero worship for you, darling. Every time I get a letter from you I tell him. And then the little monkey conveys the message to the whole neighborhood. After I had received your last letter, Junice heard him bragging to all the kids, "I got a letter from my Uncle Al. He's a soldier, too, and he's goin' to shoot Hitler." For three years old he's pretty doggone smart! . . .

Mom, Tuffy and Jack Raney c1943

. . Did I tell you that Paul joined the Merchant Marines? He's in New York going to school and he'll be through this week and after that -- nobody knows.

Grandma [Mary Smith Raney, 1882-1979] and Tuffy

Enclosed in Mom's letter was a short letter from Grandma to Dad, which Mom claimed she wasn't allowed to see.

My Dearest Al,
A short note to thank you for your very lovely Easter card [not the one above]. It was sweet and thoughtful of you. I have never told you how happy I am that I'm going to have you for a son. We couldn't be more pleased with Geneva's choice for a husband than if we had picked him ourselves. I won't tell you to be good to her. There is no need of that because we know that you will always treat her right. Just have the implicit faith and trust in her as she has in you. Goodbye dear and God bless you. Love, Mother

May 13, 1943
. . . I've sent your picture [graduation photo], but I forgot to tell you about those little fingerprints on the outside. uh-huh! the guilty culprit was Jackie. I had the picture on the table . . . and that little monkey climbed up and with a cookie disappearing down his throat and his hands still gooey from it, he picked up the picture and examined it thoroughly. The result was that there were some tiny little finger prints on the frame. So, darling, play blind and over-look them, will you? . . . Guess what! I'm learning to cook. Mother is convinced that she's not going to let your stomach be ruined by my cooking. What a staunch rooter you have in her. I made some biscuits - and - well, the dog ate them anyway. . . .

And then the letter from Dad. He'd been promoted to staff sergeant, but that wasn't all.

May 18, 1943
My Dearest Jeanne,
. . I'm being shipped out tomorrow morning . . . heading for overseas, and I expect to be there by June. I'm on one of those four engine Bombers, a B-24D; it's a new ship and flies swell. It looks like the picture at the top . . . it's called the Liberator. My position on the ship is an Engineer. I fire a waist gun, which is located between the wing & tail. By the time you get this letter I'll be on my way. We're heading for the west coast . . . wish me luck, Honey, I may need it. I can depend on everyone on the crew. They're all experienced men, thank God. . . I'm sure I'll come back to you . . .

Mom at her graduation, late May1943

He telephoned her from San Francisco . . . collect.  On May 26th she wrote: There are no words to describe the thrill when first the operator said - 'long distance.' My knees turned weak and my head began to whirl and honestly, I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or cry. But the formality of the phone came between us. I know we both felt it. It was as if there were a stranger between us and we were both afraid to say what we really felt. I can never tell you of the stab of pain that shot through my heart when you told me that you were leaving. I didn't want to cry - but tears streamed down my cheeks anyway. Oh why does there have to be a war. Why can't they let us alone to live our live the way they should be lived . . . 

. . I'm sorry you don't like the picture. I don't care for them especially myself. It was raining horribly the day they were taken and naturally I didn't wear a hat. The results? We-ell, kinda looks as though I tried to look like Veronica Lake . . . It really doesn't matter, does it?

Mom's graduation photograph 1943

More to come. I'll end this with Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree with the Andrew Sisters. HERE