My father was obviously impressed with the stoicism shown by the English he met, and was prone to scold the stateside folks who wrote to him complaining about having to do without this or that.

The notion that people could go for years without even seeing certain items for sale, oranges were particularly notable by their absence in wartime Britain, truly astonished him.  I often wonder if he had a lot of guilt for living to well on the base.  I never got to ask him directly myself, because I was 10 years old when he suddenly died from a massive cerebral hemorrhage; my own hardship has been the denial of having an adult relationship with my father, and forever I am frozen in time with him and anxious to find any way of connecting.  My mother has tried her best to help but it has been these letters that have come the closest, if they are an imperfect substitute.

Our lives as father and daughter met with the severest of censors: death.

 

Somewhere in England

Monday

[29 Mar. 1944]

Dear Folks,

There is little enough I can say, again—this self-censorship is a nuisance, if someone else were censoring it I could write reels and let them cut it out—but I’m supposed to do the job myself and with all the conflicting information I can’t figure out just what I can and can’t say.

However, I can talk about a visit I had with an English family the other day.  The gentleman is a world traveler, retired member of parliament and a tobacco baron of considerable wealth.  I met him by accident strolling along a road and we spent a couple of hours before his coal fire.  The household furniture was rather interesting and might give some idea of the age of England’s present usuable [sic] past.  The old granddaddy clock they used for accurate time, and the man who made it, died in 1745.  They had dishes on the sideboard of similar vintage and it was very much like an activated colonial museum.

And I might say that rationing here has worked rather hard on the civilians.  These people I visited haven’t seen an orange in 2 years; they get ¼ gal. of gas a week and can’t use that unless they have a good reason.

When you’re walking along the street and some little bespeckled [sic] kid about 4, looks up at you and says “Oi” say, or “’Ave you any gum (chewing gum) today?”, and you realize the poor little rascal has never seen a streetlight—you feel rather unhappy about those people back home who grouse about a few shortages.

You don’t see stars in the windows either; for here, everyone is in it somehow.  But England is confident and rock steady what I’ve seen of it—and after what I’ve seen and read in the States before I left—well, I wish America could try a little harder.

As I said, air mail stamps are about the only thing rationed that I could use.  I prefer air mail to V-mail for I somehow can’t say enough most of the time on one sheet.  However, later on I’ll probably use it some.

Take care of yourself, Peoples, and till later—

Love,

Bill