Lt. William R. Murchie, Somewhere in England

Welcome to this mini-diary of the letters and photos of my father, William R. Murchie, who served in the 8th Army Air Force during World War II.  These writings are primarily about his experiences in England, where he served from sometime in March 1944 through to the summer of 1945.

My father’s family hailed from all corners of Great Britain: his Murchie grandfather emigrated to the U.S. from Ayrshire Scotland with an English wife who was born “within sight of the White Cliffs of Dover” in Kent; his mother’s family, the Lowes, were emigrants from Wales, arriving in Wisconsin approximately the same time as the Murchies settled in western Pennsylvania.

This first letter was sent to Bill’s parents once he arrived at Hethel Air Field, the base camp for the 389th Bomber Group.  It’s opening gives us this blog’s main collective title, “Somewhere in England” because it was not possible to tell the family any other details about his location.

My grandfather, Ed Murchie, was a gardener and florist, and this is a recurring theme in my father’s letters since he found it quite useful to have a way to thank as well as endear himself to others–especially as his lady friends appreciated a gift of a charming bouquet of flowers.

Somewhere in England

24 Mar. 1944

Dear Folks,

By this time I trust my cable has informed you that I am no longer in the States and that all is well with me, as it most certainly is.  We had a pleasant journey and I have and am enjoying myself very much [sic].  Naturally I haven’t been receiving mail as yet but they say we’ll be getting it before too long a time.  There is at the moment, only one thing I can think of that you might send and that is U.S. air mail stamps.  I can use them here but they are somewhat rationed so if you can put a few in an envelope and send them along they would be appreciated very much, (don’t send V-mail forms as I can’t use them here—not the kind you have there, that is).

Before I left, I wrote you giving a couple of addresses to which I would like to have some flowers sent; if, by any chance that didn’t get through, let me know and I’ll repeat that set of addresses.  They were in New Haven and New York.

My contact with the English has been limited and I can give little on my reactions to either them or England.  Thus far, I must admit that I have seen little here that America hasn’t, in quantity and quality, a definite superiority.  I realize that they have been at war here a long time, but even yet, the fundamental definition of the country is still there.  Surprisingly, (not to me exactly) enough, however, I’ve noticed that I react fundamentally as an Englishman would so that two generations have not removed the traces of the thrice-seeded British blood I have—Welsh, English, Scotch.  There are many men of other temperments [sic] who can’t understand the studied reserve of the English, but to me it is just as I react myself.

I saw my first English pheasant this evening—it looked at a distance like a guinea fowl—but his size and running ability were more game-like.  Spring is just coming to England and the buds are beginning to look red and green on the thorns and shrubs.

I shall try to write fairly constantly and hope that I can make up for my silence of these past weeks.  For the present then, my regards to anyone who may remember me—and, be good now.

Love,

Bill