Letters to Libby: Part Three

© Copyright 2004 Jospeh A. White II. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: a cataloguing record for this book that includes Dewey Classification and US Library of Congress numbers is available from the National Library of Canada. The complete cataloguing record can be obtained from the National Library’s online database at: www.nlc-bnc.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN 1-4120-1734-3

ISBN: 978-1-4122-1931-0 (eBook)

Joseph A. White II 1918-1999 Editor Raymond A. White 1948-

This book was published on-demand in cooperation with Trafford Publishing.

On-demand publishing is a unique process and service of making a book available for retail sale to the public taking advantage of on-demand manufacturing and Internet marketing. On-demand publishing includes promotions, retail sales, manufacturing, order fulfilment, accounting and collecting royalties on behalf of the author.

Suite 6E, 2333 Government St.,

Victoria, B.C. V8T 4P4, CANADA

Phone 250-383-6864

Toll-free 1-888-232-4444

Fax 250-383-6804

E-mail sales@trafford.com www.trafford.com/robots/03-2111.html

10 9 8 7 6 5 4

Preface

This book is dedicated to my parents: Mr. and Mrs. Joseph A. White, affectionately known herein as Joe and Libby.

May the reader not only learn from, and enjoy this work, but join with me in the hope that the wars of Man will someday end, and in the sure and certain knowledge that Love conquers all.

Raymond Alan White

Contents

June 5, 1944 - January 22, 1945

Caserta, Italy

Rome (OSA), Italy

Caserta, Italy:

Rome (OSA), Italy

Lake Bolsena, Italy

Naples, Italy

Lake Bolsena, Italy

Orvieto, Italy

Perugia, Italy

Folano, Italy

Lake Bolsena, Italy

Siena, Italy

Naples, Italy

Siena, Italy

London, England

Bastia, Corsica

Siena, Italy

Naples, Italy

Isle of Capri

Naples, Italy

Siena, Italy

Marseilles, France

Versailles, France

Paris, France

Siena, Italy

Naples, Italy

Siena, Italy

Naples, Italy

Grosseto, Italy

Siena, Italy

Naples, Italy

Athens, Greece

Bari, Italy

Siena, Italy

Naples, Italy

Siena, Italy

Naples, Italy

Athens, Greece

Naples, Italy

Athens, Greece

Naples, Italy

Photographs

Stateside Duty

General Alexander

Prime Minister Churchill

King George VI

New Italian Government

General Eisenhower

Joseph A. White II

and

Fellow Soldiers

Letters and V-Mails

Documents

Family

Newspaper Clippings

Letters to Libby / Part Three

By Joseph A. White Jr.

Edited By R. A. White

With special thanks to:

Ralph and Kathy McWilliams (our good neighbors), Joseph A. White III (Joe and Libby’s firstborn son), Cora Brooks-White (his wife), and their children; Joseph IV, Preston, and Alexander. Also to Marcia Elizabeth Wurzel (Joe and Libby’s firstborn daughter), and her husband Robert, as well as to their children; Robert Jr. and Melissa. Thanks again to Carroll Taylor Jarrett (Joe and Libby’s youngest daughter), and her husband Jack, and to their children; Jessica, Jeremy, and Justin. More thanks to Christopher Dylan White (my son), and to Ian Christopher (his son), and to Jackie Sumner-Duvall (Christopher’s mother), as well as Destiny Suer (Ian’s mother). Also thanks to Elizabeth W. Stoutamire (Frank Stoutamire’s wife), and their children: James W. Stoutamire, and Elizabeth Stoutamire-Bloomquist

and most especially to my Mother:

B. Elizabeth Taylor-White (Libby)

for her support, encouragement, inspiration, love, and editorial assistance.

Monday Evening

June 5, 1944

Caserta, Italy

Dearest Libby,

You can imagine my surprise when after lunch today a call came requesting that I come to the 45th General Hospital to see Ed Showfety. I did not know what to think except that he had been wounded. I immediately called for a car from Transportation, and the driver and I started hunting for the hospital. We knew its general location, but that was all. It was almost three o’clock before we finally found it. I was directed to a huge ward, and when I walked in to ask a nurse at one end of the Ward where I could find Ed Showfety’s bed I heard someone let out a yell: Joe—White. Libby, it was good to see him. He looks fit, and is up and around, but only for short periods at a time. He doesn’t look a bit different. Same old Ed, cheerful as ever, and exactly like he was behind the stand there at the grill.

He is all right now. The wound he received wasn’t at all serious in itself, but it did cause very serious complications for a short while. Fragments from a mortar burst entered the left part of his chest, high up near the collar bone. I think there were three small wounds. The punctures were small and scarcely caused any bleeding. He felt perfectly all right and continued to stay there, helping with other men who had been far more seriously wounded. It wasn’t until two hours later, when he was ordered to leave, that he returned to his first-aid clearing station and started to feel weak and faint. He was evacuated by air, and when he arrived here he underwent an immediate operation to remove a blood-clot which, due to the wound, had formed over his heart. It was only then that he lost a lot of blood. The operation was a complete success. You would never know now that for a few hours his condition had been serious indeed. He has had six blood transfusions already, and there are three more to come. I have written Fred that there is no reason whatsoever for him or the family to worry. And I mean just that. In case they have any tendency to be unduly concerned tell them that your husband always writes facts as they are—good, or bad. Were his condition still serious, I would say so without hesitation.

Ed’s first question was How is Libby? I wish I could tell you how proud it made me feel, sitting there on the side of his bed listening to him talk about you. The things he said made my heart burst with pride. Once as though reminiscing he remarked: Joe, I just about grew up with Libby. You’ve got one of the finest girls there is for your wife. That was just one of the things he said about you. His admiration of you is very deep and sincere.

I stayed with Ed the entire afternoon, and I haven’t enjoyed an afternoon more since being overseas. I didn’t return to Headquarters until seven o’clock. On the way back, I hoped for mail. Yesterday, a May 5 letter and a May 24 V-mail came, and today three V-mails were waiting for me—written May 21, 23, and 23. Yes, two written on the same day. The May 24 V-mail is still the latest word I’ve had from you. You had just received my May 16 letter in six days’ time. I’m glad my letters are reaching you so quickly, especially with all that is going on. I’m sure by now you are aware that elements of Clark’s Fifth Army have entered Rome, and that Kesselring’s 10th and 14th Armies are in full retreat.

This has been one of the nicest days for me. I’ve had three letters from you; I’ve seen Ed Showfety, and though wounded he is on his way to full recovery, and Rome has been captured. My God, what a winter we have endured here in Italy, but spring has brought rewards.

Goodnight, Libby. Sleep well, my darling. I love you.

Tuesday Evening

June 6, 1944

Caserta, Italy

Dearest Libby,

Mail. Mail. Mail from my female! And it doesn’t matter in the least that the thirteen V-mails that came today were written five months ago! Yes, your old January V-mails addressed to the squadron have finally reached me. Lord knows where they have been. The envelopes are marked to such an extent that there’s no more room to write further forwarding addresses. The dates don’t matter, it’s the message they bring. I am glad, though, that they were accompanied by your May 24 airmail letter. The V-mails were dated January 4, 6, 7, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 17, 18, 19, and 20. It is provoking that they should take so long, but they are finally here, and I am happy to have them.

You may already know that Ed Showfety has been wounded. I wrote about my visit with him yesterday, but in case this letter reaches you first, I will repeat myself. Ed is okay. He received his wounds from a nearby mortar burst, and his upper left chest was penetrated by three small fragments. He stayed on duty to help other more seriously wounded men until he was ordered to return to the aid station where he began to feel faint. He was flown to the 45th General Hospital south of Headquarters where he was operated on to clear a blood clot that had formed near his heart. He lost quite a bit of blood, but now after six transfusions he is rapidly recovering and beginning to behave like his old self. He will be given three more transfusions in the near future. I wrote Fred last night, describing Ed’s condition and assuring him there was no need to worry. I told him I stopped long ago failing to call a spade a spade, and should Ed take a turn for the worse I would let him know immediately.

Last night after stopping by Operations I knew you would awaken this morning to the headlines announcing the invasion of France. Thank goodness your husband’s letters are from Italy, not England. As I said before, three invasions are enough for me, and I make no bones about it. I have been by the radio all day today, but it is too soon to form a clear picture of what is going on other than the landing of seaborne and airborne troops. I hope the troop-carriers did not have to cope with friendly fire as we did. I’m sure their mission was rougher than the missions we flew on the invasion of Sicily, and ours were rough enough. These have been exciting days—the fall of Rome and the invasion of France.

I have been alerted that I will fly King Victor Emmanuel and Marshal Badoglio to Littoria some thirty-five or forty miles south of Rome. I thought at first that I would take them in the morning, but the flight has been delayed until day after tomorrow. I’m delighted because tomorrow I can now make a quick trip to Littoria and survey the field where I am to land.

As I wrote at the beginning of this letter, I’ve done very little since awakening this morning except sit by the radio as I’m sure you have, too. I have finished reading Lewis’ Arrowsmith, which I did not enjoy as much as I enjoyed Sister Carrie, and I’ve waited for your letters. Yes, I did know about the long conversation we had when you were walking home from the Home Ec. Building. How? Because you and I are always having conversations. Throughout the day and night we talk to one another, and though we can’t actually hear each other, we can feel each other’s presence. Ah, if only I could reach out and touch you! Goodnight. I love you.

Wednesday Evening

June 7, 1944

Caserta, Italy

Dearest Libby,

I’m glad that the schedule set for flying King Victor Emmanuel and Marshal Badoglio to Littoria for their appearance in Rome has been delayed until tomorrow. The change has allowed us to fly up and look the airfield over. Earlier it served as the airport for Littoria; more recently as an air base for German fighter squadrons. The field lies on the northern fringes of the Pontine Marshes adjacent to Route 7, one of two major roadways leading to Rome.

We left Capodichino around nine-thirty this morning, flew out over the Bay of Naples and followed the coastline north. It was a short flight, only some fifty minutes in duration. When I turned inland for Littoria, the Anzio beach-head was on my left, and ahead on my right lay the remains of Littoria. Battle-strewn debris lay everywhere. The airfield had been partially cleared of wrecked and burnt-out German planes, and the runway had been repaired. It was quite wide, but awfully short. The sides of the runway and the sides of a newly scraped road leading from the runway to the highway had been marked by white tape. I timed the length of the runway by flying over it at an airspeed of 120 miles-an-hour and estimated its length to be about 2,800 feet long. Well, that’s not too short. I turned back, made an approach and landed. Thank goodness the runway was wide enough to turn around in. I didn’t dare cross over the white tape because you can bet the area beyond was studded with mines. It reminded me of one of my last flights to Salerno with the Squadron where safety was also limited to a cleared and repaired dirt runway.

After taking off, I swung out over the Anzio beach-head to have a look at the ground. Libby, words can’t describe the devastation. Here and there were roads leading from the beaches inland with trucks hauling material northward.

We returned to Capodichino skirting the coast the way we came in. We didn’t get back to the Palace until almost six o’clock because the drive to the Palace is such a long way. It is rather nice in the late afternoon though—cool, and the countryside is so green. I felt good about the afternoon’s dry run. As far as my end of things is concerned, I am ready for tomorrow’s flight. I’ve an idea that tomorrow will be a very interesting day—flying the new Italian Government to Rome.

Darling, five long airmail letters were waiting for me when I got back. They were written May 17, 18, 21, 22, 23 and one V-mail written May 28, just ten days ago! The mail is coming through better this week than last. Maybe there won’t be a long ‘slump’ period after all. I certainly hope not because if the next three weeks are like the last I’m afraid I will be beside myself. Sitting on my cot reading your letters tonight brought such happiness. I hated for them to come to an end because I had to return to the realization that I am far away from you instead of by your side.

Goodnight. Try not to worry about me. I am well, and I am getting along as well as I possibly can under the circumstances. No one knows any more than I that there is always worry, but try not to let there be too much of it. I love you, Libby.

Thursday Evening

June 8, 1944

Caserta, Italy

Dearest Libby,

I’ve been standing at the window—alone, with the room dark behind me—looking out over the whole of this valley, the mists which cover it, and the mountains in the distance; clear, but with their hard lines softened by the moonlight. The moon is so bright you can almost read by it; and the breeze; it’s soft, too-cool and pleasant. I am glad there is no one here and I can be alone. You seem so close to me, almost as if I could turn and talk to you and hear your answer. I closed my eyes and imagined your response, but when I opened them there was only the moonlight, the mountains, and the silence. It’s almost like going to Church, the few minutes I stood there; like holy communion with you. There is loneliness, need, ache in my heart, but happiness, too. Happiness that has come from loving you, and knowing that you, like me, are waiting for my return.

I flew to Littoria this morning and landed on the field that I wrote you about yesterday. It was quiet, empty, and lonely in comparison to Capodichino where hundreds of Italians had gathered around my plane shouting Viva Badoglio. The old Marshal, standing quietly and smiling, looked tired, and tired in spirit, too, I imagine. His eyes showed it. He is a kind-looking old man. I talked with him while we were waiting. He doesn’t speak English, so we conversed through an interpreter. There were twelve passengers in all: Marshal Badoglio, King Victor Emmanuel, Prince Umberto, and the men who are the present Italian government. Finally, when everyone had been assembled, I taxied out and took off, climbing as I circled the field. My escorts followed; eight Spitfires, rather unnecessary I thought, but their presence made for a good show. We headed north for the short flight—two Spitfires weaving back and forth off each wing, and four crisscrossing above for high cover.

When we landed at Littoria there were six staff cars waiting for us. Luckily, Joe, Alan, and I were able to use the last one, so we went into the city. Six motorcycles with sirens going madly, and six staff cars racing up the highway. This was the Marshal’s first entry into Rome since the fall of Mussolini. It must have been a grand day for him because he was well received. It was a rather exciting way to enter Rome—hundreds of people standing on the sidewalks, clapping and cheering madly. Once when we slowed down, they seemed to come from all directions and almost surrounded the cars. The city is covered with large banners strung across the streets: Hail to the Liberators. At the moment there seems to be a deep pro-American/British feeling, but I’m rather skeptical of their sincerity—long lasting sincerity anyhow.

I am amazed at Rome. The city gives the impression of being untouched by war, and the people are well dressed and seemingly well fed. The astonishing thing is that unlike Italians south of Rome, here they are clean looking. The contrast is dramatic.

After we reached the seat of Government, Joe, Alan, and I walked for three hours. We saw Saint Peter’s and the Coliseum, but aside from these two, I don’t really know what we saw. That sounds foolish, I know, but we were three Americans in a strange city, unable to converse in the native language and with no one to show us around.

A severe headache and very tired feet finally drove us to lunch. We dared not order anything but eggs and a glass of wine for fear of falling victim to a bug, but even with such a modest meal we each had to pay one dollar. One dollar, just for that! Afterwards, we headed back to Littoria and the plane, leaving the city at 2:30 and arriving at the airport around 5 o’clock. The drive back took much longer because we didn’t have a motorcycle escort to clear the road for us. They, like the Spitfires earlier, left us once their assignment was completed. But at least we had more of a chance to study the countryside. It’s terribly torn up. I’ve never seen such destruction, nor have I experienced, as I did today, the smell that hangs over all battlefields.

Except for the crew, the plane was empty coming back. We skirted the coast just above the water and landed at Capodichino less than an hour later. When we arrived at the Palace at eight-thirty, we ate supper and afterwards I went straight to my room to write. It’s really not terribly late, but I’m tired. I’ve just gone back to the window to look out once again. The word picture I drew for you at the beginning of the letter has changed but little. The moon has passed its zenith, but its light has diminished but little. The room is still empty, so I have been able to write without being disturbed. Just you and I, alone together! Goodnight. I love you, Libby.

Friday Evening

June 9, 1944

Caserta, Italy

Dearest Libby,

We made another quick flight to Littoria today to pick up Marshal Badoglio and Lieutenant General McFarland, a United States foreign service officer. It was after lunch before we left Naples, and after arriving at Littoria we had to wait at the airfield for them to arrive. The juxtaposition of the peaceful valley I wrote about last night and the destruction surrounding us here is indescribable. Here and there, people trudge along the highway with all their earthly belongings piled high on horse-drawn carts. Their homes blasted; nothing left standing; no place to go. You see it and yet, in a sense, you still can’t believe it.

We stayed at the plane, of course, relieving the boredom of doing nothing by walking along the marked runway and the newly scraped road leading to Highway 7. We dared not cross the white strips to inspect anything beyond for fear of land mines. Finally, late this afternoon, a command car arrived with Marshal Badoglio and Lieutenant General McFarland, and we returned to Naples, minus the pomp and circumstance of yesterday.

Over three weeks ago, when I knew that the Spring offensive would soon start, I mentioned J.Y. and Ed Showfety and wrote that I hoped both would get through it all right. Tonight, shortly after my return, the Red Cross delivered a message to me informing me that J.Y. was in a field hospital south of Caserta. Fortunately, I am free tomorrow, and I have told Headquarters that I will leave in the morning to see a wounded cousin. I hope nothing unexpected comes up to prevent me from going to the hospital, or in my absence requiring Joe to fly without me. There is an awful lot of political as well as military activity going on at the moment, and our front is rapidly moving north. The destruction of German transports is appalling. I understand that in order to keep their retreat moving at the fastest possible pace, they bulldoze off the road anything that can’t move under its own power. The German armies have suffered a major defeat, and more than one division will have to be rebuilt before returning to the line.

Goodnight, darling. I’ve asked for a driver to pick me up early in the morning. I hope we can find J.Y.’s hospital without too much trouble. If it is somewhere in the vicinity of Ed’s, I will be able to visit them both. I love you, darling. Goodnight.

Saturday Evening

June 10, 1944

Caserta, Italy

Dearest Libby,

In case this letter reaches you before yesterday’s, I received word from the Red Cross last night when I returned from Littoria that J.Y. Barnes wanted to see me. Yes, he, like Ed, has been wounded, and this morning I left by car to visit them both.

When I walked into the tent ward at J.Y.’s field hospital, I saw him lying flat on his back, both legs heavily bandaged. A host of emotions went through me. I’ve not seen him since 1941; no, 1940, I’m quite sure, when you and he followed the bus that was taking me back to Ann Arbor. Before he saw me, I had a chance to study the expression on his face—just resting quietly, but looking terribly lonely. For a few moments, neither of us said very much, simply clasping hands and looking into each other’s eyes. Then he said: It could have been ever so much worse. I knew exactly what he meant.

I started out for the hospital at eight o’clock this morning, arriving there about nine-thirty. We spent the rest of the morning and half the afternoon together, and talked the whole time, catching up with each other. He wanted to know about you and said he was awfully happy when he learned we had gotten married. He told me all about the girl he had left at home and showed me a picture of a very nice looking young lady.

He is not too badly wounded, but it will take considerable time for his legs to heal. I will tell you the story as he told it to me. It was after the bridge-head forces had broken through. He was out on an armored reconnaissance patrol just a few miles south of Rome. There had been no casualties in his unit the entire morning though shell fire had been moderately heavy. He said that he had just finished firing 1,750 rounds, was out of ammunition, and had asked the armored car nearest him (via radio) to come up and cover him while he withdrew from the fracas. He extricated himself successfully and turned back down the road. At a sort of crossroad, a small armor piercing shell entered below the turret, and a fragment of the shell penetrated his left leg and the shell itself passed completely through his right leg, breaking the bone—both below the knee, I believe. The officer sitting next to him was wounded in the leg also—the rest of the men were not hurt. Everyone abandoned the tank. J.Y. says he does not know how he got out, but somehow he managed to pull himself up and out, throw himself to the ground and crawl to the side for cover. And none too soon! Within moments shells were hitting the tank all over. That’s the whole story. He was evacuated immediately, and flown to the hospital the next morning. He was wounded June 4, the day Rome fell. Of course I didn’t know he was here until last night when the Red Cross was finally able to get his message through to me. That is the whole story, and when I left the nurse told me that there was no question that his legs should not heal properly.

J.Y. did not know that Ed had been wounded, and later this afternoon when I went by to see Ed, he of course knew nothing about J.Y. Their hospitals are not too far apart. Ed said as soon as he was able to be up and around for any length of time he would see J.Y. right away. I will visit them again as soon as I can. I can’t tomorrow for I must fly to Rome, and I will be involved the whole day.

I wrote Aunt Addie earlier this evening. Like Ed’s family, she won’t know anything other than the knowledge that J.Y. has been wounded. There is no reason for any of them to worry. Both boys are going to be all right. I say there is no reason for them to worry, but we both know that is easier said than done.

Two letters came from you today, written May 19 and 20. It was wonderful to have them. Even though it has not been long since your last letters arrived it always seems so. The letters were here on my bed when I got back from seeing J.Y. and Ed. Libby, your letters are wonderful. I’ve told you so many times how important they are to me, but when I look at my words and compare their expression with the way I feel they seem totally inadequate.

You spoke about Gertrude considering going into Red Cross work. The battle she is fighting is hardest of all because she alone has to fight it. I think of her and of Wanda, too. I only hope they can find and do the thing that will help them most, whatever that may be. Maybe you can go down to see Wanda when your thesis is done.

I have two round-trip flights scheduled for tomorrow; one to Littoria, and one to Campino. It will be a long, busy day, but with more waiting than flying. I love you, darling. Goodnight.

Sunday Evening

June 11, 1944

Caserta, Italy

Dearest Libby,

Two more letters came today, written May 25 and May 27. All day I had hoped there would be at least one letter waiting for me when I returned—and there were two!

On our first flight this morning, I carried General McFarland and Major Randolph Churchill (yes, Randolph Churchill) to Littoria. We waited on the field to take them back to Naples, and this time we carried sufficient reading material to keep us occupied. On the last round-trip flight, we brought back the new Italian Prime Minister Signore Bonini and his newly formed Italian government. The reception they received upon landing was something to witness—men hugging and kissing one another. Some of the men have probably been in Rome all this time, unable to get away because of the Germans, and are now seeing their friends for the first time in a number of months.

We didn’t have an escort today, but coming back very late this afternoon (we didn’t land at Capodichino until seven o’clock), two P-39s decided to play around with us. I needn’t tell you that their approach gave me a momentary start, until I identified them. They drew up beside us (one on each wing) and flew in formation. I put the mixture up to ‘rich’, opened up the throttles to 33 inches, picking up an extra twenty-miles an hour so my ‘escort’ wouldn’t stall out keeping station with us. We flew along like that for a while, an ‘old lady’ accompanied by two escorts, then they peeled off and disappeared into the gathering dusk. Meeler told me during our drive to the Palace that our passengers were momentarily frightened by the appearance of two pursuit planes, but then realizing they were American relaxed in sheer excitement, talking and gesticulating wildly.

Libby, we are going to be busy and unsettled for the next few days, and my letters to you may suffer a slight delay going out. If there is such a delay, don’t worry, because we are moving. I’m going to miss having a big room in which I can spread out. Aside from that I don’t think a tent will be so bad during these summer days. Thank goodness for all the candles and equipment you’ve sent from time to time. I will be needing and using them now. I hate to think of packing up all my junk. It’s going to be an awful job.

I saw Les for a few minutes tonight. He’s up and around as I reported sometime ago, but of course he can’t stand any weight on his ankle. He is quite adept at using crutches. He told me he is being returned to the Squadron sometime next week, and he believes he stands a good chance at being sent home for the remainder of his convalescence. He appreciated the tie that came in one of your boxes last week. Alan told me that he had written you also. I am going to see Les tomorrow, also J.Y. and Ed—a full afternoon’s trip because all three are in different hospitals. (By the way, John Grimsley’s address is Box 513 Rosemont, Pennsylvania. His wife’s first name is Becky. Also, if you can please drop Fella Ramsey’s wife, Glenda, a note and say that we’ve seen him here. He’s fine, and is almost well from his wound. Her address is Mrs. Lloyd B. Ramsey, 205 Vine Street, Somerset, Kentucky).

I’m sure you know I didn’t mind you lecturing me in a joking way about my former copilot Bill Garrison. I should have written you more about him, but it’s just that he didn’t adjust himself at all and was really a great worry to me. The reason I didn’t go out with him in Cairo is because the ‘things’ he does and the things I do are two totally different ‘things.’ Joe Bogardus is a darned good boy, Libby, and the crew and I enjoy having him with us. He has fitted in perfectly and is an asset to the crew rather than a detraction as Bill was.

Finally, Libby, the large pictures with Chief’s signature are in my hands, and I will mail them tomorrow. The picture certainly should have been printed in our hometown paper by this time, but if not I think the paper can make a reprint from these for publication.

Goodnight, darling. The wind is breezy tonight. Come closer, will you? I’m a little chilly. I love you.

Monday Evening

June 12, 1944

Caserta, Italy

Dearest Libby,

I’m afraid tonight’s letter will be fairly short. I don’t like it when I have to be so busy that I can’t write like I want to.

I’ve spent the morning trying to get all my things in some sort of order for packing. I’ve accumulated far more than I had realized—enough for three officers, I’m sure. After lunch, I called a car and went to see Les, J.Y., and Ed. All three are in different hospitals. Les’s hospital is nearest, so I saw him first. He is being returned to the squadron so the flight surgeon can draw up papers returning him to the States. The cast is off his leg, but he cannot stand to put weight on it. Of course, he doesn’t really know that he will be returning until he has orders in hand, but neither of us doubts it. It is obvious he won’t be fit for flying for a long while yet.

Both J.Y. and Ed are being returned home on a hospital ship. When I walked into J.Y.’s ward today, he said: Lord, boy am I glad you got here. I’m leaving tomorrow. Ed will also be going home as soon as he is able to travel. I’m sure you know how jealous I am. It makes me blue and so very conscious of my aloneness without you. Both J.Y. and Ed looked better today, particularly J.Y. I guess he was feeling pretty rotten when I visited him day before yesterday. I shan’t be seeing them again because they are leaving, and I won’t be in this area from tomorrow on.

I returned to the Palace at supper time, and after eating went to my room to finish packing. I have an early flight in the morning, then the crew and I will move up tomorrow afternoon.

Darling, the large pictures are ready to mail but I can’t get John Grimsley’s signature on them until in the morning. They will be posted, then registered, so there will be no doubt about them reaching you.

Goodnight, Libby. I love you. I’m kind of blue tonight. Everyone is going home, and I—I am here in Italy and moving further north.

Tuesday Evening

June 13, 1944

Rome (OSA), Italy

Dearest Libby,

I am writing you in an olive grove on top of a hill just south of Rome. We have had a hectic and mixed-up day today, and I don’t know where to begin telling you about it. I finally completed packing early this morning, then left immediately on the flight I mentioned in last night’s letter, flying from Naples to Caserta to Goude, then to Rome (OSA). Our mission was to carry baggage belonging to Alexander, his chief of staff and his aides and a few Headquarters personnel to this area. Afterwards, we returned to Caserta, landing not at Capodichino but at Marcianise. Thank goodness part of the mess at the Palace still existed, so we were able to get a bite to eat before gathering up our belongings. I have a B-4 bag, a parachute bag, two barracks bags and a rather large wooden box filled with my belongings. With the five of us you can imagine the load. It’s a good thing we have our own plane, else much of this baggage would not be allowed. (Incidentally, I just happened to think about Cleo Worley, Joe Moss, Cecil Dawkins, Jack Rawls and all the others who went to England a few months ago. Their planes, too, were loaded with personal belongings when I happened to meet them at Malta on their way north. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get off the subject like that). We finally got everything down the stairs, to the courtyard, out to the airfield, and loaded onboard the plane. Afterwards, we took off and headed back north.

This time we landed on an ordinary field at the crest of a gently rising hill, but not until I had spent about a half an hour hunting for it! I knew only its general location, so I had to fly a regular search pattern to find it. It was there all the time, but because it was a ‘regular’ field with no markings and no runways, I had missed it when we first flew over it. The field is not an operational field in any sense of the word, and only a few special planes like ours will be using it. It is not large, but it is adequate for the short time we will be using it.

The drive from the field to our camp area was anything but pleasant. Picture a command car and six men (the five of us and a driver) with baggage piled high, riding over bumpy roads; dusty, hot, hungry, and generally out of sorts. Added to all that, we didn’t know exactly where the camp area was either! We finally found it and our tent, marked ‘C in C Air Crew’, tucked away over the hills in the middle of an olive grove. The location was pleasant enough, and when we learned mess was already set up and would be serving a hot meal tonight we began to feel in better spirits. I had expected to eat C-rations tonight since the ground convoy had only arrived late this afternoon. They, too, had difficulty in locating the area. Our driver, whom I had sent on ahead with our cots, bedding, and assorted pieces of makeshift furniture, had spent some two hours searching for the field, and he finally arrived at our tent with the most distraught look on his face. After unloading our things, we went to work. Our cots are set up; our beds are made, supper has been eaten, and finally we now feel somewhat settled.

What has saved the day for me, my darling, are your letters that I was able to pick up before leaving the Palace this afternoon: a long airmail letter written May 26, and seven V-mails dated May 29, 30, 31 and June 1, 3, 4, and 5, the last only eight days old. The long airmail was written when you had one of your splitting headaches the night before you took your French exam. You have mentioned these bad headaches several times lately. I hope they don’t continue because I know what they do to you. And you were worried about the French exam, but I already know that your worry was all for naught because your later letters have told me how simple it was and what a relief it was to have it out of the way. I’m especially thankful for these letters tonight because I’m sure it will be at least a few days before ‘regular’ mail delivery can be restored. You know, I’m sure, what it did to me to learn that Bill and Wink were home again. Of course I’m glad for them, but coupled with that knowledge and with the knowledge that Les, J.Y. and Ed are on their way home, too—well it sort of knocks the props out from under me. Today marks twenty-one months we have been apart. I must come home to you soon because I can’t stand being separated from you much longer. But, stand it I must. How lonely I am without you! I need you and miss you, and Libby, I love you so. Goodnight.

Wednesday Evening

June 14, 1944

Rome (OSA), Italy

Dearest Libby,

I knew I could expect no mail today, nor can I, I guess, for several days. When I gave last night’s letter and today’s V-mail to the orderly this morning, he told me he didn’t know when they would be stamped and sent out. I’m sure he will send them as quickly as possible. Hopefully, there will be no recurrence of one of my letters that wasn’t sent out until sixteen days after I had written it! Only a small advanced party is here—only one sergeant taking care of incoming and outgoing mail. And, the incoming mail has to be sent up by the mail-room group left behind at the Palace. I certainly hate the delay, but of course I can do nothing about it except wait as patiently as possible, which is with no patience all.

Another tent was brought and set up for us this morning. British tents are smaller than ours, and three men in one tent gives very little room for movement. With the two rectangular tents set up end on end, we now have loads of room. As you enter the front of the first tent we have set up a table with three chairs. Moving to the adjoined tent, Joe and I have set up our cots on the left, and on the right we have organized a baggage area followed by Alan’s cot. It’s quite comfortable now with the additional room which keeps us out of each other’s hair. We also have a batman to take care of us, which seems to be the British practice when small groups of officers live in the field.

Early this afternoon we went into the city hunting for some furniture. This is my second visit to Rome, and I’ve had it! What prices! First we fight the Italians. Then we make them co-belligerents, and now they charge all they can get for the things they have to sell us. I wanted three cheap cane chairs, a table, and some pans large enough to wash out of. In the first place it took us two hours of riding around to find the first store with chairs to sell. They were exactly what we wanted—cheap in every way possible but in price. Five dollars and fifty cents per chair. We finally found a place where we purchased them for $4.00 apiece. We never did find a table or pans for washing. We did find some small galvanized buckets for which they asked $4.20. Back home, they might be worth fifty cents. Maybe it’s a good thing the man did not understand English! Finally, we got so disgusted, we gave up looking. We got in the car and drove out to our field to pick up some of our luggage stored in the plane, then began the forty-five minute drive to our camp area, which we finally found after several detours. Even with maps of both the city and the surrounding area we got lost several times. When we got back to the campsite we found an old discarded table which we immediately appropriated, and together with the three chairs we had just bought set up the ‘entry’ tent, as a sort of ‘living’ room. The chairs do make a difference. Last night when I wrote you, I sat on the ground with my back propped up against my cot, not bad at all except for the ants that insisted on crawling up my legs. Tonight I am writing out in front of the tent.

Darling, there may have been some sort of mix-up on the publication of the picture of Chief and the air-crew. We know that it has been published in the hometown papers of Alan and Les, but not in John’s and mine, nor in the hometown papers of my two sergeants. If the picture hasn’t appeared in the paper by the time you receive the copies I have mailed, please take one to the paper to be published. John is asking Becky to do the same.

It’s getting dark now, not much more daylight left. I looked up a moment ago. It’s quiet, and there is no movement. There is a pleasant coolness in the air, and I will soon crawl under the covers of my bed. Goodnight, my darling. I love and yearn for you so.

Thursday Evening

June 15, 1944

Rome (OSA), Italy

Dearest Libby,

Twenty-five months ago tonight, we were a very happy and excited boy and girl weren’t we? I will never forget what a long night it was after I kissed you goodnight. I didn’t get much sleep, and I lay there thinking tomorrow we will be married. And the four months that followed, my darling, were the happiest of my life. Four brief months followed by twenty-one months of eternity, each day of which I live for your letters and pray I might come back to you soon.

I’ve not done a thing today; that is, no flying. In spite of the surrounding olive trees, the tent is terribly close during the heat of the day, and there are more flies than you can count. The only place free of them is under the mosquito net. And, we are back to outside ‘Johns.’ Remember the days in North Africa when I wrote you about them? But, everything is relative. Our field conditions here are heaven compared to those in North Africa, but a decided step backwards compared to living conditions