Duckling and Steak

This undated note was written shipboard on the way to North Africa, very likely in mid-August 1943.

Dearest Marie,

You will find a copy of the ship’s menu on the rear. This is the way we have eaten all the way. Sure is swell. And the best part of it is that through some quirk of regulations officers do not pay a cent for their meals. Better yet if I can get another menu I will send it along. Notice there are only two sittings a day. Couldn’t stand any more I am sure.

Love,
John

On the reverse of the second menu was the following note:
Had both duckling and steak at this meal. John

Goodbye Marie

August 8, 1943

Dearest Marie,

This may be the last letter that I may be able to write for some time. If it is do not worry. I do not know now what will happen. But remember that I love you and keep writing. The letters will get to me somehow and even if they are old they will read good. Remember do not put anything military in any letter unless you can cover it up. I will read between the lines. Would like to know what arrangements you have made about going home. How does the apartment work out? Did the girls sell their trailers? How is Patsy etc.

Didn’t receive a letter from you since I got back. Remember to give Patsy a big hug and kiss from her daddy and pray that he won’t be gone too long.

Everything is quiet here. My promotion is definitely out and I am now listed as assistant sergeant.

Well honey I haven’t much more to say for now. Remember how I miss your love and kisses and companionship. Best wife in the world—that’s you.

Please tell me your plan on going home. In the meantime much love to you and Patsy.

Your loving husband,
John

North Africa: 'Dangerous Beauty'

Here is a letter written just nine days before the Invasion of Salerno, Italy.

Sept. 7, 1943

Dearest Marie,

In the previous letter I described to you in general terms the type of people who are natives in this part of the world. In this letter I will try to picture for you the life in a nearby town and other interesting facts that I have learned since I wrote the last letter.

Picture if you can an old but well-built city with large buildings and almost modern architecture—the architecture of the Moslems. Here and there throughout the town are countless sidewalk cafes and wine gardens. Antiquated French street cars rattle along on the left side of the road dragging along behind an open car crowded to overflowing with a mixed group of people. Everywhere one hears the babble of mixed French, Algerian, Morroccan, Spanish, English languages. Odd smells issue from every corner—some of them reminding you of stale wine and others of rotten food and fermenting grapes, all mixed with the smell of salt water. Put yourself in that type of town in the next few paragraphs of this letter.

We were driven to town in an army vehicle through a countryside covered with grapevines and bountiful with fruit. Here and there, we avoided collision with lumbering Arab carts, some drawn by burros, and others by scrawny, ill-fed horses or mules. On each side of the road small shade trees beautify the road. Small Arab children dressed in rags shout and yell “Me want cigarette.” while holding their fingers in the form of a V for victory.

Finally you can see the skyline of the city ahead. Here and there a building towers above the rest but all of them are built of a pink or white clay or brick; and on reaching the city limits the stench and smell of the slums hit one square in the face.

In our troop we drove to the American officers club where we had a bite to eat. One must be very careful not to eat or drink of the native food for very obvious reasons. After that we walked down the streets just to observe. Native women wrapped in white with one eye showing walk quickly along taking care not to disclose their faces. Now and then one of them will show her face—most times very ugly but often pretty but always tattooed on the forehead, cheeks and chin.

French Jews operate stores much like our Jews on Wells Street at home. Soldiers of all nationalities and every conceivable uniform pass along the streets. Finally we got tired of walking and sat down in a sidewalk café of a very good hotel.

A sidewalk café is a marvelous place since you can sit and watch the crowds go by. I know that you would enjoy that very much. So we ordered our drinks (I took beer because I couldn’t tell the waiter what I wanted) and then sat and watched the crowds go by. Like all port towns, but especially a war port town, this one has the scum of the earth. French foreign legion soldiers, Free french, English, American soldiers and sailors pass by in an unending parade. Here and there a beautiful french woman passes by leading a french dog and exquisitely dressed in modern American clothes; and walking beside her a native woman dressed in white. Then you will see a native Arab man with pants whose crotch almost drags on the ground. The story behind the pants with the drooping crotch is as follows:

The natives believe that Mohamed will be incarnated again and will be born of a male. Consequently they wear their pants like that so they can catch him before he hits the ground.

As we sat there a native acrobat performer put on an act for us. Actually he was a contortionist. A crowd of people gathered about to watch. Beggars by the hundreds, young and old, passed by with hands held out. Meantime a blind man passes selling postcards which we cannot send. On the corner a native fortuneteller with sand and a stick plys his morbid trade. Honey what an interesting and picturesque town. Vino, vino plenty vino. But don’t drink it. Dangerous beauty, ugliness, sordidness, filth, quaintness and everything disgusting is present here. Will tell you more in my next letter.

John

A Beginning

When writing about one's father, one does not know where to begin, since all fathers are big in the eyes of their children--especially if that child is only two or three.
This is the story of my father's experiences in World War II, as told by himself through his letters to "dearest Marie," his wife.
This letter, out of time sequence, describes the man well. It is written after months of of intense conflict at Monte Casino in Italy.

March 23, 1944

Dearest Marie,

I stood in the window high above the valley and watched the sun set. Long shadows grew darker behind the rocky hills and distant mountains turned dark purple. The green valley, with its rivers and ponds, blended softly into the foothills of the mountains. Here and there a pond of water shone golden from the rays of a blood red sun, and a soft yellowish haze settled softly over the valley. Before me, at my feet and disappearing into an olive grove, was an old rocky road. A few buildings partly visible through the trees caught the last rays of the sun and reflected them, giving these old buildings the appearance of some ethereal houses. All was quiet and peace reigned while God saw the world being put to slumber.

And suddenly as if to break the spell, the valley flashed and roared with artillery fire. Startled birds screaming wildly, flew hurried and disturbed courses past my window. A pall of smoke rose to blot out the rays of the dying sun. Echos rocked the valley and roared between hills and mountains, and sharp lightning like flashes pierced the gathering darkness. And I thought as I watched that a sacrilege had been committed for man had disturbed God's communion with the earth. The rude and unnatural sounds of battle broke the spell of the moment. It was all so senseless. the only one out of harmony was man. It is times like these that I have such a desire for peace and home.