Letter #12: December 5, 1943

Dec 5, 1943

Darling:

First, I'll answer your questions and comments on items of special interest in your letters.

[Two lines censored] Fremont or Lincoln would do very nicely, but I still have a hard time falling in love with Des Moines.

You needn't send me airmail stamps since our mail is going by the fastest route anyway.  Yes, your V-Mail is photographed and should be in ink or typed, although the one letter from Rob arrived in its original pencil form, just as she mailed it.

Incidentally you needn't send all your letters V-Mail.  I enjoy the longer letters of course and think they arrive about as quickly as V-Mail.

You wondered if I had singed the safe arrival card in blank form.  Yes, and I am surprised they didn't fill in our destination, though there must be some good reason for it.

Before I forget, I'm delighted with the star book and certainly I had had sense enough to buy one in the States.  Here the stars seem unusually clear and I'll be glad to brush up on them.

Robbie and Jon certainly do beautifully in their letters to me, which I enjoy very greatly.  I see Rob is progressing out of the printing stage and am extremely proud of her promotion to Third Grade.  I know she'll be much happier with enough studies to keep occupied.

Her school chairmanship of radio is important and between you and her and Mother Chris and Dad (always remembering all of Grandpa's positions), the Christensen-Hammond combination must have a corner on war on civic work in Fremonth.

I do wish you'd explain, in one sentence how you find time to read even Reader's Digest along with your Red Cross, Brownie, AAVW, PTA, bond-selling, canteen and Sunday School activities.  But maybe Robbie keeps your posted with her Bathroom Scholarship (B.S.)

I also received the miniature copy of Time and would like a subscription.  Of course Reader's Digest would be a great help too.

[Approx 1 page censored]

On the newspaper front, I was sorry to hear of Frank William's death and that of (apparently - the clipping was incomplete) Harry Dobbins.

I was surprised Jim Morrison had left Des Moines.  I sent Christmas Cards to him, Frank Clark, MacDonald, Gartner, Alma, Dobson, mom, you, Uncle Harry, Uncle Ray, Uncle Lon and Aunt Maud, Betty and ELmer and Margaret Welton and sadly lacked the other addresses, including the current one for Bill and Harriet.

Glad to hear of Jim Russel's new job and F. Everly's discomfiture, MacDonald's enlistment, etc.  A copy of The Spirit confirmed most of the information relayed by you and Dobson.

I was surprised and pleased at the expectations of Frances and Raymond.

It's easy to picture John in his commando helmet  (the boys in England call British beauties Commandoes!) and would love the hear him sing even one bar of "Deep in the Heart of Texas."  And I would love to inspect personally the new brown suit which you must decorate so curvaceously.  Ah -- me!

The photographs Jean took at the canteen were all swell and I'm carrying them with me to punctuate conversations.  Incidentally, I was amused to read a request for 1-A film after I had requested both camera and film from you.  It will be a shame to miss a photographic record of these Oriental nights but can't be helped I guess.

I was amused when I was interviewed at my present camp by a classification sergeant.  When he learned I was from the QM School's Class IV he grinned and said, "I was graduated from Class I."

When we drove out of Shenango the last face I saw from the rear of the truck on the way to the station was Shayer, the Californian with whom I spent my last Shenango weekend.  And as we drove into our present camp, halfway around the world, I looked out of the truck and saw Shayer grinning at me!  He and several others from QM school had left Shenango a month after we did.  What a life!

All my love,

S.

Believe me, I've never seen a sunset, moonrise or falling star without thinking of US.  And there'll come a day!  Watch out!

Letter #11: December 10, 1943

Dec. 10, 1943

Darling:

This will be a brief sermon on Indian religions, so try not to go to sleep.  The country has about 100 million Mohammedans and than twice that many Hindus.

The Muslims are concentrated, for the most part, in the north and in the larger cities.  Of more warlike race (their ancestors invaded India in the 11th Century), they are also more aggressive than the Hindus in the business field.  Five times daily they kneel for prayer facing Mecca.  They eat curry (goat meat) and bread.

When you begin discussing the Hindus you run into endless complications.  Brahma is their supreme being, but always worshipped indirectly.  Broadly Hindus may be divided in two classes -- devotees of Vishnu and followers of Shiva the Destroyer.  After visiting Vishnu's shrine, a sectarian draws vertical white and red lines on his forehead, or a three-pronged fork.  Worshippers of Shiva smear the forehead with a horizontal smudge of ashes.

Many Hindus display a holy lock of hair at the back of the head (a miniature pigtail) but Mohammedans say there is no symbolism in the tassel they display in theirs.

In greeting, a Hindu joins his fingers in a praying gesture sometimes though usually a salute greets foreigners.   I was amused the other night when one bowed greatly and said, "Good morning."

The Parsis are the ones who formerly practiced "suttee", in which widows were compelled to leap into their husband's funeral pyres or burning ghats.  Of Persian descent, they follow Zoroaster and are perhaps India's big business men.

As for me, I'm still a Congregationalist, if anything.  I hardly expect to change my faith, although both Hinduism and Mohammedanism have good points.  Mentally I bow down five times a day -- facing Fremont!

All my love,

S.

Letter #10: December 17, 1943

Dec 17, 1943

Darling:

Your letters are like hypodermics of stimulation so keep them coming!  I look up from them in dazed surprise to find myself still in India.  They're the best morale boosters, next to you (which is certainly where I'd like to be!)

And now I will prosaically talk about guard duty.  When you're on guard in India there is plenty of activity to keep you awake nights.  The Dhobis (laundry men) sit chatting toothfully over open fires at all hours.  Motorized boats chug up a nearby river.  In the moony shadows the jackals rustle the underbrush, stalking after discarded bones and in the distance the bay like drunken Notre Dame students celebrating a victory over Southern Cal.  (We think nothing of jackals.  A moody white cat around here has battled them three hours and they run at the sight of her.)

Cows wander down from a nearby pasture and have to be herded back. (One white one can jump around a corner faster than a fly ducking a swatter.)

The boatmen hail each other over the splendid water acoustics, or sing mournful minors about "Lonesome was I for she had gone, etc."   Dogs yelp at jackals and bad dreams.  Rickshaws grind by accompanied by the clop-clop of sandals or padding of bare, calloused feet.  And every so often a sentinel shouts "Corporal of the guard, post no. 8 -- where the hell is my relief?"  

And who can go to sleep at a time like that?

All my love,

S.

Letter #9: December 15th, 1943 (India)

15th Dec 1943

Darling:

Answers first. The mail is coming through nicely.  No, I can't describe any of the public buildings I saw in the city, except to say in a general way the architecture in thoroughly Indian and Moorish, and there are naturally replicas of the Taj Mahal.  I can't tell my work yet.  I did not know when I was home that I was going overseas, but it seemed a good bet.  We didn't know our destination until the ship was well out, though we had suspicions.  I can't tell about any shots I may have had, but have not been ill a day since I left the States except for minor upsets from changes in water.  I didn't get to see any bridges in any city.  Yes, someday,  I should like to go to San Francisco.  I think I might like it better than Southern Cal, so let's plan on it!

In addition to the port of searchlights I saw no beautiful ones but [redacted] certainly is the world's most beautiful no matter what people say about [redacted].   When I get home I promise you'll be impressed to hear the true details about a paradise as yet unspoiled by tourists.

Since you didn't ask, I'll tell you that I have seen very few beautiful women in India, but actually a few of the Anglo-Indians are gorgeous (aha!)   Alas, so far none of them has offered me so much as a Coca-Cola.  No wine from lieutenants for me yet!   Ahem - how do you recognize our corps engineers at a glance?  (I just wondered -- very idly.)  Pleading not to take too many jobs.

Tell Robbie not to grow up entirely before I come home.

All my love,

S.

Letter #8: December 5, 1943 to Robbie and John (India)

Dec 5, 1943

Dearest Robbie and Johnnie:

Thanks so much for your fine letters.  I was certainly surprised, Robbie, to see how quickly you have begun to write.  And Johnnie, I can read your printing without the least trouble.

You would both be very useful in a grocery store or a pharmacist's shop or a cinema, which is just another name for movie theater, in India.  For both of you, by knowing how to write and print, can do something which lots of grown people in this land cannot do.

Only about one in every 10 Indians can read and write.  When they get letters, which is certainly not very often, most of the people must run around trying to find someone to read their letters to them.

You see, for a number of reasons, lots and lots of the people have never gone to school.  If all the people in the world would be put together in one place, you would quickly see that there are more Indians than any other kind of people.  There are even more Indians than Chinese!

Now their country is about half as large as ours.  So that means that all these people -- 400 million of them -- have a very hard time getting enough to eat.

The children very often must work instead of going to school.  Even little boys help to drive cows and buffaloes and bullocks out to the farms from the villages where the farmers live.

Sometimes one farmer has ten or twelve or even 20 little patches of land instead of one big farm such as you have in Nebraska.  Well, what will happen if he tries to look after all these tiny gardens and fields by himself?  Yes, while he is in one of them, the crows will be in another one.  And in a third field the neighbor's buffaloes will be tromping down the rice.  So the farmer is very glad to have lots of sons to look after the fields.

Little girls must also keep busy in India.  They help to carry shining brass pots down to the river to get water for washing and cooking.  These water pots are quite heave when full, yet I have seen little girls of four and five carrying two of them apiece.  And they carry them on their heads without spilling a drop!

Indian farmers live in villages, instead of on their farmland, because many years ago there were lots of enemy soldiers in the country.  By staying together as much as possible the farmers could protect themselves better.  Even today they see many wild animals in the fields and jungles and do not like to be out alone.  India has the biggest tigers in the world, wild elephants, leopards, jackals and, of course, lots of snakes.

You might like to know that millions of people here never eat meat.  And all true Hindus consider the cow very holy.  In fact when a Hindu dies, the family's cow is brought right into the house and the dying man holds it by the tail.  The Hindus believe that the cow can then lead the man to Heaven.

I'm afraid you wouldn't care much for the little milk given by the bony cows.  If you were a little Indian you would probably drink goat's milk which is actually quite good and even better for you than cow's milk.

I think that is enough about India this time.  If there are any questions you would like to ask, just write them in your next letter.  But remember that some of my answers will be hard to believe, so strange is this country.

Love to all,

Daddy

Letter #7: November 13,1943 (India)

Darling:

These nights the moon has been full and of course reminiscent of home.  We like to sit by a camp fire -- yes, it's chilly at night! -- and trade lies about our adventures in the States.  And that brings back the paradise of the past.  But how can I explain until you're near again?  So we'll talk about India.

The other day Floyd Bush (West Virginia and St. Louis -- Aunt Fanny and Uncle Roy met him in [crossed out]) and I hiked to the outskirts of a nearby village.  You'd never believe the immense pageantry of the river unless you saw it.  The mid-morning sun was bright, but not too hot.  And I think every woman and child in town was at the river or on the way.  On the muddy banks scores of women had spread their washings, painting the slopes with long rectangles of bright cotton -- red, blue, green, burnt orange and gorgeous violet.  These are the real-life "saris" which become sarongs when abbreviated for D. Lamour.

The sari is a modestly draped gown, caught up at the knees into informal pantalettes, usually wrapped higher on one leg than on the other.  At the breast is a sort of camisole-effect and the feet are either in sandals or bare.  On the head a coil of cloth is worn for carrying a bowl or basket.  Otherwise the shawl is used  in the age-old fashion.

In the murky waters the women (and a few men, professional launderers) beat the clothes into semi-sanitation.  Other women filled bright brass water-pots, carrying two on their heads with never a drop spilled.  Even tiny girls carried smaller bowls, walking erectly with precocious gracefulness.  (Apparently only girls and women carry water, even for plasterers and construction gangs.)

In the river children romped or carefully washed horses, cows or buffalo.  Occasionally a dignified elder unwound his outer robe and took to the water, but never naked as the little boys.  On a road winding around the valley ox-carts rumbled, drawn by patient beasts with the stoicism of the centuries in the bovine eyes.

Young sports in European pants -- shirt tales out -- lounged on bicycles, gossiping or singing in monotones the tunes that must have been on B. C. Hit Parades, weird and repetitions hymns that somehow suggest the clang of temple bells.

At last onto the clamorous scene rode a graybeard who must have been a Brahmin priest.  On his roan pony he looked like a feudal seigneur surveying his lands and his subjects.  One brash, naked boy ran up to demand "bakshish" but instead of a gift he got only the chill or a narrow escape whistling lash.  I don't think the elder intended to hit the lad, but was determined to express vigourous contempt for impoliteness.

Facing the sun, the perfect note to complete the exotic spectacle, was a stone figure, crudely carved like an Epstein statue.  Its brooding face was red with some native dye and its cold, staring eyes surveyed the scene with impassive boredom.

I bitterly regretted having no camera.  They are once again permitted, but of course film is the problem.  If you feel circumstances warrant, send Old Faithful along, but only if you can nestle a few rolls of film and can get more occasionally.  It's a shame to miss these chances of a lifetime for photographs.

Do keep me posted on the daily doings, even though mail connections are uncertain, if only temporarily.  And be sure of

All my love,

S.

P.S.  I think licorice might stand the trip.  Ahem!

Letter #6: October, 1943 (Date missing) ( India)

Dearest Roberta,

And this is India!  I think if you look at a globe you will see I am as far as possible from Fremont and it seems even farther.  Since this is my first Indian letter and perhaps more detailed than later ones, maybe it would be well to send it on to Mom or type a copy. I'm short of writing paper right now.

I first saw India at sunrise, which of course was the ideal introduction.  The low coastline looked hot, mysterious and full of adventures.

In the harbor, the first Indian I saw was a fisherman, bareheaded, in a tattersailed boat with a tall mast.  Later boys and men in canoes rowed up to beg for "baksish" -- any sort of gift.  For a coin, a cigarette or a tin can, a boy would dive into the stinking water.  Satisfied with his gift, he'd salute -- hand to forehead, palm out -- and say, "Salaam sahib" (Good morning, sir!)

It was fascinating to watch Mohammedan boatmen at their prayers. They pray five times daily, facing Mecca, kneeling and touching their foreheads to the deck, utterly undisturbed by the curious American eyes.

Ashore I found every imaginable costume and brown-skinned race.  There were turbans, fezzes, sailor hats, black pawnbroker caps, skirts, pantaloons, loincloths, sandals, bare feet, European clothes, military clothes, Arabian costumes, bare heads and naked children.

Sacred cows wandered their busy streets and the Indians (who eat no meat) liked to slap them on the back for good luck.  The streetcars, running in pairs, rode along wildly and often I saw men and boys catching them on the fly. Traffic seems to run with the maximum amount of confusion and noise, and yet I never saw an accident.  Once the back end of a truck smacked a horse's head, but the beast merely shook his head and trotted on, apparently undamaged.  The Mohammedan driver sat calmly as though it were an everyday affair.

The first thing you notice is that no Indian carries anything anywhere but on his head.  They tote staggering loads along easily and all have erect postures.    Some have the easy gliding walk that Hollywood actresses practice so long (with books on heads) to attain.

Next you are amazed by the outdoor trade.  Barbers sit Gandhi-style shaving squatting customers.  Sweetmeats and red betel nuts wrapped in buttered mint leaves are sold from baskets heaped to overflowing and mysterious foods are heated over charcoal braziers.  Tangerines, oranges and coconuts are plentiful and very good if you're careful where you shop.

Magicians operate on every other corner.  I saw King Cobras charmed into swaying dance by native flutes and watched a "fight" between a small snake and a mongoose.  The mongoose has a long grey body, beady eyes and lightning movements.  He looks like an animated fur neckpiece.

My biggest thrill was riding in a Victoria called a "gharry" in India.  We spun along at a good trotting clip through the curving streets and the amazing traffic.  The fare is usually about 8 annas.  An anna is one/sixteenth of a rupee and a rupee is worth about 30 cents.  Of course we Americans paid too much for everything before we learned you are supposed to give about 1/3 of what is asked.

I talked a gharry driver down from 3 rupees to one for a certain trip and he was so pleased with the trading that he laughed and shouted all the way.

We found good dinners in American-style cafes quite reasonable.  In a Chinese restaurant, with excellent cooking, I had steak (buffalo), fried onions, chips (French fries), fruit salad and delicious tea for one rupee and 12 annas - about 54 cents.   Of course the more exclusive strictly American places are higher.

The tea is wonderful.  It is a rich brown and has a full flavor due no doubt to the freshness.

Since this is the dry season, the heat is not damp and though the sun is hot you stay cool in the shade.  Nights are really cool.  So far I haven't felt a single mosquito, though they certainly exist, and have seen very few flies.

I am struggling with Hindustani and can say a few phrases such as "Aap muyhay sawaj - tay hai?" (Do you understand me?)  And for now I will say "Namastay"  - Good Night

All my love,

S.

P.S.  I feel fine and you needn't worry a bit about me.  Everything is new and interesting and if only you were along the trip would be ideal.  More as circumstances permit... S

Letter #5: October 3, 1943 (Hobart, Tasmania)

Oct. 3, 1943

Darling:

I wish to tell you something about a visit to a beautiful land in which we encountered English-printed newspapers.

We traded coins and cigarettes with the people and on a march ashore we saw some amazingly beautiful country.  There were botanical gardens of infinite variety, something you and our mothers would have particularly enjoyed.

I'm not going to describe the topography, but I will say I've never seen anything approaching it for natural beauty, and the man-made additions were tasteful and attractive too.

The people were friendly, hospitable and altogether pleasant to meet.  A particularly spectacular scene was produced at night in the lovely harbor when searchlights criss-crossed the clear blue sky above our ship, lending a carnival air to a shipboard entertainment.

I constantly miss you more than ever and long for the day when I can tell all.  Do hug Rob and John for me and tell then when I eventually come home I'll bring an endless array of stories.  (Incidentally, today I saw the spouting of whales!)

All my love,

S.

Letter #4: September 28, 1943 (At sea)

Sept. 28, 1943

Darling:

Yesterday at twilight the wind came whooping back from the ship's bow, whipping the flag on the afterdeck straight to the read.  So the gulls, which like to follow the water, had several hours of more sport.  We watched from the afterdeck.

Starting several rods behind the boat, a gull would point his bill toward the win, cupping the ends of his dyhedral (sp?) wings  This carried him up like a kite and forward over or near the flag.  The gull would peer seriously or comically at us, wondering perhaps what sort of silly creatures we were who could not fly.  After reaching the crest of his ascent the bird would do a wingover and scoot with the wind on his tail to the rear where he would start the gliding demonstration all over again.  Several gulls repeated the same trick in an amusing competition that shortened the evening.  So ends today's nature study!

Meanwhile I'm busy missing you an sending you

All my love,

S

Letter #3: September 24, 1943 to Robbie and John (At sea)

Sept. 24, 1943


Dear Robbie and John,

I wish you could see the big ship I've been riding on.  It seems almost as long as from your house to the park, but of course it really isn't quite that big.  The ship moves along quietly and quite swiftly.  And there are often birds  which coast along as fast as the ship without any trouble at all.

I must tell you about some pelicans I saw.   A pelican is a rather long-legged bird with big wings and a very long fat bill.  In fact a pelican can hide an entire fish in his bill.

The pelicans I saw flew alongside the boat and searched for fish.  When one, way up high, saw a fish sneaking under the water he'd dive down to the ocean and whish!  And plop!  The pelican would scoop up the fish in his bill and fly away.

There is a funny poem about pelicans.  Part of it is:  "A funny old bird is the pelican.  His bill can hold more than his belly can."

Then there are big seagulls which circle around the wake of the ship.  They fly very gracefully.  And when they get tired they sit right down in the water and draw their wings around them like shawls.  You would laugh to see them.

Do help mom as much as you can.  And keep well.

Love from Daddy

Letter #2: September 20, 1943 (At sea)

September 20, 1943

Darling:

Through my porthole ("scuttle" is a more nautical term) I see a most unusual sunset.  Out of low-hanging clouds a chute of colored light angles down obliquely to the sea.  And oddly enough a twin of the narrow band of sunshine, widely separated from the first, angles down in the opposite direction.  They resemble the bowed legs of a rainbow, which hardly gives an adequate description of the spectacle.

These days I'm haunted by the loudspeaker's record programs.  I hear the Frankie Carle, Vincent Youmans and Jerome Kern melodies and immediately start dreaming.   Today somebody's orchestra played Porgy and Bess.  The "Summertime" is always nostalgic to me and it seemed, at summer's ending, to hit me amidships.

Then I heard a rebroadcast of a Jack Benny program which dated to Dec. 28, 1942.  This reminded me of Camp Dodge and a cold night as fireman.   I'd been in uniform a couple of days and wore my field jacket snugly and jauntily.  Fremont already seemed much further away than 160 miles.

I hope you have not been struggling and rushing to send me presents for Christmas.  All I want is your continued faithful mail service. You're all the mail I need in this war.

All my love,

S.

Letter #1: September 19, 1943 (At sea)

Sept. 19, 1943

Darling,

Right now I'm looking out a porthole at the Bounding Main!

I'm cruising in a very comfortable ship and everything would be swell if only you were along to enjoy the scenery.  I'm fascinated by the ocean's different moods and particularly by sunrise and sunset.

One sunset resembled the neon-glow of the rose-fire we set off on the Fourth for Robbie and John.  It was a sort of liquid flame that poured up from the horizon like a peaceful flair in an alien sea.

Moonrise can be a masterpiece too.  One lemon-moon behind feathery dark clouds was particularly spectacular, casting soft weirdly green shadows on deck.

Rob and John would laugh at the flying fish.  They skip and soar over the waves like frolicking fighter planes and race through the spray in long curving flights. I suppose "Life" is right in claming they don't wriggle their wings, but they do seem to be awfully acrobatic.  Fish that look like little porpoises (to me) are also entertaining with their games of follow the leader.

I'm in fine shape, enjoy the new experiences of shipboard life, have good food, broadcasts and other entertainment and really can't complain.  Remind me to take us on a postwar cruise -- that second honeymoon will run into astronomical figures if this sort of thing keeps up.

Of course I can't give you details about the weather, stars, etc, but I can say that as I brace myself on the rolling decks I remember the sea stories I read as a boy.  I know starboard from port, have seen the rudder mechanism, can tell a hatch from a latch and learn a new term a day.  What stories I'll have for Rob and John some day!

And you'd love it all, too! Normally, nothing could be more restful than ocean travel with its pleasant breezes and new-old scenery.

Don't despair -- before too long my letters should become more numerous.  So keep writing.

All my love,

S.

P.S.  Write to the same old address until you hear differently