Now, at age forty-eight; in 1915, then eighteen year old Lester Harris had been a private— doughboy— serving under General John ‘Black Jack’ Pershing who had commanded the American Expeditionary Force in Europe.
259
Chapter Twenty-Seven
V-Mail
575 Placid Street Loveland, Ohio January 10, 1943 6:47 PM
Temperature hovering a point or two above or below zero since the start of this new year. whatever occasional sun forcing it’s way through the thickly gray sky giving not a hint of warmth. The nights had been bitterly cold, leaving ice frosted windshields on automobiles left overnight in the cold.
Although not a required obligation — ration stamps readily donated— Sunday evenings would bring those of the ‘Pink’ family that wished to attend, that were not already living in the home at 575 Placid Street, to an old fashioned dinner … ration stamps donated, meaning there might even be chicken, or meat of some sort.
In late summer of 1941, the U.S. government considering the definite possibility of shortages of needed items that would be crucial to the war effort, a system of rationing was imposed upon citizens of the United States in order to cover perceived and the actual shortages of steel, rubber, gasoline and all manner of food products; as each citizen would receive monthly allotments of booklets containing coupons good for the redemption of the most commonly used items, if available.
As Mildy and Jymmi were full time occupants, this left only Oliva and Lester Harris, that never missed an opportunity to spend time with their granddaughter, and the elderly newlyweds, Elsa and Thomas Bellingham.
On this frigid evening, because he’d run the old prewar battery down attempting to start Elsa’s ‘31 Chevy, unwilling to brave the cold, Tom and Elsa had decided to stay home.
“Got a letter from Barry yesterday.”
Spoon of chicken soup with noodles midway to his mouth, always anxious to hear what ‘Captain Barry’ had to say. “You can tell us this time?”
Most mail coming to the family usually addressed to ‘Pink’s’. Mail coming to the house was most often from Barry to his wife, that, most often, was not open to a public reading.
“You can tell us this time?”
Including seven month old Jymmi seated in a highchair along side her mother on one side and Sharon on the other.
In total there were ten people sitting about the table.
“Yes, Mister smarty-pants…” Mildy said “...without the ‘gooey’ stuff.”
“I like the ‘gooey’ stuff!”
His elbow poking her side. “You would, Miss goody-two-shoes!”
Giggling. Throwing both pudgy arms into the air. “potty-pants!” Mashed potatoes spraying from Jymmi’s mouth. “Potty-pants!”
“No!” Laughing,. “Not ‘potty’! ‘Smarty’!”
Reaching across Clyde, “Enough horsing around!” Sarah wiped the sprayed potato from her daughters face. “What’s Barry have to say?”
Looking at Clyde. “Without any mushy stuff; Barry says that the Quartermasters thought he was doing such a great job…”
The boy’s mind on his platoon of toy soldiers with Captain Barry holding a ‘Tommy gun’ leading the charge.
“Ain’t even given’ him a gun.” Clyde mumbled.
“… that he’s been promoted to sergeant….”
“Pretty good promotion after only six months.” Murray commented.
“Well, yeah. That’s what Barry thought also, but because they thought he was such a good organizer, they’re sending him to….? Where he’s going, Barry said he wasn’t allowed to say.” Expecting some sort of a snarky remark from Clyde. Going on. “To be in charge of a divisional field post office.”
“A ‘post office!” The ‘snarky’ comment coming. “Captain Barry’s going to be a ‘mail man’!”
“No! Not exactly a mail man like you know, ‘smarty-pants’…” Looking at her daughter who’s puffy cheeks appeared ready to blow out another mouthful of mashed potatoes. “No!” Shaking her finger at Jymmi. “ ‘Don’t you do it’!”
A perplexed look on her face contemplating whether or not she should do it, the baby’s attention drawn to her mother, and her mother’s warning finger.
Oliva, directly across the table, holding her hand to mouth attempting to stifle laughter, as all at the table looking to Jymmi, wondering if she would or wouldn’t.
As though aware that she was the center of attention, Jymmi’s big hazel eyes comically circling the table, looking at those that looked at her— as, her baby brain apparently considering the consequences — swallowed, and all at the table, unaware that they had been holding their breath, took a breath.
Strange, how something as inconsequential as a baby swallowing mashed potatoes, might take minds from a thing as consequential as a world at war.
However, immediately brought to reality…
“A mail man!” Indignantly. “Then Captain Barry won’t get to kill any Japs!”
Alongside his wife, directly across the table from his son. Always remembering! Still in Malcolm Murphy’s nightmares, never forgetting the startled look on the face of the British soldier as he pushed the bayonet into the chest of the young man.
“War is a horrible thing, Clyde, and killing a man… even if he’s an enemy is a terrible thing that you’ll remember all of your life.”
“And him killing you…” Lester said seriously “… is even a worse thing.”
Now, at age forty-eight; in 1915, then eighteen year old Lester Harris had been a private— doughboy— serving under General John ‘Black Jack’ Pershing who had commanded the American Expeditionary Force in Europe during World War One, where Lester seen the killing of men by bullet, by bayonet and as cannon fodder.
Never speaking of it, by the tenor of Lester’s voice, Malcolm knew. “You were there... over there, then?”
A pained look coming to Lester Harris’ usually placid expression. Saying nothing, merely nodding his head told Malcolm all he wanted to know.
“Clyde…” drawing the boy’s attention from his father and Lester “...what Barry’s doing is a very important thing…”
Distractedly moving soup noodles about the dish with his spoon. Looking downward into the bowl, mumbling, undeterred. “He ain’t doing nothing.”
“Yes! Yes he is… Look!” Mildy said, holding a 41⁄4 by 51⁄4 piece of paper forward. “Here’’s his whole letter to me.”
“So little!” Murray said.
“Uncle Barry sends such a tiny letter?” Sharon asked. V-Mail...
...short for Victory mail was a system used by the United States during the war as the main and safe way to correspond our military.
To reduce the cost of transferring an original letter through the military postal system. V-mail correspondence would be on 7’X9 sheets that would be censored before being photographed and sent as a thumb-nail size image in negative microfilm, where, upon arrival to it’s destination, the thumb-nail negative would be printed to sixty percent of the letters original size making a…
Loveland, Ohio
...Look!” Mildy said, holding a 41⁄4 by 51⁄4 piece of paper forward. “Here’’s Barry’s whole letter to me….”
The Government
...promoted the use of V-Mail service as patriotic: Letter writers could simultaneously boost morale with words from home and help save vital shipping space as, reduced to thumbnail size, between 1500 and 1800 letters could fit on a 90-foot long roll of film. Each roll weighing only four ounces. 37 regular mail bags could fit within 1 mail bag of V-mail Loveland, Ohio
“...It’s every thing Barry said he could say, and every thing I needed to know; that he’s safe and has a job now where…” ...V-mail
The rolls of film were flown to prescribed destinations for developing at a receiving station near the addressee. Finally, each frame was "blown up" to about one-quarter the original size and facsimiles were printed for delivery.
Colchester, England
Located about thirty miles north of London, the short, lightly lit runway long enough to accommodate the B-25; that was to be off-loaded, refueled then become air born once again and off with it’s assigned load to the next processing center.
Sargent Barry Harris detailed the five man squad that off-loaded that nights shipment of V-mail bags, then sat along with the his men re-processing the microfilm that would then be converted to the.... Loveland, Ohio…
..Look!” Mildy said, holding a 41⁄4 by 51⁄4 piece of paper forward. “Here’’s Barry’s whole letter to me.”
Unimpressed! Following dinner, Clyde re-positioned ‘Captain Barry’.
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A little bit of history that I didn't know. My mother was always an avid letter writer, but I never saw or even heard of V-mail. But I am very familiar with microfilm during my doctoral studies finding obscure articles in newspapers on it.
Family dinners were a lot more often during that era than they are now and the fact that "Captain Barry" got promoted to mail service in England is quite plausible. And your brief reference to "shellshock" and its variants, was very good, with the bayonet example--terrible to think of. Like my uncle's response to the horror of soldiers coming back from Europe to South Carolina where he was as a medic. Insured at Brandon, he was forced to take care of amputees with abscesses, terrible infections like the Spanish flu and never was the same upbeat, intelligent individual who decided to go in the medical ranks rather than combat probably has conscientious objector.
You made me recall what my great uncle, the fire chief who was probably made in charge of civil defense in the city of Sheboygan, Wisconsin, whose two oldest nephews entered the war, told me. "When you came with your parents and had dinner with us that time, you and your brother smeared mashed potatoes and gravy on our walls and your mother didn't even seem to notice." His demeanor that 96 when he told me, showed his discontent with my mother's behavior. But it was probably actually his displeasure with me bringing my black girlfriend to visit him. When I came 2 years later with my Vietnamese caregiver, later become my partner, he seemed very pleased. Died happy a year later? I don't know.
At least I didn't blow mashed potatoes and gravy all over the table like mom was used to me doing. I guess why she loved me so much and was so clean in our household. During the war I don't remember any rations or stamps. We got lots of cans of condensed milk from where my father worked and I remember mom cooking a lot and we enjoyed all the good food that was always on the table, much of it from preserves made from the garden or picked from farms or the wild. Don't even remember if we had a victory garden or not. We probably did and it was a big one.
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