CHAPTER THREE

Between the Lines

Had to work a little today. Went into an office and stapled sheets of papers together for three hours. What a life. Wonder if I’ll ever see a radio any more.—January 15, 1945

As vivid as my father’s descriptions in his letters were, I found myself wanting to know more. So, after reading the first few letters, I stopped by my parents’ house. Dad looked up from his throne, a burgundy recliner. He put a scrap of paper in the book he was reading and balanced it on a pile of others. Looking at what was in my hand, he raised his eyebrows.

“What do you have there?” he asked.

“Your letters,” I said.

“Why are you carrying those old things around?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve been reading them and—” I started.

“Why would you want to do that?” he interrupted.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Read them. Why would you want to read them?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess because they’re a part of our family history.”

“That’s not history,” he argued. “That’s just a bunch of old letters.”

“Dad, this is history,” I countered.

The quiet of the room encircled us. I leaned forward and nervously tucked one foot under me. I looked around. My mother, who had greeted me at the door, was gone. She hadn’t offered her usual hospitality, a piece of last night’s dessert or a chocolate she’d kept hidden from my father.

“Dad,” I said. “Reading your letters made me curious about some things and I have a few questions for you.”

“It’s been too long,” he said.

He rested his head on the back of the recliner and closed his eyes.

“I don’t remember anything,” he said.

Silence ensued. I waited. Stick to the facts, I told myself.

I took a deep breath.

“How far was Farragut from Dayton?” I asked.

“What?” he asked.

He opened one eye and then closed it again.

“You were in boot camp at Farragut Naval Base in Idaho, right?” I continued. “So how far was that from your parents’ home in Dayton?”

Dad opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling.

“About a four-hour drive I guess,” he said. “Of course we didn’t have the fast cars and the nice highway that they have now.”

He paused.

“I was one of the lucky ones though,” he said. “Boot camp was close to home for me. Most guys were sent halfway across the country. But I was stationed close to home. Then when boot camp was over, I got to do my training there too. Did I ever tell you about my first day of radio school?”

I shook my head. I felt like a little girl again, hearing one of his stories. But this time, I wasn’t looking for the nearest exit. This time, I hoped the moment wouldn’t end.

In the classroom that first day, the instructor quickly tapped out a simple Morse code message. My father already knew the code, having just left his job as a railroad telegrapher. So while his classmates worked feverishly deciphering the message, Dad watched a bird perched on a branch outside the window. The instructor thought he’d caught him off task.

“What was the message I just sent?” he barked.

When my father was able to tell him the correct answer, the instructor stood dumbfounded. After class, he excused my father from the rest of the course.

Each subsequent class that day would follow the same pattern; the instructor would give students a pre-test, never expecting anyone to pass it. But my father passed time and again. By the end of the day, he was excused from six of the seven daily classes. The only one that remained was Navy Procedure, a mandatory class for all radioman candidates. Dad now had only a one-hour course each day, and seven hours with nothing to do, so when a Chief Specialist pulled him aside and asked him if he wanted to learn a different kind of code, just for fun, my father was happy to have something to do to pass the time.

It seemed informal enough, just one serviceman to another. The code was one based on the Japanese language. It was called Katakana or Kana for short. They sat across from each other in a classroom filled with communications equipment. People walked by now and then but paid no attention. Neither teacher nor student shared any personal information, other than what they’d done in their civilian life; the student had worked for the railroad and his teacher had worked for the FBI.

Day after day, my father learned the complicated code that had about 125 characters, versus the mere thirty-two he was used to. At first he struggled a bit, but soon he caught on and he even found that he was good at it. But when radio school ended, so did his one-on-one lessons. It was all just for fun and he was glad he’d had something to fill the long hours.

After graduating from radio school, he spent a few weeks at home before his parents drove him to the airport, travel orders in hand. He flew to San Francisco and then took a bus across the Bay Bridge to Treasure Island, a small island between San Francisco and Oakland. He knew—everyone knew—that if you were sent there, you were going overseas.

He lived on the military base for a few weeks before receiving further travel orders. This time, he wasn’t told where he was going, only that he would travel by ship. He left the sunny California shore aboard a ship with about twenty of his classmates from radio school and hundreds of other servicemen.

Dad continued to write letters to his folks, though now he was ordered not to tell his family where he was going or how he was getting there. All outgoing correspondence was censored, but he quickly learned the tricks to getting around those censors.

His family and friends had received letters first from Farragut Naval Base, and then from Treasure Island, California. But letters coming to him were slow. The mail was always behind, following him from one new address to another.

It was at this time that he made a promise to himself. Having left his small farming town behind, he was now homesick for the first time in his life. He vowed that when he finally did begin receiving letters, he would write back within twenty-four hours.

At home that night, I thought about the story my father had told me. Perhaps he had told me this story before, but it had never seemed so vibrant, so real, as it had this time. It was a small thing perhaps. But it was a start.

I began reading his letters again, this time with a better understanding of who he was then and how he ended up so far from home.