CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Write Your Mother

You know, I think I’ll start a foto album of scenes of things I see on the island. I’ve seen practically everything of interest and they have a lot of nice cards to be bought in town. I could make up a nice small album and then send it to you to look over till I get back.—May 9, 1945

Some names in my father’s letters were simply a mention, others were fairly regular. But one, Chad Broughton, appeared suddenly and then continued for several letters. From what I could ascertain, he was from my father’s hometown but at some point was stationed on Oahu, just as my father was. My interest was piqued. Also, I tried my best to balance difficult questions with lots of informational and hence non-emotional ones. So it seemed like a good question to try.

It was a warm, late fall day, when I walked over to my parents’ house. Dad was in the garage. He’d built a remote-controlled lift/carrier for his Segway on the back of his car and he was still fine-tuning it.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

“Well, hello there,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m fine too,” he replied. “I’m just trying to fix this thing so this part that holds the handlebars in place won’t scratch my Segway when the car is moving.”

He went on to explain and demonstrate it.

“Do you have time to sit for a bit?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “I have something to ask you anyway.”

He pulled a second lawn chair beside his on the grass, next to the flagpole. The leaves on the dogwood trees had just started to fall, laying a purple-brown blanket on the green grass.

“So, a question?” he asked.

“Yeah. Who was Chad Broughton?” I asked.

“Is Chad Broughton in my letters?” he inquired.

I nodded.

“I suppose he would be,” he said. “Chad and his family were pretty well-known in Dayton. They were wheat farmers. They lived pretty close to our house and our mothers were good friends. Well, my mother and Chad’s mother would talk quite often. My mother must have pulled out my letters or something, just to show her. Well, his mother was only getting about two letters a year. I suppose she was envious of the prolific letters my mother got, because I got a letter from my mother that said for me to tell Chad to write his mother.”

We laughed at the thought.

“So you told him?” I asked.

“Well, see he came through where I was, but it was a huge place. I probably wouldn’t have seen him if I hadn’t hunted him down. He was what we called a ‘ninety-day wonder.’ He was a college boy and so he was sent somewhere for ninety days so he could be an officer. Turns out that, just by chance, he was assigned to the amphibs and was in command of a ship. It was an LTC, a landing craft with a ramp at the front. His job was to take surplus stuff out to sea, lower the ramp in front, and dump it into the ocean.”

“What kind of stuff?” I asked. “Like war stuff?”

“Yes,” he said. “That and lots of other things. One was a load of perfectly good jeeps, another was a whole boat load of typewriters; they were practically brand new. I hated to see it but that was to keep from overloading the economy at home when the war was over.”

“I suppose they’re still down there,” I said.

My father nodded.

“So, did you tell Chad to write his mother?” I asked.

“Well, I felt kinda silly telling a grown man to write his mother. But I told him anyway,” he said. “But I don’t think he ever listened to me.”

“Maybe that’s why you started talking about him in your letters,” I said. “So his mother would get the message through your letters.”

“Probably true,” he said.

“Well, you do write great letters,” I said.

“I do?” he asked.

“Sure you do! You’re a great writer. You describe things so well,” I said.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I was just bored and writing letters was about as close to home as you could get.”

“Well, whatever it was, your letters must have brought comfort to both mothers,” I said.

“I suppose so,” he said.

June 11, 1945

Dear Folks,

Today about 8:30 a.m. I was strolling down towards the pier to catch a boat to go across the bay and saw LCT 451—Chad Broughton’s boat. Had just about ten minutes before the boat was to leave for my mail run but dashed over to the side of the 451 and asked one of the boys if an ensign Broughton was aboard. He said he was in charge but not aboard at present. Then he glanced down the dock a little ways and saw him and pointed him out to me. So I caught up with him for just about five minutes all together. Then I had to rush to catch my boat. His was in dry docks having a new screw put on that they lost somewhere. Then when I got back around ten I took off for his ship again and went aboard and we gabbed for a while. Then I had to get back at noon to pick up more mail and he said if I could get back by one, they were going out for a short run and I could go for a ride with them. So I rushed around like mad and made it back OK.

We went a couple or three miles down the bay to where he was supposed to anchor. He showed me all over the ship and introduced me to most of the men aboard her. Showed him some of the Dayton pictures I had with me (brought ’em along on purpose) and we gabbed until 4 pm. Then I caught a small boat back to my base. He’s going to drop around to my office whenever he comes over here for supplies so I guess we’ll see each other now and then.

In case his folks should ask, he looks like a million and all the men I talked to privately think he’s a regular guy. It’s a bit touchy at times with a 21 year old ensign in command of a ship and men 38 years old under him. But all of them say he’s swell and knows his stuff. He was the only officer aboard but the other day another ensign came on with him so now he can get in to town or at least ashore more often. But we both agreed that we’d much rather be in Dayton. Really enjoyed the last two days.

I’m making a collection of pictures taken around the island for souvenirs and sticking them in a nice album. When I get a few more different ones I’ll send the album home and then gradually send others and let you stick ’em in.

Did anyone ever tell you how the Navy describes getting paid? Well, to make a long story short, “the eagle screams next week” which means we get paid.

I just got a bright idea about a piston for the Flivver. Write to the Yakima Cycle Company. They used to handle all models of American bantam autos and several other midgets besides foreign make cars and motorcycles. Anyway it’s an idea. I used to hang around there quite often when I worked there.

Well I’d better knock off for now. Saw the show “Christmas in Connecticut” last night. Not bad…not good.

G’nite. And write.

Love, Murray

I came home from work and made a sandwich. I thought about the letters my grandmother had received during the war. One thing was certain: my father wasn’t your typical letter writer. Writing them seemed to mean as much to him as it did to his folks.

Instead of my usual routine of taking out the next letter and transcribing it, I went to the bedroom and took all four notebooks off the shelf. I sat down and stacked them on my lap. They were heavy. I opened each notebook and thumbed through a few pages, not looking for anything in particular. It was at that moment that I grasped the enormity of the volume alone and what it must have meant to my grandmother. She died before I was born, so I didn’t know what she was like. But being a mother myself, I understood.

She raised her little boy in a small farming town. He graduated from a high school class of less than fifty students. After graduating, he followed in his father’s footsteps and worked for the railroad. Seeking independence, he worked and lived thirty miles away in the tiny town of Helix, Oregon.

When the war started, she must have been relieved that he worked for the railroad, since that would afford him deferments from being drafted. But after four deferments of six months each, he finally got his draft notice.

Sending her son away must have been devastating. Surely she’d seen other mothers go through it—some whose sons returned safe and sound and some whose didn’t. So she probably did what I would do; she busied herself with household chores and even took a job with her husband at the railroad depot. Through it all, with her son more than two thousand miles away, they shared one thing in common: the letters. Each looked forward to the mail every day, my father at mail call and my grandmother at the mailbox outside her door.

I made a decision that day. I wanted to see my father’s childhood home. I wanted to see the house that his letters had arrived at nearly every day. I wanted to stand on the property. I wanted to see it for myself.

So the next Wednesday, instead of going to Mr. Ed’s for breakfast, I proposed a little trip. I got to his house a little early.

“You’re early,” he said. “I haven’t even shaved yet.”

He started to get up from his chair.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I came early for a reason. What would you think of having breakfast in Dayton this morning?”

“Dayton?” he asked. “Why Dayton?”

“I want to see your childhood home, the one that you sent the letters to during the war,” I said.

“Why?” he asked. “I’m sure there’s not much there anymore.”

“Well, I’ve got all your letters, but I want to see where they went to first—my grandmother’s house.”

He shrugged.

“There aren’t any good breakfast places in Dayton,” he said.

“What about that little A-frame place?” I asked.

“Yeah, I suppose we could try there,” he relented.

“So, you’re up for it?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I don’t know what you expect to see. I don’t even know if the house is there anymore.”

“That’s OK. I just want to see what’s there.”

We drove thirty miles to Dayton and found the A-framed diner that served breakfast. After eating, we drove to my father’s childhood home.

My father knew the way by heart. He directed me, telling me to turn left here and right there. Just as I got comfortable knowing he’d let me know where the next turn was, he didn’t. He apparently forgot I didn’t know the way.

“Turn here. Turn here!” he said quickly.

“Well, ya gotta speak up a little sooner,” I said, barely making the turn in time.

“Well, I guess so,” he said.

We laughed together as he gripped the door handle when I rounded the corner.

It was a quiet street where it seemed like nobody was home. Huge, old trees framed the narrow road. I slowed down.

“Right here,” he said. “It’s that one…on the left.”

I parked and grabbed my camera from the backseat.

“Do you want to get out?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I crossed the street. I was looking for one thing: the mailbox. Whether it was the same mailbox or not, I didn’t know. But it looked old enough to be.

I looked up at the house. There was a small covered front porch framed by windows with the curtains pulled. I imagined my grandmother there, pulling the curtains back to watch for the mailman. Or maybe she stood on the porch, looking down the street for him.

My father got out of the car.

“What’re you looking at?” he asked. He was unimpressed with this trip down memory lane.

“Everything,” I said. “But mainly the mailbox. Just think, Dad, your letters…all of them…came right here to this house. All those letters that are in my bedroom right now came here first.”

“Yeah,” he said.

I took the camera from around my neck and snapped a few photos.

“Can I take a picture of you in front of it?” I asked.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I want to,” I teased.

“I guess,” he said.

I snapped the photo. Something happened at that moment. It began in front of my grandmother’s house but it grew over the next several days, until finally, I made a decision. I was going to tell the whole story. My father’s story was about more than the letters he’d sent his folks. It may have begun with the letters, but the real story happened between them. And that’s the story I intended to capture.