Home Front #4

On The Home Front #4

Because of gas rationing, few cars crowded the roads. We used the street as our playground. We drew the bases for our stick ball games with chalk, roller skated in summer, and raced our sleds in winter. Throughout the war years, we had block parties. The police closed off the street to traffic and residents brought food and drinks to share. A miniature merry-go-round on the flatbed of a truck entertained the children. An ice cream truck parked at the sidewalk, the driver rang its bell to attract customers. Musicians played popular tunes and people danced in the street. Sometimes policemen erected a boxing ring and youngsters from the PAL (Police Athletic League) duked it out to the amusement of the men in the audience.

            Volunteers at a table selling War Bonds urged people to do their part to win the war. They displayed posters of Rosie the Riveter with her sleeve rolled up over bulging biceps, a bandana on her head to keep her hair out of harm’s way; and a poster of Uncle Sam, his piercing eyes bored into mine, and his forefinger pointed directly at me. “I Want You,” it said.

            “Yes, Uncle Sam wants you to buy War Bonds.”

            One day in April 1945, I heard some kids talking on the street.

            “The President died,” they said.

            I went to the kitchen where my mother stood at the stove stirring something.

            “I just heard the President is dead,” I said.

            “Who told you that?” she asked.

“Some kids outside,” I answered. She looked skeptical.

            Our kitchen window faced the kitchen window of our neighbor. Mrs. Raymond stood at her stove, stirring something. Mama called over. “Did you hear anything about the President being dead?”

            “Yes, it’s on the radio,” Mrs. Raymond said.

            Mama turned off the gas on the stove, went to the living room and turned on our radio. She sat in a chair listening to the announcer telling of President Roosevelt’s death in Georgia. Tears flowed down her face.

            “Why are you crying? You didn’t know him,” I asked. I couldn’t understand her sadness.

            Mama didn’t answer.

            Eighteen years later, hearing about the assassination of President Kennedy, I understood Mama’s grief as I sat down and cried.

             The war had its upside too. The population came together in a spirit of patriotism I had not seen again until 9/11. We were in this together. We helped each other. We mourned the passing of a neighbor’s son or husband. We rejoiced in the homecoming of another. We sang and we danced and we bucked each other up. And, oh the songs . . . ”I’ll Be Seeing You,” “You’ll Never Know” and the poignant Vera Lynn ballad “We’ll Meet Again” can still bring a tear to my eye.

One month after President Roosevelt’s death, the allies declared victory in Europe. The joy of celebration felt restrained by the knowledge that the war still raged in the Pacific. The invasion of Okinawa left thousands dead. The next battle would be the invasion of the Japanese homeland. In August of that year the Enola Gay dropped an atom bomb on Hiroshima, and three days later another dropped on Nagasaki. On Aug 15, 1945, Japan surrendered. The jubilation was palpable. The air vibrated with an outpouring of joy. Ticker tape and paper streamers floated through the atmosphere on currents of laughter and song. The war is over. The war is over. The boys are coming home.  Were there ever more beautiful words?  

 

 Andy and Dottie Fahey, brother and sister, 1945

Throughout the war, my parents worried about my teen aged brother, Andy. They prayed for the war to end before he turned eighteen and got drafted into the Army. Japan signed the formal surrender aboard the USS Missouri on September 2, 1945, one day before my brother’s eighteenth birthday. My parents felt so grateful their only son had been spared the horror of fighting in a war. 
They couldn’t know that five years later Andy would be missing in action in Korea.