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COPYRIGHT 2005 Smithsonian Institution
HOMEFRONT
on v-j day, I was only 7 years old, but the memory is crystal clear. We were living in a government housing project in Michigan, and there were virtually no men between ages 18 and 40 in that community of several hundred women and children. After V-E Day, some dads had come home for extended leaves, and the project was a happy place. Those with people fighting in the Pacific knew that we'd win over there, too, and when it finally happened, the place went nuts: uncontained joy reigned, and when my friend Bobby Phillips came running down the street, he hollered "Come with me!" I followed him to the project office, where Bobby grabbed a lawn mower. He went out to the schoolyard and began cutting a huge V in the middle of the field. Some friends saw us, and they ran to get more mowers. By the time we were finished, the V we mowed in that field was almost 200 feet long and 150 feet wide. We pledged that the V would be kept mowed until our heroes came home and saw it, and through the winter of 1945, it was clearly visible, even when the snow fell.
In 1957 I took my fiancee to show her where I'd spent an important decade of my life. As we walked across the schoolyard, I saw the V as clearly as if I'd just mowed it; she didn't see it at all.
RICHARD F. MCHUGH
GATLINBURG, TENNESSEE
on the day World War II ended, I had but recently returned from serving with the 877th Signal Service Company, 9th Air Force Support Command, in Europe. Now on furlough, I was lunching with Mrs. Rhoda Chase, an old family friend, at a Chinese restaurant on Broadway, in Times Square, in New York City. As we ate, we casually watched the electric "moving" sign on the Times News Building, when we read: "PRESIDENT TRUMAN HAS ANNOUNCED JAPAN HAS SURRENDERED UNCONDITIONALLY. THE WAR IS OVER."
People in the restaurant were screaming with joy, hugging each other, and crowds were gathering in Times Square. Mrs. Chase, who also had a son in the Army, got up, ran to the bar, and bought me a fifth of Southern Comfort.
"Get out of here, Howard," she said. "This is no time for a soldier to be sitting around chatting with an old lady. The war is over. Go celebrate, have fun."
I took her advice. I celebrated, and here I am 60 years later, a husband, father and grandfather whose family includes my German-born wife, whom I met while serving in Berlin during my second enlistment (1949-50), and a Japanese daughter-in-law, married to one of our sons, a Navy SEAL.
My war is over. Life is good.
HOWARD ELLIS
MORENO VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
for me, the end of World War II did not mean rejoicing and dancing in the street. I was a young mother living in the town of Laurel, Mississippi, with two small children and very little food and money. My husband, Aubry, a fighter pilot, was missing in action somewhere near Rome, Italy. It would be a whole year before he was officially declared "killed in action." The only news I ever finally received about his death was that he had been firing on German vehicles when he radioed that his plane had been hit.
Aubry had left to go overseas without knowing for certain that I was pregnant. I received many letters from him, but wished he knew that we had a second daughter, whom I named after him. Sadly, all my letters came back after his death in one package, unopened.
During the anxious months of not knowing what had happened to Aubry, I focused on our two little girls, Mary and Aubrey. To help with our food problem, I planted a vegetable garden. To make us smile, I planted lots of bright flowers.
Each night I would go to bed exhausted from all the work, but knowing I had done the best I could do. Before falling asleep, I would thank God for helping us get through another day. Then I would look at my two daughters, peacefully sleeping beside me, and know that no matter what happened, Aubry's brave and gentle spirit was with us.
ODEAN FONDREN
HENDERSONVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
during the war, gasoline-rationing stamps were guarded as carefully as cash. One warm summer day, the few cars that traveled our country road were incessantly honking. Dare we hope? We turned on the radio and learned that it was true. The war was over. My father asked if I wanted to go for a ride with him, a rare treat. Of course I wanted to go. He drove a few miles to a country store and gas station. My father snapped his suspenders for emphasis when he told the owner to "fill 'er up. And spill a little." When our prized possession, a 13-year-old car, was full, he spilled a few ounces on the drive. For both...
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