Letters From the Homefront 2

Ray is experiencing a no mail period for two weeks and takes a walk through west Palm

Transcript

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Ray Conan had just about enough of the silence. It was April 9th, 1945, and for over two weeks the mailbox had been a void. No word from his family, and more importantly, no word from Shirley. In the high-stakes, high-pressure environment of Boca Raton Army Airfield, where the Florida sun bakes the tarmac and the secret technology of radar is the only thing more intense than the heat, two weeks without a letter feels like a lifetime. Ray admitted he'd been, in his words, much least stinko the day before. Mad at the world, mad at himself, and lashing out in a letter he immediately regretted. He even sent a telegram today, practically begging Shirley to return that angry letter unopened. He can handle the rigors of bombardier training, the typhus shots that leave him alternating between a feverish hot tomato and a shivering block of ice, and the looming reality of the Pacific Theater. But he can't handle the quiet. To shake the funk of the missing male, Ray spent his Sunday reliving the ghost of a life they might have shared in Palm Beach. He hopped on the highway, flipped a coin to decide his direction, and headed north. He ended up in West Palm, walking the familiar paths, checking the royal palms to make sure they hadn't turned to cement while he was away. He crossed the South Bridge over to the island and found himself on Worth Avenue, a place that, even in the middle of a world war, feels like a Mediterranean fever dream. He ducked into a liquor store on the corner of Via Pansgar, a name that sounds like a secret in itself, where a bar in the back opens early for the unwell on Sunday mornings, two bourbons and ginger ale to steady the nerves. Then he started a circuit of the local haunts, the alibi where society folk rub elbows with officers, taboo the legendary bistro opened by Ted Stone just four years earlier, and a whiskey sour at a place called Shangri La. The details of the day are vivid in his mind, because he's seeing them through Shirley's eyes. He walked past the pink and blue houses, admired the lacquer on the garage doors near the Everglades Club, and eventually found himself at the cinema. The Marquee featured Music for Millions, a sweeping MGM musical that had only been in theaters a few months. It stars Margaret O'Brien and June Allison as a war bride waiting for her husband, a story that surely hit close to home for a young man whose life is currently measured in training missions and telegrams. He even noted seeing Larry Adler, the virtuoso harmonica player, on the screen. It was a swell show, but the real payoff came afterward as the sun began to set over Lake Worth. Ray walked slowly down to the ferry boat for the trip back across to the mainland. The breeze was coming off the water, and on the boat a middle-aged guitar player in worn but clean clothes began to play. The man's hair blew in the wind, his face looking completely contented. As the boat pulled up to the West Palm Dock, the notes of Aloha OA drifted through the evening air, getting softer and softer as Ray walked away. He told Shirley he could never go back there without her again. He enjoyed the day, but only because it made him feel close to her. Whatever happens, let's stick together, he wrote. Maybe we'll always have disagreements and misunderstandings, but let's always come out together. Back at the base in Boca Ratan, the reality of the war remains a constant technical backdrop. Ray isn't just flying. He's part of the massive machinery of the 3501st Army Air Force Base Unit. While the B-17 flying fortresses are the workhorses of his practice missions, the B-29 superfortresses are starting to arrive. He explained to Shirley that they don't use the 29s in Europe because they are long-range bombers meant for the Pacific. He's a man of numbers. A B-17 uses 4,000 gallons of gas for a five-hour flight, making a civilian's A ration card look like a joke. He's been thinking about fuel loads and bomb weights, figuring that with shorter distances, the 29s can carry more destruction and less gas. It's a cold mechanical calculus that stands in contrast to the dollar he tucked into the envelope for a kid named Eddie, or his struggle to find a tiny sailor hot for the boy. But the physical toll of being a soldier caught up with him shortly after his Palm Beach excursion. He'd taken shots for typhus and cholera, and the reaction was violent. He spent two nights in a cycle of freezing and burning, a super headache thumping behind his eyes. It was a miserable, free of charge hangover provided by the U.S. Army. If that's the preventative, I'd sure hate to get the disease. Even in his delirium, he was worried about her. He was still waiting to see if she got that telegram in time or if she read the angry letter and was currently planning to tear his innards out. He's a youth under the influence of intoxicants, not responsible for his outbursts when he's stinko and crying in his beer. There's a shift in the air as April 1945 crines on. Everyone can feel the war in Europe nearing its end, which only means the focus will shift entirely to the little people in the Pacific. Ray's a plotter, a man who wants to compare notes with Shirley on how their lives might change, even if he has to ask her for the lowdown on whatever news she's been hinting at. He's thinking about leaves, about staying at his house instead of a hotel, because he can't stand the thought of ten spectators looking at him gleamishly. He's a man who spends 999 out of 1,000 moments of his life being in love with her, even when the silence is deafening, and the radar screens are the only things guiding him through the Florida night. He signed off with a simple request for her to listen to the lyrics of the song My Heart Sings and know that those are the words he wishes he could say. For Second Lieutenant Ray Conan, the mission is clear keep flying, keep training, and keep waiting for the next letter to arrive. Share this episode with someone who treasures the hidden history of the home front.