Attu, 12 February 1945 -- "such a feeling of waste about this year"

1 a.m.  

Darling, darling darling...

I feel six times lower than a sturmtroopen oberfuhrer, my pretty piltzer, for it must be almost a week since I wrote last. It is partly your fault for I have been expecting a letter from you for three weeks now and, not getting any, getting more and more frustrated as each mail call has brought heaps for everyone else and nothing from you for me, I have had a difficult time in not moaning and groaning. On three successive days I tore up letters I started because of their deep blue quality and then I developed a superstition that if I didn't write it might bring a letter. 

Last night I even sent a wire to you about mail, for each time I have wired it has brought mail the next day. But even that totem failed. Today there was no mail for anyone. I came very near crying about it today -- once before when Gene got three letters and I got none I had to get out of the room fast -- but Dave came to my rescue with a bottle of brandy from somewhere and now I am warmly convinced that tomorrow will bring manna from the mail plane...

If it were not for Gene and Dave I would be very unhappy here. We are as crowded as at Station One and other of the same complications which went into the "Change of Station" story are present. But I have finally got back to my writing, Gene is everpresent in off hours to brew tea and bullsession, and Dave is around from time to time to join in the chess, the music, or the bullsessions. 

As I told you, Dave is our first sergeant. He gets some very strange orders to carry out. Today, for example, he was told to find the depth of the snow in all parts of the ACS area. This would entail considerable digging, which of course Dave eschewed. How he came by his estimates I don't know, but late in the afternoon I saw him standing on one foot in a snowdrift, his right leg raised and his knee serving as a shaky desk, while he wrote down figures on the snow. 

For Whom the Bell Tolls: love minus politics

Earlier he and Gene and I went to see "For Whom the Bell Tolls." ... The movie was, naturally, completely devoid of political content. In fact, it was so much so that it may have defeated the very purpose for which it was emasculated. At one scene in the middle of the picture, where a troop of enemy cavalry is seen approaching in the distance, the boys behind us began a subdued argument about whether they were "American" or "German."

I'm still reading War and Peace, which is something of a life's work. Last night I got past the halfway point. I hate to agree with the critics on anything they are unanimous about, but it seems, at the half way mark, to be the best novel ever written. And the funniest thing is that nearly every sequence is essentially corny and could fit into a soap opera. At the end of each could be the question "Will Natasha marry Prince Andrew," "Will Pierre kill or be killed in the duel?" "Will Boris be promoted?" But it is wonderful. Oh darling darling how I wish we could be reading it together. 

I have such a feeling of waste about this year, so strong a feeling of what I am losing by being away from you. That is why it is so bad when there are no letters. They are my only compensation, this new medium of communication with my beloved, and when they don't come I feel trapped and frustrated and I pound the wall with my fist until it hurts too much and now my hair is long enough so that I can again get hold of it to pull. 

USS Essex in 1943, a blimp's eye view: National Archives

Dad forwarded a letter from Vic in which he mentions that his ship, the Essex, is "the fightingest ship in the Navy." It has wrought more destruction on the enemy than any other vessel and holds practically all records. From the articles, Vic says, "you will learn that I have been present at the invasion of the Palau Islands, the raids on and invasion of the Philippines, the raids on the Ryuku Islands and Formosa. We were very much in evidence at the second Battle of the Philippine Sea when so much of the enemy fleet was destroyed." 

 

The Essex was hit by a kamikaze pilot in November 1944. 

 

Little lover, it's only ten weeks now, and while "only" seems a strange adjective to apply to ten weeks away from you, it does seem possible that we will make it. For a while I did not think the year could ever end. Look both ways crossing the streets -- I worry about you so much, and get some sleep and eat three meals a day and be very very healthy for me. ..

My nunny, you are adored. Please keep loving me,

M

Umnak Island , 12 July 1944 -- "it seems a bit odd at 47 going off to war again"

My Darling…

Henry Victor, Victor Henry, and Murray Morgan

What a wonderful day—five letters from you (four of them forwarded from the old post), a pair of lithographs from Bill [Fett] and a coherent letter explaining them, and a letter from Dad.

Since you were going to Tacoma for Dad’s birthday I suppose that he has told you about Vic’s assignment to an aircraft carrier. He will be ranking chaplain aboard and is very excited at the prospect. Remember we wondered who would ever buy those $125 pen and pencil sets that Eversharp advertises. I have the answer. The regiment of cadets bought Vic one. Even better, though, he says the captain gave him “a beautiful letter of commendation and enclosed another from the President of this Catholic college commending me for my work.” Vic also says, “it seems a bit odd at 47 going off to war again. Twenty seven years ago I was the same age as the boys I’m ministering to now.  I am glad to go, because I’ll be doing the thing I am best qualified to do. I have no fear of the adventure ahead.” By the way, Gail finished the second grade with special honors—a solid record of excellent and praise for her social qualities and her singing. Vic says “she is so very like Evelyn.” [Evelyn was Vic's sister and Murray's half-sister]

From THE HISTORY of the CHAPLAIN CORPS ' UNITED STATES NAVY

VOLUME TWO 1939 - 1949

Chaplain V. H. Morgan was wounded on November 25 [1944] aboard the Essex when his ship was engaged in a strike against the enemy on Luzon. Chaplain Morgan described his experiences as follows:

Empty 5-inch shell cases from the forward turrets were

rolling across the flight deck and under the wheels of the

fighters taking off during the attack. I was busy trying to

heave as many of the cases over the side as possible and did

not realize a suicide crash was imminent until a "Judy" flashed

10 or 12 feet over my head and exploded 35 or 40 feet from

where I stood. I did not know I had been injured, and

returned to fighting fire until others arrived on the scene. Then

I helped with the injured both on the flight deck and later in

the sick bay. It was not until I went to bed that I discovered

the wound on my right leg, which I then dressed myself.

The next morning I had trouble walking and reported to sick

call. The X-ray revealed no bones broken but it was 3

months before I had full use of the right knee.

Your letters were especially wonderful this time: long but sweet, to maim a phrase. And now to answer a few of the questions you asked. 

…I am glad that Myrtle [James] is coming to live with you. Not only is she a swell person but it seems certain that her arrival will bring the problem of Jiving Jean to a head. I can’t imagine Myrtle and Jean remaining in the same houseboat for long without an explosion. And Myrtle has a certain Scandinavian immobility which makes it seem unlikely she would be the one to leave when the showdown comes…you needn’t worry about my sleep, darling. I don’t miss much. In fact, I don’t miss any here expect on rare occasions like today when I got up early to go for a walk and didn’t get a post-dinner nap because of a bullsession. I put on 15 pounds while at [deleted by censor], weighing now 172 in stocking feet and OD pants) and am taking pains to be active so as to work it off. But all I seem to be doing is building my appetite…I’m sorry you like the Sims. He still sounds a bit unprepossessing to me, although she doesn’t sound bad.  …[The Sims were the Adamses. Sim (Robert Simeon), a poet and longtime headmaster of the Lakeside School in Seattle, and Mary; Murray had the chance to reevaluate his view of Sim in the years before his death in 1950, and Mary became a dear friend and Harstene neighbor, the “Mayor of Point Wilson.”] So far the packages with the pajamas, socks and vitamin pills haven’t arrived. They will probably take some time getting  here, what with travel time from the old station to this one added to the age it always takes packages to get up from Seattle….I liked very much the Grafton and Marquis Child’s columns you enclosed about the Republican convention, but even better your bitter bit about Dewey’s campaign as Mr. Average man. I’m afraid we are going to have vote for FDR again. Too bad it isn’t Wallace against Willkie…I also enjoyed the remark about Ray Howe very much—the one about liking Rabelais best between bookcovers.

Before I forget, I must confess an extravagance. The boy with all the phonograph records expects to leave here before long. He is selling his stock and taking back to Seattle what he doesn’t sell. One of the kids bought most of the best—all the Mozart, for instance—and is going to keep them in the rec hall for all to hear. But there were $16 worth that I could not bear to think of leaving this post, so I bought them. Beethoven’s Third, Mendelssohn’s violin concerto and another violin concerto by a guy I’m so sleepy I forget his name. He is a minor composer of the twenties, a German I believe. The concerto is charming. 

Bill’s lithograph I like less than his watercolors but they are very good, especially the first one—“Notes on the Creation of Man.” The other is no. 3 in his series and he said that you did not have a copy of it. In it the figures are much larger than in No. 1 and the landscape less familiar—which is probably the reason I like it less. I’ll write tomorrow when at that hut so that I can give you a better description.

"Some Notes on the Creation of Man" April 1944

After dinner this evening I rebuilt my clothes cabinet, putting a door on it. I also mounted Bill’s two creations on plywood and put them up for all to see. First comment:

“Some of your work, Murray?”

“No. I sure wish it was.”

“I’m glad it isn’t any of mine.”

"No. 3" April 1944

One of the kids here who comes from West Seattle but did commercial art work in New York and knows Pomander Walk came over to see the pictures and was impressed with Bill’s draughtsmanship. This boy, incidentally, will 

 

be coming down in a month or so and I hope you’ll meet him. His name is Pedersen or something similar and he is a mild-eyed, mild-mannered Dane with a spike mustache and a short haircut which would go well on an old fashioned barkeep. I like him a lot and think you would enjoy him.

I’m still reading the book on Mexico by the diplomat’s wife. If I ever take any more school work I’d like to do a thesis on the press in US-Mexico relations.

Oh, my darling, how I would like to talk to you…there is no way to say what I feel. I love you so.

M