Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

THE other day I was walking along Broadway, on my way to the Comedy Theatre for an evening performance of "Blackout" in which I play the lead. I was just sort of daydreaming along, when a truck whizzed by. There was a poster on the side of the truck. "Write Often," it said. "Write Often, Be Brief. Be Cheerful." Of course, the first thing I thought about was Larry and how far away he was, way over there in the Pacific. I felt a wave of loneliness that almost made me cry. And then, when a young Coast Guard Lieutenant passed by, tears actually came, for his uniform was exactly like Larry's. And then, I began to see everything through Larry's eyes in a way and I knew I would have to describe Broadway to him as it is now, the people, the difference without all the brightly lit signs, the curfew. I gathered many ideas for my daily letter to Larry in that short walk, ideas that would give him a pleasant picture, without any feeling that I was complaining, or going through any great hardships — except that I miss him terribly. It seemed to me as I walked along thinking of the things I wanted to write to Larry, that there was something strange about the poster on the side of that truck. I felt that there must be something very wrong with us, if we have to be reminded to write to the ones we love. By MARY NOBLE But that poster set me thinking, remembering. I remembered a young soldier at the Stage Door Canteen, one night. He couldn't seem to relax. After awhile, he talked about himself and it began to come out in little things he said. He'd just come back from overseas for his first furlough in two years. He was anxious to get home to his wife. Anxious, but also afraid. "It's her letters," he said. "For months they've been bothering me. I can't make out what goes on at home." I wanted to know what kind of things were going on, but he couldn't put his finger on anything specific. His wife was worried. She quarreled with his mother. She stopped seeing her best friend. His father was sick and he didn't know whether he was better. Lots of scattered things like that. It all sounded to him as though home were no longer a pleasant place, certainly not the place he'd dreamed about. The important thing about this story is that I saw the same soldier two weeks later. He was a different man. Just two weeks, later he'd seen for himself there was nothing wrong at home. His father had had a cold and got better before his wife wrote to him again — and she forgot to mention that. The quarrels weren't serious. There wasn't any privation or discomfort. Everything was fine. Think of the mental anguish that wife could have saved the man she loved! It would only have needed a little rereading of her letters before she sealed them. It would only have taken a moment to see whether she'd written anything that might depress or worry him, that might paint an unhappy picture of a place which she must have known he kept in his memory as a very special thing, an ideal, a dream to cling to. Men don't always want letters full of unusual news. I've talked to Red Cross workers and men in the morale divisions about that. They say men like the kind of letters that chat the way the family does over a late snack from the refrigerator. You know, the movie you've just seen — and remember he's probably seen it, too, and would like to compare notes the way he would if he were at home — and who's getting married, or had a baby, or what sister's new beau looks like. Little things! One Yank magazine correspondent told me there were certain letters soldiers definitely do not like. Those are letters that describe gay evenings in night clubs, especially if there are too many of them and other men involved. I don't think our boys overseas want us to hide away in a dark room and twiddle our thumbs all the time. But surely you can see how it might be a bit annoying to be sitting in a foxhole, all covered with dirt, surrounded by noise and danger, and read about Your letters, going overseas with all your love, are his link with the past and the future. They are so important that more than love must go into writing them 42 u. S. Coast Guard Photo