thedrifter
10-25-07, 05:48 AM
Sacrifice, service rife in energized war years
Thursday, October 25, 2007
MURIEL ARNOLD
The Oregonian
I t was a dangerous, frantic, sad yet energized time: World War II, San Francisco.
There were late-night calls: "I can't be over tomorrow. I'm shipping out."
"Where?"
"I can't say. I don't know. I'll write."
"I'll answer."
Later the letters came: blacked-out sentences, only a few trite words legible, but Hal's name was clear.
When Hal, my high school boyfriend, turned 18, he registered at the Selective Service office for the draft. He received a number. Then his number came up.
He went to the Draft Board and answered many questions. The answers determined his status -- was he able to join the Army now or only when desperately needed. Hal was 1A; he could expect to be called soon.
My dad was 4F; he had poor eyesight and flat feet. He went to work at the shipyard of Bethlehem Steel.
I needed to do something, too. I tried to join the Marines; they had the cutest hats. But they said, "Sorry, Miss, we don't take anyone with your allergies. Try the WACs."
I didn't. There were too many rumors that the members of the Women's Army Corps were there to "service" the officers.
I had a job in the Russ Building, a status symbol; it was the tallest building in San Francisco. I quit to work in the Stock Exchange Building for the Coordinator for Ship Repair and Conversion, a job that was war essential. We allocated ships damaged in the Pacific Ocean to shipyards in the Bay Area. Opposite my desk was a large sign: "Loose Lips Sink Ships."
After work, a friend and I volunteered selling war bonds. We sat in a kiosk in the Palace Hotel lobby -- not many sales but lots of attention. The servicemen we met were from distant states and had strange accents. They were yanked out of their lives and set down in a strange city. Many were eager to get married or just eager. One or two rode home on the streetcar with us.
I always tried to be home before dark. When necessary, I used a shielded flashlight. The city, a likely submarine target, was blacked out. Our apartment had blackout window shades. A sliver of light would bring the block warden in his leather Sam Browne belt to warn us. We adjusted to this new way of life, filled with uncertainties and scarcities.
My mother took time off to register our family for ration books. These held stamps that were collected when we paid for our food. There were red stamps for meats, butter, cheese and all fats. Blue stamps were needed for canned, bottled and frozen fruits; vegetables and juices; all legumes; soups; condiments; and baby food.
Sugar, coffee, shoes, tires, gas and fuel oil also were rationed, and having stamps was no guarantee the product could be found.
Vast amounts of food went to feed our servicemen and allies abroad. The food shortages were no problem for me. The bigger problem was stockings: All silk went into making parachutes. Washable skin coloring was available in spray cans, and I used it, but it rubbed off on skirts and upholstery inconveniently.
We all became adept at "making do"; the Depression had prepared us. The Depression and World War II years were the only years in my lifetime when the country was united in spirit under a leader who put the welfare of the people first.
Muriel Arnold lives in Lake Oswego. She can be reached at gene18muriel38@msn.com.
Ellie
Thursday, October 25, 2007
MURIEL ARNOLD
The Oregonian
I t was a dangerous, frantic, sad yet energized time: World War II, San Francisco.
There were late-night calls: "I can't be over tomorrow. I'm shipping out."
"Where?"
"I can't say. I don't know. I'll write."
"I'll answer."
Later the letters came: blacked-out sentences, only a few trite words legible, but Hal's name was clear.
When Hal, my high school boyfriend, turned 18, he registered at the Selective Service office for the draft. He received a number. Then his number came up.
He went to the Draft Board and answered many questions. The answers determined his status -- was he able to join the Army now or only when desperately needed. Hal was 1A; he could expect to be called soon.
My dad was 4F; he had poor eyesight and flat feet. He went to work at the shipyard of Bethlehem Steel.
I needed to do something, too. I tried to join the Marines; they had the cutest hats. But they said, "Sorry, Miss, we don't take anyone with your allergies. Try the WACs."
I didn't. There were too many rumors that the members of the Women's Army Corps were there to "service" the officers.
I had a job in the Russ Building, a status symbol; it was the tallest building in San Francisco. I quit to work in the Stock Exchange Building for the Coordinator for Ship Repair and Conversion, a job that was war essential. We allocated ships damaged in the Pacific Ocean to shipyards in the Bay Area. Opposite my desk was a large sign: "Loose Lips Sink Ships."
After work, a friend and I volunteered selling war bonds. We sat in a kiosk in the Palace Hotel lobby -- not many sales but lots of attention. The servicemen we met were from distant states and had strange accents. They were yanked out of their lives and set down in a strange city. Many were eager to get married or just eager. One or two rode home on the streetcar with us.
I always tried to be home before dark. When necessary, I used a shielded flashlight. The city, a likely submarine target, was blacked out. Our apartment had blackout window shades. A sliver of light would bring the block warden in his leather Sam Browne belt to warn us. We adjusted to this new way of life, filled with uncertainties and scarcities.
My mother took time off to register our family for ration books. These held stamps that were collected when we paid for our food. There were red stamps for meats, butter, cheese and all fats. Blue stamps were needed for canned, bottled and frozen fruits; vegetables and juices; all legumes; soups; condiments; and baby food.
Sugar, coffee, shoes, tires, gas and fuel oil also were rationed, and having stamps was no guarantee the product could be found.
Vast amounts of food went to feed our servicemen and allies abroad. The food shortages were no problem for me. The bigger problem was stockings: All silk went into making parachutes. Washable skin coloring was available in spray cans, and I used it, but it rubbed off on skirts and upholstery inconveniently.
We all became adept at "making do"; the Depression had prepared us. The Depression and World War II years were the only years in my lifetime when the country was united in spirit under a leader who put the welfare of the people first.
Muriel Arnold lives in Lake Oswego. She can be reached at gene18muriel38@msn.com.
Ellie