thedrifter
05-09-08, 06:11 AM
True Romance: Aussie moved halfway around the world to be with her Marine
04:40 PM CDT on Thursday, May 8, 2008
By BILL MARVEL / Special to The Dallas Morning News
Sunday afternoons were a good time to stroll around Melbourne, Australia. The last of the shoppers departed Saturday at noon, when stores closed for the weekend, leaving the sidewalks to sightseers and groups of American Marines on leave for the weekend.
One of those Marines was R.V. Burgin, a 20-year-old Texas farm boy who, in a few months, would find himself in some of the bloodiest battles in the Pacific. For the moment, he and a buddy were taking in the sights. And the sights included two young women who had just stepped into a nearby candy shop.
One of them was Florence Riseley, a coal miner's daughter from Tasmania. "I'll take the brunette," R.V. said.
"I'll take the blonde," said his friend.
And they followed the girls into the store.
"She was tall and beautiful," R.V., now 85, recalls. (The R.V. stand for Romus Valton.) "And she had black hair."
"And all my teeth," Florence Burgin, 81, adds, all these years later. Given the state of dental care in the former British Empire, "that was important."
Sixty-five years, four daughters, four grandchildren and three great-grandchildren later, the couple is in the kitchen of their Lancaster home. Mementos of R.V.'s wartime service hang on the walls: medals, decorations and photos. Florence has just returned from a morning Bible study.
American Marines were a common sight on the streets of Melbourne in 1943. "They'd want to stop and talk to you," Florence says. "We'd go and sit on a park bench with them. Some were braggarts."
But not R.V. and his friend.
"We just started a conversation," he says. "What about, I have no idea. But I knew from the get-go that she was a way-smart girl." So smart, he thought, she could pass for 21, though she told him she was 18. In fact, she was 16.
They spent the afternoon in a museum, then walked to the train station to meet Florence's mother and her 3-year-old brother, Leslie. Leslie hit it off with the Marines, who took turns carrying him on their shoulders and making train noises.
"I've heard a lot about these Yanks," Florence's mother said. "But anyone that loves children that much can't be all bad."
Before mother caught the evening train, she slipped her daughter some money. Then the foursome found a milkshake bar and had dinner. When the bill came, the guys pointed to Florence. She'd pay for it, she thought, but afterward she'd give them a piece of her mind. But before they got to the cashier, R.V. grabbed the check.
After that, the two went out almost every weekend, meeting under a big clock in the train station. They took boat rides on the river, rode a hansom cab, cracked jokes, walked and talked. One evening, he escorted her to the suburbs, where she was staying with an uncle. She stepped into the yard, closed the gate between them, then turned and kissed him. That impressed him, he says.
But the inevitable always loomed before them. On their last evening together, he showed up not in his uniform but in khakis and boots. Her heart fell. He promised to write to her and to return for her after the war.
That was the last time she saw him until she rode a train into Dallas in 1947.
R.V. fought his way across the Pacific, earning a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart, and battlefield promotions to corporal and then to sergeant. Like many Marines in the Pacific, he came down with malaria, which landed him in the hospital several times. But he wrote to Florence as often as possible, and she wrote to him. And he started the paperwork to bring her to the U.S. as his intended bride.
Florence spent every Saturday at the U.S. embassy, waiting. Wives with children got first priority, she says. Then wives. Then fiancées.
At last, she boarded a ship for the States. "There were 500 of us on the boat," she recalls. "And 400 of us were fiancées."
An older woman she met on the train was skeptical. "Are you sure he'll be there at the station?" she kept asking.
"Oh, he'll be there," Florence said. "He'll be there."
When they arrived in Dallas, he wasn't there.
But he arrived within 15 minutes. They hugged, and he took her to his sister's home in Oak Cliff.
"I had thought we were going to get married on Feb. 15, my birthday," Florence said. But R.V.'s family already had reserved the church and ordered a cake. On Jan. 29, two days after she stepped off the train, they were married at Saner Avenue Church of Christ.
After all, they had waited a long time.
Contact Bill Marvel at bmarvel@mindspring.com.
Ellie
04:40 PM CDT on Thursday, May 8, 2008
By BILL MARVEL / Special to The Dallas Morning News
Sunday afternoons were a good time to stroll around Melbourne, Australia. The last of the shoppers departed Saturday at noon, when stores closed for the weekend, leaving the sidewalks to sightseers and groups of American Marines on leave for the weekend.
One of those Marines was R.V. Burgin, a 20-year-old Texas farm boy who, in a few months, would find himself in some of the bloodiest battles in the Pacific. For the moment, he and a buddy were taking in the sights. And the sights included two young women who had just stepped into a nearby candy shop.
One of them was Florence Riseley, a coal miner's daughter from Tasmania. "I'll take the brunette," R.V. said.
"I'll take the blonde," said his friend.
And they followed the girls into the store.
"She was tall and beautiful," R.V., now 85, recalls. (The R.V. stand for Romus Valton.) "And she had black hair."
"And all my teeth," Florence Burgin, 81, adds, all these years later. Given the state of dental care in the former British Empire, "that was important."
Sixty-five years, four daughters, four grandchildren and three great-grandchildren later, the couple is in the kitchen of their Lancaster home. Mementos of R.V.'s wartime service hang on the walls: medals, decorations and photos. Florence has just returned from a morning Bible study.
American Marines were a common sight on the streets of Melbourne in 1943. "They'd want to stop and talk to you," Florence says. "We'd go and sit on a park bench with them. Some were braggarts."
But not R.V. and his friend.
"We just started a conversation," he says. "What about, I have no idea. But I knew from the get-go that she was a way-smart girl." So smart, he thought, she could pass for 21, though she told him she was 18. In fact, she was 16.
They spent the afternoon in a museum, then walked to the train station to meet Florence's mother and her 3-year-old brother, Leslie. Leslie hit it off with the Marines, who took turns carrying him on their shoulders and making train noises.
"I've heard a lot about these Yanks," Florence's mother said. "But anyone that loves children that much can't be all bad."
Before mother caught the evening train, she slipped her daughter some money. Then the foursome found a milkshake bar and had dinner. When the bill came, the guys pointed to Florence. She'd pay for it, she thought, but afterward she'd give them a piece of her mind. But before they got to the cashier, R.V. grabbed the check.
After that, the two went out almost every weekend, meeting under a big clock in the train station. They took boat rides on the river, rode a hansom cab, cracked jokes, walked and talked. One evening, he escorted her to the suburbs, where she was staying with an uncle. She stepped into the yard, closed the gate between them, then turned and kissed him. That impressed him, he says.
But the inevitable always loomed before them. On their last evening together, he showed up not in his uniform but in khakis and boots. Her heart fell. He promised to write to her and to return for her after the war.
That was the last time she saw him until she rode a train into Dallas in 1947.
R.V. fought his way across the Pacific, earning a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart, and battlefield promotions to corporal and then to sergeant. Like many Marines in the Pacific, he came down with malaria, which landed him in the hospital several times. But he wrote to Florence as often as possible, and she wrote to him. And he started the paperwork to bring her to the U.S. as his intended bride.
Florence spent every Saturday at the U.S. embassy, waiting. Wives with children got first priority, she says. Then wives. Then fiancées.
At last, she boarded a ship for the States. "There were 500 of us on the boat," she recalls. "And 400 of us were fiancées."
An older woman she met on the train was skeptical. "Are you sure he'll be there at the station?" she kept asking.
"Oh, he'll be there," Florence said. "He'll be there."
When they arrived in Dallas, he wasn't there.
But he arrived within 15 minutes. They hugged, and he took her to his sister's home in Oak Cliff.
"I had thought we were going to get married on Feb. 15, my birthday," Florence said. But R.V.'s family already had reserved the church and ordered a cake. On Jan. 29, two days after she stepped off the train, they were married at Saner Avenue Church of Christ.
After all, they had waited a long time.
Contact Bill Marvel at bmarvel@mindspring.com.
Ellie