In 2000, AMERICAN EXPERIENCE asked users to submit their own stories, which you can browse below. Today, we continue to encourage our viewers to share their stories via our My American Experience feature.
My brothers and I have over a thousand of my Dad's love letters written to our mother. They start before he left the States and continue thru the end of the war. He landed at D-Day and he writes a lot about that. My Brother had them copied and bound for us and my friends and family are finding them most interesting. ...It is a beautiful love story. They married as soon as my Dad came back from the war and were married for 54 years. They even died within 28 days of each other.
Thank you so much for your site on the letters. It reminds me of my father's letters that we have now read after his death. God I miss him and am so proud of his service to our country. He was a POW in Germany. Shot down over the raids on Schweinfert Ball Bearings factory. Never talked about it, never mentioned it. What a shame.
Raymond F. Hottenstein, Jr.
Sgt E-5 Viet Nam
I have many letters or actually v-mail as written by my grandfather every day to his sons. He had four sons in the service at the same time during WWII. The letters are well preserved because they are actually film copies that had been censored. They speak to family parenting and patriotism, along with fear and pride.
When my great aunt passed away we found letters and belongs of her son Kenneth who was in World War II, he was a pilot an his plane went down. We found several letters, his wallet, and two diaries that he wrote in. I read the diaries and began to know a little about someone who I never would get to meet. My great aunt must have never went through his things that the government sent her, or if she did she left it as she received it. The thing that affected me the most was what Kenneth wrote on November 11th, 1943. Here it is:
"After breakfast read a little & then went back to my bunk & did a little day dream. Loafed the afternoon away. Mission going out early this evening for Ambon hope they don't have too much A/A. Also rumors of a suicide (practically) mission going out in several days. Wonder if it's time for me to get the GI's? Why in hell don't the American learn to stay in their own back yard - general opinion not mine. Second diary I've filled wonder what about the 3rd one in fact what am I going to use? And how much more space can I use???"
This was the last entry -- there were no other diaries because the mission he spoke of was his last -- he was shot down. It seemed to me like he knew something might happen -- unfortunately.
He received a purple heart which his mother kept in the box with all the letters & effects.
My God! I have chills! My mother passed away in November and I was given her private letters. She kept every one of her letters from her first husband (killed on his way home!) and every letter she sent to him. They are filled with history and so special. I've wanted to know what to do with them in order to preserve them so that others can appreciate their significance. Do you have any suggestions? I have begun going through them and have started storing them in a 3 ring binder in archival page protectors. An idea that came to mind was to write a book using these letters. From beginning to end they are a phenomenal love story and historical documentation.
I would appreciate any advice you could give me for the most appropriate way to preserve and present these letters.
Sincerely, Janice Kelsey
[American Experience replies: For more information on preserving family letters and objects, watch a demonstration by Linda Edquist, conservator at the National Postal Museum.]
I was in North Africa, Sicily, Landed at Utah Beach, through France, Belgum,and Germany untill we met the Russians on the Muse River. My wife has every letter that I wrote her during the war.
Dyer Elmus Honeycutt
In a small village north of Lille, France during WWll a group of French citizens after the battle to free Lille, welcomed us with food and drink. During that time -- 3 or 4 days -- I met a wonderful French family. Afer we left the area to travel on to Belgium, we corresponded. I treasure the letters which I saved for some 58 years and some wonderfull memories of my French family.
Philip A Palese
East Williston, NY
Our family has letters from my uncle, Pvt. Richard Hilliard, who was from Veblen, South Dakota and stationed in the Philippines during WWII. We also have post cards from him from Japanese Prison Camp #8. Pvt. Hilliard was in the Philippines, Headquarters Company, when he was captured, probably in April of 1942. He was on the Bataan Death March and saved the life of a man from Browns Valley, Minnesota, who injured his leg and could no longer walk. My uncle picked him up and carried him the remainder of the way. Pvt. Hilliard lost his life in the South China Sea while being transported on the Japanese ship, Arisan Maru, when it was torpedoed by a U.S. submarine.
My uncle sailed for the Philippines in March of 1941. I was born in February of 1942. A letter that my mother wrote to her brother, in which she told about me as a baby, was returned. I do not know if he ever received word that he had a niece.
I grieve when I read his letters, but I am grateful for them, since it gives me a glimpse of his personality. I mourn the fact that I never had the opportunity to meet my uncle, a very brave and caring person.
Mary Lou Francis
My brother wrote a story about Guadalcanal in 1942. I just rediscovered it a few months ago and I think it's worth sharing. There were also many letters in his footlocker and newspaper clippings about a war bond tour he went on with Gloria Stewart (Titanic). There is also a letter from him to my parents about why he was back in the United States only two months after he went overseas. He describes how he was wounded. There is also a program from the world premiere of the movie Guadalcanal and one of Pride of the Marines about Al Schmid who was blinded in the Tenaru River Battle where his machine gun unit killed 200 Japanese soldiers. This was the same battle where my brother was wounded. Sincerely,
Joseph V. Gorman
Somers Point, NJ
Grandpa Nash always sat quietly in the office corner, where his favorite portrait of General MacArthur watched him work for many years. When my Dad inherited the business, he proudly adopted the corner desk and its "five-star" overseer. I never quite understood why they both liked that picture so well and neither my Grandpa nor Dad ever really talked about their wartime experiences.
I was 14 years old when Viet Nam was news. That's about the time Dad gave me my MOWW "Member in Perpetuity" card. He had been holding it for me since I was four years old. Later when I was old enough for service, I was too caught up in the easy, citizen life to consider it. Through the years I watched Dad regularly muster with his MOWW friends, suck in his gut an snap a crisp salute to our Red, White and Blue. He seemed to be more at home in the ranks than anywhere else. When he was getting older and we would share a cold one, he used to tell me that his time in the military was the most interesting time in his life and that, if he had it to do over again, he would have made it a career. He never did tell me the story about how he was wounded and received the purple-heart, or what the other medals where for that he kept stashed way in the back of his dresser drawer.
It was this vacuum of information that recently piqued my interest. Upon cleaning out an old desk in the house, I stumbled across a small box of my Grandma's letters. A few were from my Grandfather dated from 1916 to 1919 and a few from my Dad from 1944 and 1945. As far as fuel for the plot of a new movie of the week, they won't make it. They didn't break any state secrets or divulge any earth shattering war strategies. They spoke mostly of life in the training camps and of being anxious about how they were scoring on the tests they had to take in officer's training school. About playing cards and visiting town on Saturdays. How they really enjoyed the candy and cigars that Grandma sent them and how "if she could find the time," would she run this errand and chase that special item down for them. Even though their letters were separated by 25 years, both their camp lives seemed to be filled with the common schedule of eating, drilling, going to officer's class and sleeping. All while they were preparing for their respective conflicts.
When I read them I found they really helped me think back and identify with my family. The relationships between the individuals, their desire to serve for the noblest of reasons and how their lives were an integral part of the American dream. I learned that my Grandpa loved Charlie Chaplin and found those newfangled "moving pictures" with the weekly cliffhanging "serials" exciting, can't miss entertainment. I learned that my Dad loved cigars and that he thought it was one of life's inequities that he, being single, was often stationed behind the lines while his brother, being married, was on the front. Also, with Dad being stationed in the Southern Pacific and Philippines, his link with General MacArthur now makes sense. After reading, I decided to start documenting these letters by scanning and typing them into my computer. I now have them posted on my website for my daughter and the rest of my family to read.
The business is gone, but I kept Grandpa and Dad's desk. I also kept General MacArthur's portrait, which now oversees my work. The General's image now means something more to me. I can imagine that my Grandpa and Dad respected the General for his duty, honor and courage. Now when I look at his portrait, I also see my Grandpa and Dad's images standing beside him. All three of them standing guard, watching over me.
Grandpa: Captain Edward Nash Mathews
Dad: Lt. James Francis Mathews III
View these letters at http://www.selectivecollectibles.com/warletters-enm.htm.
Michel B. Mathews
I have a war letter wrote to my mother by her brother -- dated 1943 WWII. He was killed in action a few months later. He tells my mother how he misses home and wishes he had fish to eat.
West Monroe, LA
I have a hundred or so letters from ancestor Galen Hamilton Osborne to his family. He was war correspondent for the NY Herald and died near end of Civil War of pneumonia. Some envelopes exist, most of them with tiny sketches of battle scenes.
I also have a copy from me to my parents dated Dec. 7, 1941, from Honolulu to them in San Fran. (mailed before mail was held up). I sailed from SF on Dec. 1 and was sailing into Honolulu Harbor the morning of Dec. 7 on the Jagersfontein making an unscheduled stop with 150 passengers on the bow, and ackk-ack on both sides, (some falling near us) everybody (including captain) thought it a practice raid with horizontal columns of smoke dead ahead and planes dropping thru the spaces between the columns. Arrived in India a couple months later after exciting voyage. good work, thank you Harold (now 85)
Harold Fowler Lake
Forest Park, WA
From December 1967 until December 1970 I worked at a weekend job in first, a record shop, and later, a coffee shop in Sydney, Australia. I met many Americans while they were on R&R. Although, on a scholarship to university, I failed my first couple of years, choosing to show them around Sydney while they were there instead of attending lectures, and choosing to write letters when they left rather than do my assignments. What goes around comes around. Twenty five years later the collection of over three hundred letters written both from Vietnam and the US on their return became the research for my master's thesis, Resistance: Authoring my Own Teacher Education, which was a narrative study that attempted to identify what is important in education and life. I have recently completed the nonacademic version of that story. I am very mindful of the precious gift of those letters received over thirty years ago and of the importance of connection.
After listening to a program on our local NPR station, I was moved to play a record made of a message sent by my uncle, John H. Hay, from a prisoner of war camp in Japan.
His message is one designed to assure his family at home of his good health and well-being. In fact he was subjected to terrible conditions and was lucky to have survived at all.
This message was sent by radio with some hope that it would be heard and sent along to my grandparents. It was recorded by someone in San Francisco who had the equipment to do so. I wonder if a recording like this is at all unusual. I listened to it today for the first time in years. My uncle passed away about eight years ago after a career in shipping that had him living at one time, ironically enough, in Japan.
San Mateo, CA
When I was young, I loved to visit my grandparents in Melrose Massachusetts. I was particularly intrigued by a painted photograph of a chubby young man, dressed in the style of the 1860's, in an oval wooded frame. His name was Harry Stewart and he was the brother of my grandfather's grandmother, Virginia Stewart. The Adjutant to the Colonel of the 2nd Maryland Regiment in the Army of the Potomac, he was killed assaulting Burnside's Bridge on September 17, 1862. Hidden in the back of the picture were two letters he had written. It was always an incredible feeling of connection to hold and read those letters, written while he was in camp in 1861. My great-grandfather, Harry Stewart Thompson, my grandfather, Kenneth Stewart Thompson, and my father Douglass Stewart Thompson, each learned a little more about Harry and his family and his military service. My father used to take me to Antietam, to Harry's grave there in the national cemetery. We would clean his stone. It would stand out like only a few others in the rows upon rows of headstones.
Ten years ago my father died and then my grandmother -- my grandfather had died 10 years before that. As I sorted through my grandmother's papers, I found 14 other letters from Harry Stewart. I don't think my grandmother knew she had them. In toto, they tell the story of a young man from Medford New Jersey who enlisted with his best friend, the brother of his girlfriend. The letters were to his mother, Hattie Stewart, and his sisters Virginia and Mattie. Mostly he wrote about camp life and about his efforts to visit Amanda, his girlfriend. In 1862, he was shipped with his regiment to New Bern North Carolina, where he saw action and fired on the "Secesh." George died there of dysentery and Harry became despondent.
He was one of the most literate men in the regiment, so he was promoted to Adjutant to the Colonel. He railed in his letters against the hypocrisy of a drunken clergy man and he witnessed the pain of the colonel, who learned that his only son had perished.
He looked forward to being made an officer in reward for his diligence.
A recent book on Burnside Bridge noted that the regimental Adjutant got closer to the bridge then anyone else before he fell. He was unarmed in the book. Tragically, that was Harry.
There is a poem I have, published in a local paper in Medford in 1862, written by the sisters, I think, that describes the anguish the family felt.
My eldest son is named Harry Stewart Thompson. He is the fifth eldest son to carry that middle name and the second to be named Harry. When he was 7 or 8 years old, he and I charged the bridge on a beautiful late summer day. Near the bridge, Harry tripped and fell. But he got up unhurt and ran on. I felt a surge of sorrow and joy. This place of tragedy had released its grip just a bit and the future overwhelmed it.
Kenneth Stewart Thompson
When my grandmother was put into an assisted living facility, our family had to sell her home & most of the contents. In the contents we found letters from my grandmother to my dad during WWII. It included all the letters she had written over a six month period. What was even more special was the fact that this covered the time that my mom & dad were dating. My grandmother kept wanting to know if Dad would be home for Christmas and Dad was not responding to the question because he knew he was going to spend it with with his future wife. There was so much family history covered in those six months that I was overwhelmed at the precious gift my grandmother has given me by keeping those letters all those years.
Fruitland Park, FL
My father died last December and among his possessions we found his WWII letters. Some were touching love letters written between he and my mother. Most complete, however, were the letters he had written almost every day to his parents between December 1942 and December 1945. I am transcribing the letters to share with my family and hope to eventually add scanned photographs and other memorabilia. I surprised my sisters and our children with the first installment on his birthday last month. I can hardly wait to work on the letters each weekend. I've learned about my father's hopes and fears as a young man, his feelings about being in the military, my parent's courtship and marriage, and even my own birth. Dad was stationed in Saipan until I was 8 months old, so the letters tell the story of my mother's pregnancy and my first months of life. The letters make me laugh outloud, cry, occasionally grimace, and, often, simply smile in recognition or amazement. Ironically, the war seems simply a backdrop for my father's own story. But isn't that what any event really is -- the collective life stories of each individual touched by it? With each letter I type, more of Dad's story unfolds. The letters are a wonderful gift from the past and a treasure for our children's children.
My father, James Borg, died recently at the age of 80. He was on the USS Missouri during World War II, and was present at the signing of the treaty in Tokyo Harbor. He wrote many letters home on military stationery from the ship. I am a poet, and am using some of these letters to write poems about his experiences and mine, about my process of coming to understand him as a father and an American. Some of the letters are funny and mundane; some are melancholic or angry. Many are censored. I would like to be able to share them with others!
"With the first aerial bombing mission flown, the novice becomes a veteran, and the veteran an old soldier. As you fly on, and accumulate a number towards 35, you ask trembling, 'will it ever end?' 'How will the end come?' 'Will I suffer on death's threshold?' All of this punctuated with the mumbled phrase, 'please God protect me.' 'I don't want to die, I want to go home.' At times the fear is so great, you stand open mouthed crying in disbelief. Your legs too weak to support your body's grief. Some missions so physically draining you vowed to the Lord you'd never go back, yet you found yourself repeating that target as ordered by Airforce Command. We met for the first time in 1943, ten young men none older than 21. All assigned to Army Aircorp to perform a task better suited to mature men twice that age. Still, without question we were the aircraft crew of a B-17 Flying Fortress. We entered into the routine of war like naive children believing that pockets crowded with photos of girl friends, mothers, fathers or an amulet for luck would bridge the risk between death. Our commercial backgrounds varied from farmer to forman, some of us drafted some volunteered, each intent on completing a patriotic requirement of military duty for the United States in World War II. As a bombardier, I flew 35 missions over Nazi Germany involving flights long and short to targets of varing kinds. At most flak came up to 32,000 feet like black rain falling from a leaded sky enticing the unsuspecting airman with a ghoulish invitation to join the enemy in death. Jokingly, I would say, 'I've been to Berlin twice, but never on the ground!'"
Sadly ... Lee E. Sacherman passed away May 25, 2001 ... he will always be remembered as our hero! During his tour of duty, Lieutenant Sacherman wrote more than 200 love letters in 6 months to his beautiful wife and confident Mary Ann. He used to say "these letters of love and devotion provided proof that emotions of the heart can prevail over the horrors of war!"
Woodland Hills, CA
I was looking a the War Letters web site and I don't have letters from the war but I have something a little different. My grandfather was in WWII,and when he was 62 he sat down and started writing down his life story about growing up in Kentucky and serving in the war. He finished his writing when he was 67 and passed away two years later. I don't have war letters but I have hand written stories and memories of his. He talks about leaving for basic training and he talks about different things that he experienced while in Europe in the war and he talks about coming home. I am in the process of sorting out his stories and putting them in my computer so that I can make a little homemade book for his grandchildren. So that we will have something to remember him by. Sort of like a family keepsake. He had hopes of seeing his stories published but he never saw that happen.
Rhonda McKee, KY
One day, in 1996, my mother casually mentioned that she had saved all of the letters she exchanged with my father when he fought in Vietnam. I was stunned! He had never spoken about his tour of duty there (he served in 1969-1970 as an Army chaplain).
I have since written a fictional novel which revolves around those letters, called "When Duty Calls." My two favorite letters are: the one to my older brother when he was a little boy, especially when he says (on 24 April 1969), "Everything is going well for me. I am safe and I don't think I will be hurt so you and Mommy try not to worry, O.K?" and: on 19 May 1969 which begins, "Today is Ho Chi Minh's birthday so everyone has been very apprehensive that we might be attacked."
I have donated copies of "When Duty Calls" to VA Hospitals across the country, and to The Legacy Project. Reading the letters has given me a newfound respect for my parents.
Pvt. Elmo Reidy Vichy France Nov, 20, 1918
My Dear Aunt- Just a few lines this afternoon to let you know that I am still well and my wound is healing fast.
Just one month ago to-day I was wounded and in a couple of weeks I think my wound will be entirely healed, although it may bother me a little for a while after that.
I can certainly consider myself fortunate in getting off as lucky as I did and now that the war is at an end I feel very fortunate in being out of it in one piece.
Of course it is needless to say that all we Yanks are happy, especially we who have had to do the fighting in the front lines. We know more than anyone else what it means for it is a great relief to know that we do not have to face those shells again...
When at the front this last time I had a taste of sleeping in a shell hole in the rain.
The American people can certainly be proud of their fighting Yanks, for they put up a great battle and in four short months they were the ones who did a whole lot towards saving these suffering countires and wrestling the power from Germany. We may have been green and untrained but we showed those Dutch blockheads how a real American fights and that when he goes after anything he gets it!
Well all I think of now is the homeward trip. Am in hopes of being home for Easter.
Sarah A. Flemming
A letter written by my father in France in 1918 to my mother--
June 1st 1918
Dearest: Recv'd a letter from you yesterday, also one from momma and Ruth. You may not be able to read this as I'm using the butt of my gun for a writing desk. Great paper too, it's French. The 2 pieces of cloth are off the wings of a German aeroplane that was shot down this afternoon, came down in flames and still burning.Two young Germans in it. Some got buttons off their clothes, but I didn't care for any of them. I didn't feel like touching them. Sure a great sight to them get search lights on them after dark and watch the shells burst around them. They throw all kinds of light but it isn't so nice when they go to dropping those big bombs.
Be sure and write often as it sure makes a fellow feel good to get a letter over here. Give my regards to all the folks. With love and kisses
I have a book of my father's WWII memories he had put on tape 4 yrs before his death in 1990, entitled "Medic." I also have the tapes he made that the book was transcribed from. I have his medals, a scrapbook I have put together of all of his letters, letters from a Dutch family he stayed with, pictures, gum wrappers, USO show ticket stubs, etc.
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The story of a Vietnamese mother, the Amerasian daughter she sent away for adoption, and their reunion 22 years after the Vietnam War.
Robert E. Lee, the leading Confederate general of the American Civil War, remains a source of fascination and, for some, veneration.