The Numbered Envelopes: April 1945
WWII letters from Jack to Helen
“As Francie says in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn ‘There are quiet pieces of you all around.’ ”
— Jack
April 1945 finds Jack at sea. News from home is sparse, and he misses Helen and Johnny terribly. To bridge the distance, his letters are made up of small, everyday pieces of ship life.
“Life on boat is pleasant enough,” he writes. Some days bring new experiences: “We saw some porpoises today — first I ever saw.”
Other days are less romantic: “It’s a bit on the rough side, but so far I have held on to my cookies. Praise God!”
Like most of the men, he is adjusting to the motion of the ship. He finds that staying up on deck helps keep his stomach in check, even if it means early watches. “I’m OD from 0400–0800. Not so hot!”
Even in the middle of the Pacific, Jack is a man of lists and logistics. “There’s always plenty of puttering to do with your rifle, shoes, laundry, etc.”
He has tracked down most of his missing items—a flashlight and garters—but still has no luck with slippers: “I believe the only thing I lack is a pair of moccasins.”
He approaches his responsibilities with a positive attitude and a good bit of humor. “My boys are going to be vitamined to death. As for purifying water and disposing of garbage I shall have no peer.”
Between deck watches, there are bridge games and conversations with a new cast of characters: a “pleasant Polish lad” from Chicago with young children, a Chief Petty Officer who has been in for five years, and a lawyer named George who tells wild stories of tracking down lost heirs in New York City.
And in quieter moments, there are books—a steady companion. “I’m enjoying A Tree Grows in Brooklyn very much… A very warm humanity runs through the whole book.”
The Army censors were busy, too—literally snipping the corners off Jack’s letters to remove his numbering system. But while they were cutting pieces out, Jack was busy sending pieces of himself back.
Running through every letter is the steady pull of home. He asks about train reservations, photographs, and whether Johnny has started walking.
“I would give anything to have a kiss from Johnny and see him take that first step.”
“I miss coming home each night to you and Johnny… I could fairly hug you both to death if I saw you — right now.”
At one point, he puts it plainly:
“There’s a void in my life. I have to live on ‘stored up’ you.”
In some ways, these letters feel like his way of filling that space—with details, routines, observations, and whatever fragments of daily life he can send back across the ocean. Even in the middle of an ocean crossing, he is still imagining what comes next. “Today as I watched the boat lurch around, I thought of some future date when you and I… go on an ocean trip somewhere.”
That may be what stands out most in these April letters. They are not dramatic. They are full of smaller things between the deck watches and the bridge games: seasickness, porpoises, missing slippers, and the steady pull of home.
The quiet pieces of a life on a ship in motion.
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