Hickam Field, Honolulu, Hawaii, U.S.A.
(Peace? . . . There is no peace, I said. Only the ashes of the dead.
Goodwill? . . . An earth of warring men, Hands at each other's throats again!)
And then his letter came, from oversea. . . Strength in his lines-and wings of hope, for me! December 7th, 1942.
Dear Mom:
A year can be so very brief: palm-shadows on the moon, a sunrise sea, the trade-cloud's pattern on a coral reef (to you who wait, a heart's eternity!) Perhaps, if I could make you understand me, the childlike faith these Island people show their reverence for the "Flag" and for their "Land," in this far outpost archipelago. If, somehow, I might bridge the sea-green space and bring you close-to see with your own eyes this happy melting-pot of every race, you would be quick to sanction, to realize the smug and narrow 'brotherhood' we boast, was like a promise never put to test. That, in our coward souls, we cherished most the Kipling fallacy of "East and West,"
Out here; here trading schooners load their loot with cargoes colorful as South Seas' fruit, pearl shell from the Paumotus, breadfruit-green and angelfish of Island-rainbow sheen, copra and copra! and the burnished blues of seas, cerulean as Gulf Stream hues. Where frangipani lifts its luscious breath, while song and laughter temporize with death, where every landfall tempts the poet-pen and beauty, blighted, may not come again. Out here!
But you are smiling, now, at me and saying, "After all, the boy is young: this is his first long voyage on the sea, youth will be youth, its songs must still be sung!"
Perhaps I'm older than you really guess, War has a way of changing boy to man. (War, and a year of homesick loneliness!) A year is brief! A tropic Island span of dreamy days and nights of deeper dream¬ and former values are not what they seem. Now, I am pondering the price of Peace, when we have won, as never men may doubt! Will we, as leaders, guarantee surcease from War's atrocity? For not without the future welfare of mankind at heart will we maintain our power. And every race must own His wisdom- choose the wiser part; God's right is might. Hates flee before His face! You did not wish a preacher for a son¬ but, if this thing keeps on, you may have one! But, first, so great our tolerance is vexed! A sub-machine gun might be better text! And, rest assured, we'll fight for all we're worth, each mother's son, till Peace redeems this earth!
Meanwhile, your letters, your sustaining love build us a rampart that you dream not of! This is not war, alone, of battlefield: each one of you at home wears shining shield! Our hero dead, out here beneath white leis¬ shall be avenged! More ships upon your way! Give us the planes, the wings, that's all we ask! Ours is the battlefront-but yours the task to' keep our courage--peace our battle cry!
A lasting Peace. . . when war and hatred die. There will be other years when we may feast. . . Goodwill the host, then, West. . . to wiser East.
Keep Christmas! And keep Faith within your heart.
(Another year, we may not be apart!) .
Your prayers, your letters. . . till this war is won!
Chin up! . . .
P. S. (I'd risk the guardhouse-and the dog-house, too
If I could spend this Christmas Day. . . with you!)
Aloha, now. . . Your Soldier Son.
BLANCHE DEGOOD LOTTON.
(Peace? . . . There is no peace, I said. Only the ashes of the dead.
Goodwill? . . . An earth of warring men, Hands at each other's throats again!)
And then his letter came, from oversea. . . Strength in his lines-and wings of hope, for me! December 7th, 1942.
Dear Mom:
A year can be so very brief: palm-shadows on the moon, a sunrise sea, the trade-cloud's pattern on a coral reef (to you who wait, a heart's eternity!) Perhaps, if I could make you understand me, the childlike faith these Island people show their reverence for the "Flag" and for their "Land," in this far outpost archipelago. If, somehow, I might bridge the sea-green space and bring you close-to see with your own eyes this happy melting-pot of every race, you would be quick to sanction, to realize the smug and narrow 'brotherhood' we boast, was like a promise never put to test. That, in our coward souls, we cherished most the Kipling fallacy of "East and West,"
Out here; here trading schooners load their loot with cargoes colorful as South Seas' fruit, pearl shell from the Paumotus, breadfruit-green and angelfish of Island-rainbow sheen, copra and copra! and the burnished blues of seas, cerulean as Gulf Stream hues. Where frangipani lifts its luscious breath, while song and laughter temporize with death, where every landfall tempts the poet-pen and beauty, blighted, may not come again. Out here!
But you are smiling, now, at me and saying, "After all, the boy is young: this is his first long voyage on the sea, youth will be youth, its songs must still be sung!"
Perhaps I'm older than you really guess, War has a way of changing boy to man. (War, and a year of homesick loneliness!) A year is brief! A tropic Island span of dreamy days and nights of deeper dream¬ and former values are not what they seem. Now, I am pondering the price of Peace, when we have won, as never men may doubt! Will we, as leaders, guarantee surcease from War's atrocity? For not without the future welfare of mankind at heart will we maintain our power. And every race must own His wisdom- choose the wiser part; God's right is might. Hates flee before His face! You did not wish a preacher for a son¬ but, if this thing keeps on, you may have one! But, first, so great our tolerance is vexed! A sub-machine gun might be better text! And, rest assured, we'll fight for all we're worth, each mother's son, till Peace redeems this earth!
Meanwhile, your letters, your sustaining love build us a rampart that you dream not of! This is not war, alone, of battlefield: each one of you at home wears shining shield! Our hero dead, out here beneath white leis¬ shall be avenged! More ships upon your way! Give us the planes, the wings, that's all we ask! Ours is the battlefront-but yours the task to' keep our courage--peace our battle cry!
A lasting Peace. . . when war and hatred die. There will be other years when we may feast. . . Goodwill the host, then, West. . . to wiser East.
Keep Christmas! And keep Faith within your heart.
(Another year, we may not be apart!) .
Your prayers, your letters. . . till this war is won!
Chin up! . . .
P. S. (I'd risk the guardhouse-and the dog-house, too
If I could spend this Christmas Day. . . with you!)
Aloha, now. . . Your Soldier Son.
BLANCHE DEGOOD LOTTON.
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