Be My Valentine: A lonely war bride was sent words that lasted forever
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A mournful whistle on the midnight train out of Erie, headed for New York City, made the dark passenger car a lonesome place. I wondered what I was doing. Other war brides must have wondered, too. It was a leap of faith.
He chose St. Patrick's Cathedral and arranged the wedding. Together, we started on a 52-year love affair.
Years in the Navy, setting mines along the Ivory Coast as far north as Casablanca on a ship called The Terror, had turned into an assignment at Pier 88 in New York. They called him "The Voice of Pier 88." Announcements carried beyond the immediate area to Pier 92, where the Queen Mary docked.
The crowded pier could not accommodate all the servicemen. Married couples lived on "Sub and Quarters," in apartments. Together most evenings in New York, we enjoyed the "Free to service personnel" perks.
Wednesdays, men had duty at the pier. Wives were invited to share a movie, dance to the beautiful songs of the day -- "I'll Be Home for Christmas," "You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To," etc. -- or just hold hands to watch the sun set.
After years in the European war theater, weary men disembarked from the Queen Mary and kissed the ground. Tears streamed down their faces. My own tears fell over the railing on Pier 88 into the river. I saw a soldier wipe tears on his sleeve, sling a heavy duffle bag over his shoulder and move out into crowded, uniformed bedlam.
A trip to the Statue of Liberty brought it all home to us. We thought of those who couldn't dance just now, as well as those who would never dance.
Bobby Osborne was missing. Billy Cousins was in a prison camp in Germany. My brother Bud, the victim of a hand grenade, was in a hospital in Italy. On ships in the Pacific, two other brothers served amid the horror of island massacres. Bill Boucek and Bobby the drummer were dead.
Ahead, we saw young girls escorting men in strange uniforms to the Statue of Liberty. A pretty one in pinafore called out, "Come along now!" They were prisoners of war being escorted to our treasure in the harbor. I felt hot tears and wondered if one of them had shot down Billy in Germany, or if one might have thrown a grenade in Italy.
Foghorns from passing tugs; noisy traffic; bells; and unknown, strange sounds mixed to create a mysterious atmosphere nothing like what I'd known on the North Side of Pittsburgh.
How did a 20-year-old kid like me and a 22-year-old veteran sailor end up in this strange world? I wanted my mother. I was homesick. He was homesick, too, I thought. He had only me.
On the subway to Long Island, our wartime home, I knew it was time to grow up. Slowly, we did.
Then came orders to the Seventh Fleet, somewhere near Japan, which ended the New York respite.
On the tarmac soon after, he kissed me goodbye and sent me home to Pittsburgh.
The letter came a few days later:
"I watched the plane until it became a tiny spec and disappeared in the night sky. I was lost without you, standing on the airfield all alone. Wish on our star at night. I will. I'll be home some day to my only love. Wait for me, and please don't cry. I'll be back.
"Love, Larry."
I still have the letter.
First Published February 15, 2012 12:00 am
