"Letter No 2-48"

This letter is a part of the Gilson Collection at Florida State’s Institute on World War II and the Human Experience. John, a reserve officer in the Navy, writes to his wife Betty. The letter describes John's frustrations as the war has ended but is still forced to remain on the ship. He mentions being somewhat overlooked because he came from the Naval Reserves. The piece ends with an emotional paragraph about how much John loves and misses his wife Betty. The letter is on black ink in white paper in small black cursive handwriting.

John Gilson

The Institute on World War II and the Human Experience

http://digital-collections.ww2.fsu.edu/scripto/items/show/973

Omeka

Peter Strobis

The Institute on World War II and the Human Experience

English

1925-1949

war letter

pen ink, paper

Person to Person (Analogue)

Letter No 2-48

24 Nov 45 (Sat)

Dearest Partner,
News tonight about my orders: Rodehan, who, together with the Captain, seems very anxious to keep me aboard get Com Wes Sea Fron (communications terminology <crossedout>of<crossedout> for the Commander of the Western Sea Frontier who has jurisdiction over the ocean areas off this coast and under whose command, along with others, we come) to modify my orders. They don’t have authority to <crossedout> [ ] <crossedout> cancel them. The orders now read WHEN RELIEVED AND AS DIRECTED BY YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER YOU WILL CONSIDER YOURSELF DETACHED AND PROCEED ETC ETC. This, I’m told, comes as alone to a cancellation as this authority can come; I must await both a relief and the Captain’s satisfaction before I’m sent off I the ship, and the relief need not be sent. So I’m led to believe, but there are obviously adequate loopholes left for any of the commands to do just as they please. The wire to Bu Pers for outright cancellation remains still outstanding.

As I’ve said, I’m somewhat indifferent to the outcome of the whole situation even tho I’m far from unconcerned. The pros and cons still look much the same to me, as I’ve mentioned, and the imponderables outweigh both. And further, my opinion will have no bearing on the result in either case. Certainly not a circumstance where and emotion or attitude could contribute anything.

The immediate consequence is that I will leave the ship when it sails on Monday afternoon regardless of further developments. That — unless I got orders to Cleveland or vicinity—I did want. To go out under other auspices would have brought me up against much more Navy, and much less Medicine, for an indefinite, period than I would like. If I leave at Pearl I’ll at least miss that.

The ship is now down to twelve commissioned (one is the best [illegible] who doesn’t count on the allowance) and two warrant officers — or just what we are now allowed. The complement of 224 men is within a few men of being exactly filled. And no one aboard is in imminent prospect of leaving on points or otherwise except the Captain and I. He’s eligible for release on points and is awaiting his relief (whom he expects no to arrive before we leave.) The new
Captain, as I believe I’ve mentioned, is not a Reserve and, I believe, is an Annapolis man. This may be seen like a capital ship yet.

I’m glad you agree that I should retain the terminal R in my title. Anything else would be sheer deceit. I’ll trust them to let me out when Reserves of my status are no longer needed and I’d never adjust to sneaking out before. Again perhaps, as certainly many times before, I may be sacrificing temporary advantage for an ideal, but I cannot recall a time when I’ve sincerely regretted so doing. As you once said, this war was fought for the likes of us, and to be asked to stand by for those who fought for it is really the least I can now do.

———————

At the above point I stopped, to look up something I’ve long since forgotten in rereading all of your letters written since you left, reenjoying each one over again — something (that is, rereading) I’ve never done before except as a reference. As I finished that, Ammundsen came back in and we’ve talked for about an hour. The boatswain has long since piped and announced, with each phrase starting low and rising to a level pitch, “NOW ALL HANDS, NOT ON WATCH, TURN IN YOUR BONKS, KEEP SILENCE ABOUT THE DECKS, THE SMOKING LAMP IS OUT.”

———————

Altho I’ve not written and cannot write tonight as much as I’d planned, I’m ready to do a much better job at it in the days to come. And they will be freer, too, those days at sea, for writing that this nuisance-full life here off Treasure Island.

Tomorrow I’ve my last opportunity (for that indeterminate period) to call you and feel for those few minutes very close to all of you back there. That and the irregular mail are all—and that’s enough—of this stateside duty that I shall miss. Perhaps it’s the probability of getting back here, where water doesn’t separate us, that leads <crossed out> [ ] <crossedout> me to cling to the ship. I won’t be able to express how much it will hurt to sever for a while this one closest link with you. Know this — that I think and dream of you all day during all the hustle and incidentals of this life that I write of. All my letter ever means to say is that I love you and want you to feel with me, in part, as I feel very close to you.

John

Dearest Partner