“Dearest Mom and Pop,
This Thursday (April 11, l945) I go away on leave to Cannes and I’m so
pleased I can hardly breathe. I
have my travel orders and am all fixed up—got my footlocker yesterday. Can you imagine?—after 10 months. When we packed the footlockers in early
September we did it with the understanding that we should get them in about a
month. C’est la guerre!”
We had hired a French woman to
launder our underwear changes. Also she
did our one seersucker work uniform as each of us decided she couldn’t wait any
longer. In an earlier letter I had asked
my mother to send some cotton material for our French laundress to make dresses
for her two pre-teen daughters. She was
in dire need, unable to clothe the girls with no fabrics in stores and no old
garments to take apart and make over for the girls. I think she picked up laundry and returned
clean garments each day.
Parting with the uniform meant we
had to wear our wool Eisenhower jacket outfits in the often overheated
Shanty. All these 10 months each of us
had been living out of the one carryon bag she’d had since wading into Normandy:
with just the bare travel necessities and with only one change of clothes.
Back to the excitement of receiving
the footlocker just in time to have my first big trip—not JUST getting to the
French Riviera, but by flying. I had
never yet flown in an airplane. The
plane turned out to be a C-47, a small plane carrying freight. We followed the Rhone River down to the
beaches of France. With the freight
mostly in the belly of the plane, 3 or 4 passengers could sit facing each other
behind the pilot in the nose of the plane.
I can’t remember talking to anyone, but think a GI or 2 were traveling
with me.
What I do remember was how hungry I
was the entire day that it took. I had
not given a thought to bringing any food but would have had one canteen of
water with me along with iodine pills to add to purify any additional water.
I couldn’t see much at all—probably
because the only windows were just inside and possibly another opposite the
entrance door. Nevertheless I had an
exciting day, starved as I was—especially looking forward to a truly elegant
hotel promised in Cannes for R & R for Air Force Officers and for ME!
Arriving finally at the elegant
lobby of the gorgeous beach hotel, my mouth really was watering. Before I registered, probably, I asked the
receptionist where the dining room was.
He looked at me with astonishment, suggesting derision. I suddenly felt embarrassed, ashamed.
“Our dining room is closed
tonight,” he stated (as if I was really stupid), “to honor the death of your
President Roosevelt.”
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