At the end of WWII in Europe: Dad’s letter to Mom

This is the letter my Dad wrote to his then-fiance, my Mom, when WWII ended in Europe.  Many years after his death, Mom submitted the letter to a traveling exhibition of WWII archives, and it was accepted.  We’ve always loved Dad’s writing; and his skill with a good, old-fashioned typewriter wasn’t too bad, either (the typos are deliberately left in the letter).

VE Mail

To: Frances Wiggs

c/o YMCA

Salt Lake City, Utah

From: W.E.S. Dyer, Jr.

#35501279

Hq. Sqdn., 9^th Air Div.

10 May 1945

Darling – The events of the past week finally burst into joyous song. Monday night was the night of celebration here, because ever faster than official channels, is the café grapevine, and before the radio had given out the news that the whole world was so anxiously awaiting, the plans for celebration were being rushed in every pub, bar, café, restaurant and bistro from one end of this little town to another.  Monday night, everyone celebrated, I can think of no other place I’d rather have been in Europe than in a French or Belgian town or village.  Paris, of course, was THE place to be, but never let it be said that this little spot on the map was ever caught short of gaiety, joy, or what-have-you.  The people went mad.  Mad with laughter and with happiness, mad with anything and everything. All up and down the streets the cheering populace let it be known that Hitler was KAPUT: once and for all.  Long lines of weaving, intoxicated, sober, dancing girls and boys, children and adults, swayed happily to the dance of Victory.  Gayly (sic) colored hats, bright dresses, bottles of wine, rows of grinning teeth, patterned the otherwise dull, drab, weatherbeaten (sic) sidewalks and cobblestones streets.  Old men kissed old girls; old girls kissed strange men; everybody kissed the soldiers.  The whole place was jammed and packed with jostling insanity, going nowhere and not caring when it arrived. Here and there, strangely stark against the kaleidoscope of color, could be seen a strained smile as some bereaved wife or mother tried to add her heavily laden heart to the gaiety around her.  Here and there, some men had had a bit more interior celebrating than his constitution allowed and slumped in a drunken sleep over a corner of some table.

Naturally, I and my camera were out in full force, and until daylight I took pictures of everything and everybody.  With me, by coincidence, were two other soldiers doing the same, and were the center of a dancing ring of people, all intent on posing for pictures, fondly believing that each of us would deliver large handsome prints personally for their souvenirs of that never-to-be-forgotten celebration.  I did my best, but inasmuch as it will take at least two months for the pictures to get back from the PX,  I fear that I shan’t have the opportunity of complying.

I arrived, about nine o’clock that evening, at a little placed called “Tamaris” where I was to meet Jack Dawson, his finance (a peach of a little French girl by the name of Denise Something-or-other, who is as full of the old Nick as you are and who has a smile like Ingrid Bergman’s) and another fellow called Jerry Coleman.  Jack is a promoted from Philedelphia (sic) and if his business is the result of his personality he is a very successful man.  Denise worships the very ground he walks on and he is, I think, a little bewildered, in his heart, that she does.  They’ll probably have a very happy life.  Jerry is a swell fellow of about 36 or 37 and always smiling and laughing. Very popular in the outfit too.

Not having been paid yet this month (because the records hadn’t cleared before the payroll was signed and I was paid day before yesterday on a supplementary payroll), I felt that I could buy a round and that was about all, so, when my 180 francs was gone, I started to pull out.  I naturally didn’t say why, muttered something about getting some sleep and got nowhere fast, because Jerry, I think, realized what the truth of the situation was, and insisted that I stay and help sample a bottle of Burgundy, vintage of 1924.  Darling, do you know that my favorite wine is sparkling Burgundy?  That was the end.  My conscience and I had a furious struggle that lasted 1/1000 of a second and my conscience gave up. After the Burgundy, Champagne.  After the Champagne, more of ditto.  Then white wine.  Meanwhile the music poured out of the gramophone, cigarettes piled high on ashtrays, laughter, song and whispered words slipped into the air and mingled with a rapidly forming current of smoke pouring out of the windows and doors.

Tamaris is the name of the woman who runs the place.  She is small, vivacious, typically French. Her light brown blonde hair is piled in a sort of upswept pompadour on top of  a sultry face, whose tan make-up is expectantly decorated with brilliantly carmined (sic) lips that spell sex in large voluptuous letters.  Consequently, her dress is about one size too small and she knows it.  (The next day I dropped in and took some pictures, and if they turn out well, you’ll see what I mean.)  She has a very nice manner, that has been tempered over years of handling all sorts of people and she instinctively knows the proper approach to the soldiers, regardless of their type.  All in all here is the best and nicest place in town, despite is being a bit small.  The bar is a the back of a little room that seats, comfortabley, (sic) about 30 people.  That night, however, the place must have had close to double that in there.

Although I feel that the MPs might have found something better to do that night of all nights, they closed the place up about 1:30 in the AM, which wasn’t too bad, because normally curfew time is before midnight.  All in all, I had a swell time and found out later that neither Jerry nor Jack would think of my paying for a thing, so I guess I owe Jack a party, which I’ll be only too glad to throw, come the first opportunity.  I saw I owe Jack, rather than Jerry, because Jerry says Jack paid for the works.

The next (sic) day, I had off anyway, but I felt like a million dollars, not having had enough to drink to give me a hangover at all, and yet enough to keep me pleasantly mellow all evening.

So, all in all, I had quite a time and enjoyed every minute.  Somes (sic – meant “Comes) V-J day, and Yours Truly will really celebrate.  With you, God willing.