Our Final Salute: Ww Ii Letters from Immigrant Brothers Volume I

By Jay Schofield

Introduction

A Trip to Canada

September 3, 1944
On the above date, two brothers, Jay and Win Schofield, briefly crossed the Canadian border from New York to gather a few documents then return to America. Why? Each needed naturalized citizen status to join the U. S. Army. Jay, at twenty-five, and Win ten years older, were both drafted and eager to serve their country in what would be World War II. Two other brothers, Llew and Brent, had already become eligible. The required documentation for Jay and Win were requisites to prove they were born in the province of Nova Scotia, Canada, some twenty years earlier. It would have been a simple matter of simply asking for their respective birth certificates, getting sworn in, and packing for boot camp. It got complicated. In Halifax, there had been a fire around the time of their familys migration to America destroying their birth records. Jay and Win got their desired status and entered the military.
My Life Went On
That story was related to me back in the 1950s but, in typical fashion of a self-absorbed teen rebel, I saw little value in the story. Like most boys that age, my immediate focal points were Whats for supper? or Did the Red Sox win last night? or Wholl be my date for Fridays record hop? I mean Really ... that war happened when I was a few months old, What value could it have to me? How wrong I was.
The years went by including college, marriage, family, and work. Buried in the background of my thinking, lingered the question about the brothers Canadian visit and what changes the family had undergone before and after that point.
It became even more of a topic considering todays Americas red-hot immigration issue with the Mexican border. What would compel family members back then to fight for their adopted country? Today, Canada has become Americas forgotten northern border while our southern Mexican border captures most of the national interest. We hear of both electronic and structural fences, our National Guards involvement, a drug war with Mexican cartels, and wanton illegal crossings bringing murders of Americas border states citizens.
Regrets? For Sure!
In 1980, the urgency to ask my dad family questions became more critical following his cancer diagnosis. Hoping to make up for lost time I suggested, nine years later, I write his life story. An endless barrage of questions while he was undergoing the ravages of invasive cancer treatment would prove tiresome. Despite repeated chemical invasions, he persevered.
For the first time, I witnessed him crying as he related his mothers undying dedication while she helped him memorize his lines before his high school performance, The Mikado. Even today, I can hear my dads tears on that tape, as he confirmed he never missed a line.
Dad shared his familys work ethic: getting to the job despite sickness or hard times. They toiled at multiple, often menial, jobs providing for their four sons and daughter. He spoke lovingly of his parents including his dad dying in 1951 and then losing his mom nine years later. Those tapes provided me long-lasting insights and inspiration.
I learned elders are eager to share their lives if someone asked the right questions. Thrilled to tip over that first domino, I knew the interviews had built his storys foundation. Although he was a rookie at dying; I was a rookie at writing; yet we both persisted like veterans.
In a few months, his life story formed. I transcribed the interview, did parallel research, and crafted his memoirs the best an emerging author could. The process and the result brought us unparalleled joy.
Upon completion, he read, and re-read, the story then gushed on about how much he appreciated my effort. He died knowing his life story would be saved and passed down. Infected with a Memoirs / Schofield history bug, I vowed to carry on.
Filling In Some Blanks
The family questions, however, gnawed at me. I wanted

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469182711

Jay Schofield

The author, Jay Schofield, is a former teacher and Hall of Fame basketball coach at Martha's Vineyard Regional High School in Massachusetts. Long aspiring to be an author, he has written over two dozen books since the 1990s including one on metal detecting, "Beach Detecting in Surf and Sand" and one on coaching, "How to Coach Basketball's 2-2-1 Penetration Offense." Although his speciality is private memoirs, Jay's most recent book, Our Final Salute, has a focus on WW II and family letters from the front. The author relies on first-hand stories and letters for his books and is forever fearful of the "delete" button which has the potential of erasing so much of today's personal history in emails. Oral history, since the days of living in caves and eating around campfires, has played a big role in all history. It's how many of us make sense of the world. Jay hopes his books on oral history enhance that concept. Feel free to contact Jay at: Website: memoirs-matter.com E-mail: [e-mail]

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Jay Schofield.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012904594

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-8270-4

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Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my Uncle Bill and Aunt Ruth Smith, the uncle and aunt everyone wishes they had.

Introduction

In the spring of 1980, my dad told me he had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Unlike today, that diagnosis suggested a death sentence. Reeling from shock, I questioned myself just what I knew of Dad aside from his birthplace, marriage and occupation. It is akin to a POW’s requirement to give only name, rank, and serial number. I knew his life had more substance than men of that era tended to share. Admittedly, I knew little about him and felt guilty I had never asked. I needed time.

Clearly, time would be a factor. Doctors suggested experimental procedures that might buy him time but we all knew the eventual result. As it turned out, they were right; with various medical strategies, he kept himself alive another eleven years.

During those years, thinking I had more time than I needed, I let things slide. I have no excuses. Undergoing treatment, his health remained status quo. I continued working, raising a family, and trying to be a good son to a dying dad while putting his illness on hold. But his cancer kept moving. Eight years sped by and his cancer gained ground inside his weakening body. Considering his life was going to be snatched from me, his only living child, the time for action arrived. I told him I needed to know more about his life and wanted to interview him on tape. I wanted to write his life story and give it to him before he left for The Other Side. He quickly agreed. I was a rookie at writing; he was a rookie at dying, so neither of us saw a reason for further delay.

That momentary delay ended in the 1988-89 school year when my wife Pat and I took a year off from teaching and rented in Florida. With the interviews in mind, we invited Dad and his second wife, Marilyn, to stay with us for a couple of weeks. They felt his health, although diminished and failing, remained suitable for travel. Using a book of appropriate lifetime questions (and some of my own), I pushed the tape recorder’s On button and started asking. His answers outnumbered my questions and brought a generous balance of tears and laughs.

Below is a photo of one such interview as we comfortably faced each other on blankets resting on the ultra-white powdery sands of Sarasota’s Siesta Key Beach. How appropriate that we’d stage our sessions on a beach.

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Jay & his dad—winter of 1989

As a song once said, Every picture tells a story.

This one told many stories.

Aside from the sand’s texture, it was exactly like our family’s Sunday trips years ago to Eastham’s Coast Guard Beach in our 4-wheel drive Jeep. But those years brought no such probing life questions between a somewhat sullen teen-aged son and his father. My interest in his life history was non-existent. Like most teens, my interest waffled between my next game, a hot date, or what was playing at the movies that night.

But time changes us all. Now I would give anything to ask him questions, any questions, about his life.

Unquestionably, my dad’s body had experienced major changes during his cancer treatments. But despite those chemical invasions, and hormone injections, he stubbornly hung in there with the interviews. I saw him as I’d never seen him before. I heard him cry for the first time telling me a story of his mother’s undying dedication to help him memorize his lines the night before his high school performance in The Mikado. Through my dad’s tears you can hear on tape, he confirmed, he never missed a line. I learned much about my grandparents.

He shared how they never missed work. Despite sickness, hard economic times, or heartache, they toiled at multiple jobs ensuring their four sons and daughter were provided for. He spoke so lovingly of his parents including his dad dying in 1951 and then his mother in 1960. Those tapes will be cherished forever. It was a revelation to me . . .

I learned older folks are eager to share their lives with younger generations if someone would ask the right questions. Thrilled to tip over that first domino, I knew the interviews had created his story’s foundation. Its walls and ceiling would follow.

Within a few months, his life story began to build. I transcribed the interview, did parallel research, and crafted his story the best a rookie author could. When I presented it to him, it brought us both such joy.

I had to travel away shortly after I gave it to him but called him within a few days. By then, he’d read the story and gushed like never before how much he appreciated our efforts and the finished product. Again, even over the telephone lines, I could hear his tears. He died within months while knowing his life story was captured and would be passed down to other generations. I had become infected with the memoirs bug.

I wondered, Maybe others would want their memoirs written. They might even be perfect strangers. It would be a valuable service to them and their families. Retirement from teaching loomed on my horizon. I knew there would be no worn-out recliner, boring television shows, or gold watch when I walked out of my school’s career-closing last class. A coach needs to be in a game and this coach had found a new game: writing biographies.

Writing my first biography meant doing it for no charge, just for the experience of trying it, maybe even screwing it up. I approached a former teaching colleague named Joe Didato and described my plan as an offer you can’t refuse. He saw the wisdom of my proposal, quickly agreed, and we started the process. His completed hard cover book was enclosed in a professional dust jacket and had an extensive family tree. It even had a collection of meaningful photos along with his story. His family loved it; so did I. Capturing and writing about people’s indelible memories became my focus. I had become a personal historian. Thanks, Dad. Parents never stop giving either on this side, or The Other Side.

On this side, my biography service, Memoirs Matter, born in 1996, has produced twenty books on assorted topics, mostly memoirs. One such booklet, however, became personal. It was about the Schofield family.

Originally crafted by my Uncle Llewellyn Schofield, it described the early Schofields in Nova Scotia. I found it interesting reading knowing that my name would eventually be found near the end of the booklet. It chronicled our Schofield beginnings back in the 1700s when the first immigrants scratched out their existence as farmers in that Canadian province. Uncle Llew had pioneered the Schofield history and I knew it couldn’t be left unfinished just because he had passed over to The Other Side.

After my Uncle Llew left us, I felt he had passed on the book’s completion to me. I eagerly took that self-imposed challenge and continued to capture our heritage. Many relatives added to the story with their own biographical data updating who, what, when, and where. Printed, then bound, I distributed it to family members. Of course, such work is ongoing and thirsts for new dates and people. A family history is an endless highway. Over the years, many people drive on and off that highway’s ramps.

But I made a discovery in the process of working on that booklet. My name was no longer near the end of the book! That spot was then taken by my children, grandchildren, and the same for my cousins’ kids. Time does that. And, by the way, if anything should happen to me, I hope someone will carry on with this manuscript as I did with Uncle Llew.

More time passed and another event unfolded allowing me to further follow the Schofields and amplify some of their life stories. I mentioned earlier that my grandparents worked hard all their lives to provide relative comfort for their four sons and daughter. Those four brothers have all passed away now but their baby sister, my very-much-alive Aunt Ruth (Schofield) Smith provided me several years ago with a gift, a tremendous gift.

Before I reveal her gift, I must say that she, unquestionably, was one of my life’s greatest gifts. Following my birth in June of 1942, my parents decided to bless me with a brother born in September of 1943. My teen-aged Aunt Ruth chose to come to our home in Eastham, on Cape Cod, MA, to help care for me while we welcomed my brother, Gene, into the world.

interior%20mock%20up%205-1.jpg

Jay (18 months) and his Aunt Ruth (17 years)—1943

The photo above shows me with my seventeen-year-old Aunt Ruth. She doted on me for several months in the summer and fall of 1943 and has kept it up all our lives. Surely, her mere presence was a gift to me but she presented me with another gift over sixty years later.

My wife, Pat, and I often stop in on Aunt Ruth and her wonderful husband, Bill, at their West Virginia home on our way back from wintering in Florida. Each time, we spend hours talking Schofield Stuff. During one such visit, she unexpectedly stood up with a look on her face expressing an I’m-glad-I-remembered moment. She announced, I have something for you.

Following such a teasing comment, she left the room, went down in their cellar to her collection of crates, bags, and boxes, and returned carrying a cardboard box. She smiled as she handed it to me. Before opening the box, I had a fleeting image of my boyhood’s Christmas mornings when I faced a collection of unwrapped presents.

I opened the box and saw many bundles of letters all postmarked in the early 1940s with strange return addresses. It hit me. My eyes glistened when I realized who had written these letters. My beloved Aunt Ruth confirmed my discovery saying, as I held that box with trembling hands, These are letters to my parents, your grandparents, written from your uncles and father during World War II. There are also letters between the brothers.

I cannot describe my overwhelming happiness balanced by my instant confusion asking myself What am I going I do with them? I had been entrusted with a treasure trove of not only long-ago evidence of American history but more Schofield history too! My wheels of imaginative choices started to spin.

Sealed in plastic envelopes, I took them home, and ideas began to percolate. Ideas cook best for me in a crock pot where I can be somewhat deliberate, never in the quick-fix world of the microwave. The more I read the letters, the more I realized I had a unique story of four brothers born in Nova Scotia who had served in the American military during wartime. As a bonus, their letters remained surprisingly intact and quite readable despite several being written in pencil under less-than-perfect writing conditions such as a flickering candle in a tent.

On the other hand, I was blessed with perfect writing conditions and began the process. First, each letter called for a transcription into my computer. The brothers’ experiences, their feelings, and the images ranging from Hawaii to Germany had to be preserved. America was fighting two wars at the same time; I had a front row to the action, and prepared myself for a treat.

As I transcribed the letters, a few thoughts became increasingly obvious. Each son, and sister Ruth, felt they had been raised properly by wonderful parents and, despite their daily dangers and inconveniences, they were more concerned for their parents who worried that their sons might never return from the war.

So, what to do with these letters? Logically, they should reside safely in a book for all readers, Schofields or otherwise, who have strong family interests combined with a thirst for first-hand accounts of World War II. The five Schofield children’s memories may have faded but their printed words in this manuscript will outlive us all. Although I don’t have their voices, (except Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bill) I have their letters. We should have asked more questions of our country’s veterans, especially family members, when they were alive. We can only hope we have been forgiven for not doing so.

This book first introduces the Schofield family in Nova Scotia and then follows a path of their immigration to Weston, Massachusetts. It continues with a glimpse of the five children’s lives leading up to the war. Once the war began, the four brothers and sister each contributed to the war efforts in their own way. The letters between brothers and back to their parents tell quite a story about who and where they were but also speak to what they were doing and thinking. References back to their lives in peacetime and promises to return to those same times provide an ongoing thread of hopeful optimism that each will return safely.

Even today, we acknowledge that hard times are only the other side of good times just as war time