Eastern Starlight, A British Girl's Memoir as the Wartime Wife of a U.S. Diplomat: Volume 3

By Jean Elder With Reg Mitchell

Set against the backdrop of Europe with World War II imminent, Eastern Starlight, a British Girl's Memoir as the Wartime Wife of a U.S. Diplomat, is the third book of a trilogy by Jean Elder, the first two of which are about her China years. We join Jean and her husband, US Vice Consul Reginald Mitchell, as the newlywed couple depart Shanghai for their first post together, Warsaw, Poland, an armed camp surrounded by enemy superpowers and a haven for spies.

Jean draws us into the fascinating but fiercely demanding Foreign Service world of international relations face-to-face diplomacy in a lifestyle that few of her peers would ever know at age 23. She shares with us her experiences engaging with Ambassadors and Ministers and their wives and Papal Emissaries at grand diplomatic soirees and equally important, as a diplomatic hostess having to plan and manage teas and tiffins and dinner parties at home. Protocol is a carryover from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and rules about formal attire, such as all but swords and medals (ABSAM) and stringent social etiquette, are followed to the letter. Posted to Dublin, Irish Free State, Jean, becomes friends with Sinead O'Flanagan, wife of IFS President Eamon de Valera, who opposes Britain and intends to keep Ireland neutral in any future war with Nazi Germany.

Returning "home side", Reg is assigned the newly created position of State Department Press Spokesman and White House Press Liaison. Through Jean's eyes, we have a colorful close-up view of pre-war Washington, a city of lovely parks, Christmas lights along bustling downtown sidewalks, Beaux Arts theaters, and large department stores. Assigned to our Legation in Port-au-Prince following Pearl Harbor, the respect accorded her by Haiti's mercurial President, Elie Lescot, is invaluable in gaining access to medical attention when Malaria strikes her family.

Based on her riveting wartime diary, Jean brings to life for the first time her incredible journey as a mother with two young sons aboard a Liberty ship in an armed convoy having to survive multiple German air attacks at night in the Mediterranean to join her husband at the US Consulate, Port Sa'id, Egypt in 1944.

Eastern Starlight is about a remarkable woman of her era, not only because of the life she led, but the kind of person she was-----her moral character and compassion, loyalty to family and friends, willingness to put others above herself, acceptance of people of all walks of life, and courage when in peril. This is a compelling story that will resonate with readers of all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798888512838

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

The Eastern Starlight Trilogy

Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir of Warlord China

Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir of China in the 1930s

Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir as the Wartime Wife of a U.S. Diplomat

Author's Notes

Prologue

The Gathering Storm of WWII and the Meaning of Diplomacy

Rolling Thunder, Lightning War

Chapter 1: Destination Washington D.C.; Orders to Follow

Chapter 2: Poland in the Balance; Between Hungry Eyes

Chapter 3: From Warsaw to Dublin; Resistance versus Neutrality

Chapter 4: Stateside; A New Generation

Chapter 5: The Caribbean; America at War

Standing by My Husband

Chapter 6: A Wife's Decision; Into the Fray

Chapter 7: Classified Secret; Living in the Dark

Chapter 8: Convoy Station One-Four; The Liberty Ship and Our Escort

Chapter 9: The Night Attacks; Many Bogies Inbound Ten O'clock High

Chapter 10: Port Sa'id and the Suez; Fatalism and Fate, Homeward Bound

After Words

Acknowledgments

Glossary of Terminology

About the Author

About the Co-author

cover.jpg

Eastern Starlight, A British Girl's Memoir as the Wartime Wife of a U.S. Diplomat

Volume 3

Jean Elder With Reg Mitchell

ISBN 979-8-88851-282-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88851-284-5 (Hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88851-283-8 (Digital)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021921383

Copyright © 2024 Reg Mitchell

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

The Eastern Starlight Trilogy

Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir of Warlord China

Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir of China in the 1930s

Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir as the Wartime Wife of a U.S. Diplomat

Author's Notes

Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir as the Wartime Wife of a Diplomat is the third of a three-volume trilogy; the first two of which (Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir of Warlord China and Eastern Starlight: A British Girl's Memoir of China in the 1930s) are about my life growing up in China during the early years of the twentieth century. The timeline of the three volumes is 1912–1945.

In this third book, I describe my experiences in the fiercely demanding world of international relations—one of the most intriguing, exciting, stressful, and rewarding lives imaginable—as the young wife of the love of my life, a career Foreign Service officer, by his side abroad, representing the US State Department's interests prior to and during WWII.

My primary reason for writing Eastern Starlight was to honor the achievements of my family, remarkable by any standard of comparison, and to remember the loyalty and devotion of those who were there for me along the way. Hopefully the story will inspire people of all ages and backgrounds to achieve their own highest goals regardless of impediments.

In writing the memoir, I wanted to acknowledge what my China years and my adult life as a Foreign Service wife generously offered me, how I reacted to it, and how I benefitted from it. For those reasons, it was important to me that the narrative be backed up by scholarly research and be true to the story and accurate with facts.

All images published in this book regarding Convoy UGS-48 marked classified, including classified documents referenced herein, have been declassified in accordance with National Archives Declassification Number NND 968133 and were provided to the author courtesy of the National Archives at College Park, Maryland, from the National Archives Record Group 38, Entry A1 348, Series: Records Relating to Merchant Shipping and Convoy (Tenth Fleet), Box CR-158, File: UGS-48.

The position of the convoy at the time of the battle action was fixed at latitude 37-00 north and longitude 04-22 east, with Cape Corbelin bearing one-five-two degrees. These original documents of research included, but were not limited to, ship types, cargoes, ports of destination, disposition of the convoy and screen, the official US Merchant Marine Log of Convoy UGS-48, the official US Navy Log of the Convoy UGS-48, and escorts and after-action report with graphic drawings showing where, when, and what action took place and diagrams showing how the enemy conducted the three separate attacks and how the convoy was defended during the antiair warfare.

Prologue

The Gathering Storm of WWII and the Meaning of Diplomacy

The profession of marriage is the one most important profession for every woman and one not to be subordinated by any other profession or inspiration.

—Madame Chiang Kai-shek

October 1935

The story continues in Shanghai where my husband, Vice Consul Reginald Mitchell, and I bid a final farewell to China, land of my birth and upbringing and loyal friendships never to be forgotten. Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalist government has lost Manchuria to Japan and is consumed in a civil war with the insurgent People's Liberation Army under Mao Tse-tung, as well as the remaining undefeated warlord armies with no end to the turmoil in sight. As a young newlywed couple, we board a steamer in Shanghai bound for San Francisco and are delighted to find ourselves in the company of other US Foreign Service couples enroute to new posts.

Having turned twenty-three less than a month ago, I can be confident that much of my life growing up in China has prepared me for the responsibilities I will have as the wife of a US diplomat. I look forward with great anticipation to supporting my husband by his side, serving America at a myriad of formal and informal social functions in foreign cities worldwide in the years to come, and most of all, being in a loving marriage with the strongest possible devotion to each other.

A brief home side leave in the States is ahead prior to receiving orders that we could only dream of to our new post, the most important in the US Foreign Service at the time and the most vulnerable in the event of aggression by its neighbors. The threat of another world war in our time looms over Europe and the Far East, but our government remains committed to isolation as a matter of policy.

Part 1

Rolling Thunder, Lightning War

Chapter 1

Destination Washington D.C.; Orders to Follow

China, the last farewell The SS General M.H. Sherman was a forlorn-looking vessel when Reg and I boarded her in Shanghai that fall morning of 1935, but we understood the State Department's intent. Cutting travel costs had become a way of life in this Depression era of budget-conscious minimalism. By then, only the most nostalgic of us could remember the joyful last hurrahs from departing passengers at the rails of the great ocean liners and the cosmopolitan crowds of men in top hats and women with parasols waving at them from ashore.

Out of Shanghai, on an eastward heading, the quietness on deck afforded an opportunity for final thoughts in private about this unfathomable land of my birth—Chang Tso-lin, warlord of Manchuria, to whom my father was both a confidant and an advisor, the people of Hwangkutun village to whom we were devoted, and dear friends like Hai and the others I would never see again—most of all gratitude for having lived and learned in a culture like China had to offer. Amah disapproved of idle moments spent looking back, but she would have been pleased that my kind of adult life never permitted them to last long. Like soap bubbles blown from a wand, they were beautiful to behold, even for only a blink of an eye.

Naval vessel standing in two points to port! the First Officer up on the bridge wing suddenly announced through a high-decibel megaphone, abruptly returning me to the present. China was full of sights that could hold a person's attention but none more formidable than a big-gun cruiser of this one's size with an American flag hoisted on her halyard.

She's been ordered into the forever wars, one lady mentioned, having decided to save the remainder of the film in her camera. The best photographs are the ones worth keeping in an album all your life, she opined, detached as most foreigners were from the unpleasant subjects of gunboat diplomacy and Japanese expansionism, adding as an afterthought to make clear her meaning, This one isn't.

Pray for the dragon, I thought of replying, still in awe of USS Augusta's sunlit silhouette disappearing into the Yangtze delta's blinding white foam, but it wasn't necessary.¹ China had enough four-leaf clovers to outlive us all.

By the time we completed the lifeboat drill, the boundless blue infinity of the Pacific had become a permanent presence demanding one's constant awareness of its heaving motion, its mesmerizing whistling and whispering sounds, and the tension between peaceful solitude and terrifying violence. Bound for San Francisco, the future lay ahead for Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, however, and nothing about this voyage could dampen our spirits far less steal away the passion Reg and I had for embracing married life together. We spoke entirely of hope and promise, thoughts that breathing fresh sea air seemed to encourage.

Did you leave anything behind? my husband asked.

Nothing that isn't already locked in my heart forever, I answered.

Much to our delight, the passenger list included US Foreign Service couples: Consul and Mrs. David Berger, whom I'd met in the American Consulate General in Tientsin; Consul General and Mrs. John Carter Vincent, (Mukden, Nanking); and Consul Charles Reed (Shanghai). So few of us were in the Far East in '35 that we rarely met in travel, but when it happened, it was cause for celebration and a testament to what the State Department meant to us. Although scattered to the winds in foreign posts, FSOs were aware of each other's backgrounds, career paths, and orders. Even personal matters were common knowledge.

Jean, our hats are off to you, Mrs. Vincent declared with a bit of sarcasm and a smile, for all that this man put you through to be his wife. Now that's true love.

I would do it again for him if I had to, I didn't hesitate to respond.

Well, she said, I think that proves you've earned admittance into the club, and this one has a limited membership.

Hankow had given me a good introduction to the US Foreign Service, including how their Consulate Generals operated under difficult circumstances in war zones like Hupei Province. I had also been exposed to the collegiality and culture of their tight-knit organization. My life had become an indelible part of my husband's life as a diplomat during our courtship in Hankow, and aboard the Sherman, it continued without missing a beat.

No better window exists for observing human nature and the ability of people to get along than the constrained environment of a small ship at sea on a long voyage. This Pacific crossing served as an ideal trial run for me to establish my own presence with other FSOs and their wives and prove that I could stand up to the close scrutiny, never too apparent but never inconspicuous, that I would be under from now on. One of the most insightful remarks about our business came not from an American but from the wife of a French diplomat in Peking.

Representing your own nation's interests abroad, she wanted me to know, requires constantly performing under the lights with a role in the play and lines to deliver. Know the people you're with and the difference between an argument and a discussion, and you'll be fine.

Our courtship in Wuhan had as much to do with evaluating our ability to manage the demands of life together as a Foreign Service couple as it had to do with evaluating each other as marriage partners. The significant differences between us—not the least of which had to do with my husband's idealism and outspokenness and my pragmatism and reserve—were the reasons why a complete understanding of each other was such an imperative.

We closed that gap in an open and honest way that left no doubt about who we were in terms of intellect, personality, nature, character, and resolve, and most important of all in the Foreign Service, loyalty in our friendships with others. Neither of us was the insensitive type, a character flaw that so often puts the brakes on a relationship from the start, particularly a loving one. By the time of our wedding, we knew all we needed to know about each other, including having a clear vision of what marriage required of us both as a lifetime proposition.

Reg enjoyed being a public person, uninhibited, gregarious, effervescent, and always humorous and witty. He took chances treading the line about being forward, but he was one of those rare types like my mother, able to be opinionated even in a blunt manner, and not only get away with it but be admired for it. Having been raised by a Chinese amah, I had a more private persona in front of others, ever conscious of the importance of humility and self-restraint.

I much preferred to be circumspect in what I had to say while keeping personal feelings (and hence much about myself) in check. My hope was that I could continue to be that sort of person in the circles we would be operating in, but I was under no illusion that personal privacy would be difficult in the intimacy of the Foreign Service where FSO families knew so much about one another.

Unlike my husband, I didn't share his passion for spending hours mingling in large groups in conversations with people I didn't know. On the other hand, I had plenty of experience growing up in an adult world with no leave-of-absence from the demands of interacting with people of all ages and nationalities often having to speak in the other's language. I correctly believed that my own demeanor would complement Reg's more outgoing style and that it could balance and even enhance our image as a couple.

We made a hard and fast rule never to take exceptions with each other in public. It was one of the more noticeable ways in which FSO couples differed from the rest of society who were often fast and loose with humorless derogatory remarks between partners, as though self-discipline in marriage didn't matter. We were first and foremost husband and wife, but in the business we were in, we had to function as a team to complement each other in a sophisticated and seamless style, the kind that would draw admiration. It would have been difficult to convey that sort of image without a close and loving marriage to begin with. In the company we kept, eyes were far too discerning not to see though masks. The most successful couples, the ones who could socialize at ease at this level and enjoy doing it, were the ones who guarded each other in public conversation.

From the outset, I was pleased that Reg had chosen a career that not only attracted the best and the brightest but those who cared about the welfare and betterment of their colleagues, welcomed newcomers into their ranks, didn't talk about people behind their backs, and were comfortable in their own skin. Consul General John Carter Vincent was one of them. We all respected his seniority in service, but together in the claustrophobic environment of a small ship at sea, we tended to dismiss rank and be informal with each other.

Vincent had that classic appearance of a diplomat and a polished gentleman—tallish, distinguished-looking, and handsome with a full head of graying hair and a trimmed thick mustache. I found him to be one of the warmest, charming, and sincere persons I've ever known, a well-educated man of high intellect who had a way of making people comfortable around him. It was clear to me that John was driven in life by his patriotism, pride in America, and devotion to his career. Reg shared those same views, and the two became lifelong friends.

Mrs. Vincent and I had a similar cherished relationship. She wasted no time in taking me under her wing as a protégé in the same way that so many other wives, Chinese and foreign, had done on my behalf in China. I relaxed and enjoyed the attention even though it meant being pried open like an oyster. To her delight, she discovered that I had a willing attitude to learn about what to expect in the Foreign Service, and being around her gave me the opportunity to gain from her experience.

First and foremost, she said, wives are expected to be equal partners in diplomatic settings, and it has to be obvious, check?

Check, I responded with a nod.

Much of our conversation on our voyage had to do with central Europe, an important subject to me since Reg had requested to be assigned to a European post, Brussels perhaps, or Munich. We were expecting orders within thirty days of our return.

We're keeping an eye on the Germans, John mentioned. Their army is far more mechanized than that of any other country, and their Luftwaffe will give them an advantage over their opponents if war breaks out.

"You mean when war breaks out," Reg declared, introducing a sudden quietness among us all.

The typhoon I enjoyed being at sea, but as I knew from experience, the ocean can be violent at times. Pacific typhoons are never sudden and never insignificant. Ships are warned in advance by notices to all mariners (NOTAMS), affording plenty of time to know the location of the storm, the storm track, and if and how it can be avoided. Our luck had run out. We crossed paths with one such gargantuan monster a hundred-miles-wide forty-eight hours out of Kobe, hurling our vessel into triaxial motion with enough heart-stopping screeching and thumping to scare the wits out of us. Having lived through this kind of experience in the past, I had great respect for the immense power of a typhoon and the danger we were facing.

We spent the night clinging to our bunk rails using every bit of our strength, but in my case, it wasn't nearly enough protection. Rising from one terrifying roll, I went sailing from my upper bunk into the air along with everything else not lashed down and secured. A trash can happened to cushion my fall, and by some miracle, I wound up with no broken bones or head injury although lots of soreness.

Instead, I had a seasick spouse on my hands to take care of, and as I learned that night, he could be a miserable patient who didn't hesitate to complain when bedridden and suffering through the slightest sort of illness. Patience happened to be the least of his virtues, and the knock on our door couldn't have come soon enough.

Give him a couple of these, Mrs. Mitchell, the pharmacist said, reaching out to hand me some salt tablets as the two of us struggled to maintain our balance with the ship taking heavy rolls.

Thank you, I replied, adding, my husband will appreciate the pills.

I'd better take a look at that bruise on your arm ma'am. You've a bad one on the other arm as well, the pharmacist observed. Shall I bandage them for you?

I'll be fine, I assured him.

Try to get some rest, he insisted. We'll get through this. We run into one on every Pacific crossing.

We joined the others for breakfast late the next morning, although none of us had much of an appetite.

Sleep well, did you? Consul Berger wanted to know, grinning in jest at my husband.

Can't say that I did, Reg answered. Looking ashen as he ordered a bowl of chicken soup from the Steward, he added, For a while, it felt like I was charging down the streets of Pamplona, getting crushed by the bulls.

Well, it's a relief that we didn't have to abandon ship last night, Reed informed us with a look of dismay on his face. I heard a crewman say that the number-one boat had been torn from its davits and lost over the side.

Jean and I were assigned to the number-one boat, Reg confirmed.

We were too, the wife of an American journalist mentioned to us, overhearing our conversation from a nearby table. This is the last time I sail on a LASSCO vessel, she exclaimed. Bad luck if you ask me.²

Heritage held dear We had great affection for our FSO colleagues, having much in common with them, but this voyage highlighted our differences as well. In general, they were older with the advantage of experience in diplomatic service, and most desirable of all in my view, they were established in Washington D.C., our home base, with residences of their own to always come back to. In time, we would have both, but for now, in those intoxicating days of our lives, Reg and I were the ones being envied. We were young at heart, alive with energy, and in love and unable to conceal it.

Being admired was an easy draw for newlyweds at overseas diplomatic posts, even more of an advantage for couples able to play off each other the way bridge partners do at the top of their game. Our China years would always be another asset along with the added romance and intrigue of how and where we had met and married being of different nationalities.

We had the good sense to be aware of the fine line between youth and inexperience, knowing that neither were images we could afford to hang our hat on for too long and expect to get ahead.

I know that they have great admiration for us, Reg mentioned. But the glint is bound to wear off, and we'll have to stand on our own.

We'll handle it when the time comes, I assured him.

Early that morning of the twenty-third of October, the two of us hastily finished breakfast, and unlike our colleagues, we rushed topside to be the first to see the coastline of America rising on the bow. Neither of us could ever tire of that sight, like children being handed a much-looked-forward-to gift on a special occasion. The others were content to languish below deck drinking coffee and discussing this and that, in a hurry to dock, disembark in brisk fashion without looking back, hail a cab along the Embarcadero, and be on the next flight out.

Reg and I treasured the past with affection, but by nature, he wasn't the type to be sentimental. I wore it on my sleeve, even in this new get-by-with-less age harsher to the spirit. True sentiment had begun to fade with most people, and by the mid-1930s, it could hardly be recognized. My college years were the happiest of my life, Reg would tell me many times in the years to come. But for him, it was more a matter of racing toward his own highest goals, always focused on tomorrow. I preferred to savor one day at a time as though I were building a library of precious moments to bookend and come back to.

We stayed in California for several days more for a drive down the Pacific coast to Carmel, and we even found places to stop and swim in the cold ocean surf. I'd married the consummate tourist, never without a plan but never afraid of changing it in midstream. Living that kind of life can produce infinite exciting and pleasurable experiences by seizing the initiative. Returning to San Francisco, we let our hair down touring the city, eating on the run from street vendors in Chinatown, and riding the trams while holding ice-cream cones at arm's length to avoid dripping it on our clothes.

Would you like to see Stanford one more time? Reg asked.

I think not, I answered, adding, the path taken is the one worth remembering.

The next thing I knew, we were airborne late in the evening of October 26 aboard my first commercial flight, a United Air Lines Douglas from Los Angeles to Chicago. UAL's stewardesses, registered nurses by airline requirement, spread tablecloths, placed silverware, and served full-course meals and beverages to all fourteen of us and attended to our every need with blankets and pillows.

The first of several refueling stops occurred in the middle of the night in the bleak Nevada desert. It's a desolate place on the flattest land imaginable, our pilot had described Las Vegas. Infinite sand and sagebrush with not a structure taller than a wooden shed.

Chicago's Midway Airport was a welcome sight, appearing down through the clouds at 3:30 p.m. the next day. Greeted by an icy wind and the smell of aviation gas, we departed the plane down a mobile stairway and were escorted out across the tarmac and into the terminal.

Marriage involves compromise, and my first was learning to sleep with the windows open, even in the dead of winter, and getting up before the crack of dawn to the obnoxious ring of an oversized alarm clock with the radio blaring martial music. Even diplomats have no compulsion about singing in the shower, a holdover from Reg's Vanderbilt Glee Club days and a wonderful way to hit the deck running, as he put it. All told, I couldn't have been happier at the thought of spending the rest of my life with him.

Thankfully, I hadn't married a moody or irritable person with a temper or the type unable to rebound from setbacks. Both of us operated on the premise that tomorrow is a new day to make the most of. When confronted with problems we worked together to identify the right solutions without delay. We agreed at the outset that we would share our feelings with total trust in one another, and when we had differences, we would resolve them without one of us winning and the other losing. It served our marriage well. Enthusiasm ran through his veins, and as Emerson had written, Enthusiasm is one of the most powerful engines of success.

Our first car Reg and I were flush with excitement when we met the Ford salesman at the Dearborn plant in the Detroit suburbs. It took all of twenty minutes to cut a deal on a '36 Ford V-8 Coupe with white walls and running boards without the need for a mountain of paperwork.

Here are the keys, the manager said, handing them to us while breezing through an explanation of the clutch, brakes, hood latch, ignition, front windshield openers, lights, wipers, and gears. And get a load of this, he added as we watched him give the door a tremendous pounding with his palm making not the slightest dent in the steel.

Swell, we'll take it, Reg said. Where's the heater?

That's $24.75 extra, and we'll need a half-hour to install it.

Forget it, my husband replied, starting up the engine, impatient to get on the road.

The jack and spare tire are in the back, were the last words shouted at us as we were driving away. I may have heard him also yell, Don't push it more than sixty, and make sure the radio antenna is up. But, by then, his words were almost inaudible. We were on the road in one of the most dependable cars ever made, not only worth every penny of the $350 but, more importantly, an example of American know-how in manufacturing.

From Detroit, our ambitious itinerary included a journey to recall college years in Nashville; a stopover at Princeton University to see my husband's young cousin, Sam Marks; some brief business to take care of in Washington; and on to Jacksonville to meet his Aunt Nan and the relatives before orders to our next post.

Nashville Returning to Vanderbilt meant a great deal to Reg. He wanted me to get a feel of the campus—the gorgeous arboretum; the lush lawns and stone walks leading to Kirkland Hall; the venerable Central Library; and the old gray lady, Kissam Hall, his dorm.

The bathrooms are all the way down in the basement, he said, adding, otherwise I had no complaints. But building facades, no matter how pleasing the surroundings, are incapable of bringing back the human side of college years at such an impressionable time in a young person's life. We stopped for a cup of hot chocolate at a favorite little shop where he remembered enjoying more than a few late-night bowls of chili before an exam the next morning.

It's not the same, he said, without big Jake in his apron behind the counter, chewing on a cigar and speaking in a gravelly voice.

Jake moved to Knoxville, one coed told us, hastening to add, y'all, we don't care for that town. A stocky youth in a letterman jacket swiveled his bar stool around to explain what his blond companion meant about rivalries, and I thanked him for that important information.

Other friends who were anchors during Reg's college years, all with close ties to Vandy, were still here.

Your husband pretty much lived behind that desk, Jimmy Stallman, City Editor of the Nashville Banner, told me as we had a look at the paper's beloved boiler room with typewriters clicking away and the smell of newsprint.

He spent many an hour when not at his classes batting out local news and sports stories for us, Fred Russell, Sports Editor, confirmed, adding, "and