By BILL MILLER
For the Mail Tribune
Christmas was just around the
corner and the war news was still not good. The country was entering into its
second year of combat and the patriotic folks at home were still proudly
struggling with their own war efforts. There were no new cars to buy, no nylon
stockings to wear. Tires and gasoline were rationed. Even a morning cup of
coffee required a war ration book.
It was one sacrifice after another.
When the government banned sliced bread, the Fluhrer Bakery ran newspaper
advertisements explaining how to safely slice bread—“Lay the loaf on its side,
bottom toward you. Hold it firmly, use a sharp knife, and long, easy strokes.”
Clocks stayed on daylight savings
time to save energy, and restaurants began “Meatless Tuesday” so the boys
overseas would have enough to eat. Shoes were rationed to one pair each year
and Oregon’s weekly liquor allotment was cut from a quart to a pint.
No matter how bad it got, few
people complained. After all, what were their troubles compared to those of a
tank soldier in the African desert or a Marine on a Pacific island beach?
Five miles north of Medford a new
military city had appeared—a training center named Camp White. The camp was
about to celebrate it’s first Christmas, and most of the men would spend their
holiday alone. That was unacceptable to community leaders who announced their
intention to “bring gaiety and good cheer to our adopted sons. Let’s make
Christmas a joyous day for every Camp White serviceman.”
Families invited soldiers to Christmas
dinner. “Older girls and women, and especially mothers,” were asked to become
hostesses at the local USO club. The ladies were assured that these social
functions were well “controlled” and that it wasn’t necessary for volunteers to
know how to dance.
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| Christmas 1942 |
By Christmas day, service clubs had
helped soldiers wrap over 3,000 packages for the folks back home. Postal
workers labored in 12-hour shifts to keep the mail flowing.
Medford musicians donated
instruments to a servicemen’s makeshift band. Just in time for the holiday,
they got everything they needed.
The artillery barrage on the Camp
White practice range stopped at exactly five o’clock on Christmas Eve. The guns
would be silent through the holiday and resume operations the following day.
Santa Claus was everywhere, but nowhere
was the genial fat man more appreciated than in the camp’s hospital. Behind the
white wig and whiskers, everyone recognized 1st Sergeant Henry
Putnam, but carried on with make believe surprise and wonder. At the “Kiddies
Christmas Party” Santa even brought along one of his reindeer—Susie, a toy-carrying
fawn adopted by the engineer’s battalion.
A choir from the local Episcopal
Church sang Christmas carols and the band played a few selections on their
newly borrowed instruments, while a magician worked his magic.
On Saturday, December 26, 1942, the
world went back to wartime normal. Artillery shells whistled northward on the
practice range, boots marched over the parade field, and engineers practiced
bridge building on the Rogue River. Civilians returned to work and rationing.
Another Christmas would come and go
before Americans landed in Europe. For nearly three more years soldiers would
die.
On the home front, they would carry
on no matter how long it took—one sacrifice after another. And, if they were
very, very lucky, Santa would bring them the gift they all wanted most—Peace on
Christmas Day.
Writer
Bill Miller is the author of “History Snoopin’,”a collection of his previous
history columns and stories. Reach him at newsmiller@live.com or
WilliamMMiller.com.
