Smitten the moment he saw her, 1st Lt. Paul Skogsberg approached an American nurse named Vera “Sheaf” Sheaffer at a Red Cross dance in Oran on May 19, 1943. He was part of a reconnaissance unit with the First Infantry Division, she was with the Ninety-third Evacuation Hospital, and they were both temporarily stationed in Algeria. The next night they listened to swing music on the BBC with a group of friends, and a few days later they drove to the beach, made a picnic of tinned ham and eggs from their K rations, and went swimming in the Mediterranean. For a month they spent almost every night under the North African stars and moon talking, laughing, and (innocently) keeping one another company. On June 20, the day before Skogsberg was to leave for Algiers, he feared he would never see Sheaf again and expressed how much he had enjoyed his time with her:
My Dear Sheaf,
Well, sister, I am afraid you have seen the last of me, for a while at least. I’m off on a mission. Without me to darken your doorstep you should be able to stay out of trouble. All joking aside, Sheaf, I want you to know that this past month has been grand for me and I want you to know that I think you are super. You cannot imagine what it has meant to me to meet a girl such as you and to be able to enjoy her company for those many evenings, after being away from civilization for so long. But this is the Army, “here today, and gone tomorrow.”
So long, good luck, thanks a million for all the memories, and I hope we meet again soon.
As ever,
Paul
Fate conspired in their favor; Sheaf, too, was sent to Algiers with the Ninety-third, and they were able to spend another week together. All the while, however, Skogsberg had been keeping a secret from Sheaf, and he knew the time had come to reveal the truth. “In the last month I have done a lot of thinking—a lot of soul-searching. There is something I should have told you a long time ago,” Skogsberg wrote on July 26. “Sheaf, I ama married man.” Skogsberg’s predicament was one that innumerable married couples, severed by the war, struggled with during their long-distance separation. Letters helped, and billions of correspondence flowed between those in the military and their loved ones back home. But to many young men and women overseas or in the States, a letter was no substitute for the intimacy they craved after months and even years apart. “I am sure you will never want to see me again,” Skogsberg concluded in his letter to Sheaf, “and you have every right to feel that way, but I want you to know that you are still very dear to me. So long and good luck.” Much to his surprise, the very next evening he was handed a message from Sheaf, assuring him she was not angry and still wanted to correspond with him. (Regrettably, all of Sheaf’s wartime letters have been lost.) In August 1943, when Skogsberg’s unit and the Ninety-third went their separate ways, the two continued writing to one another. Skogsberg, however, was becoming increasingly anxious about the relationship, and on January 1, 1944, he sent Sheaf the following:
Dear Sheaf,
Here’s that man again. How goes the battle in Italy?
This being New Year’s day I suppose resolutions are in order. I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions and when you hear this one I’m pretty sure you will think, “What a crazy mixed-up kid this is!” And you will be right, I really am crazy and mixed up. My conscience has been gnawing away at me for some time and has finally gotten the best of me. To put it in a nut-shell, it is, “No more hanky-panky!” This means no more dating and no more letter writing. In truth, I hate making this resolution as your letters have meant so much to me. But I keep thinking, “What if something happened to me and one of your letters was sent to my home.” Maybe my wife would understand, for there has never been anything in any of our letters that either of us need to be ashamed of But then again, maybe she wouldn’t. And what about my parents, would they be ashamed of me?
Well, I don’t want to hurt any of them, but I don’t want to hurt you either. Maybe I am flattering myself to think you would care. At least, I know you will understand. Anyway, it was great while it lasted. Wish it could continue.
Well Sheaf, I hope that ’44 will be a good year for you and I wish you the best of everything. And I hope that if you ever run into a guy like me you will recognize him immediately for what he is.
Thanks for everything.
As ever,
Skogsberg immediately regretted mailing the letter. But it was too late. Three months passed and he didn’t hear from Sheaf, not even to say she agreed, or was hurt by his comments, or hoped to change his mind. On April 2 he read that bombs had fallen on hospitals at the Anzio beachhead in Italy, killing two nurses. Certain that the Ninety-third was there, Skogsberg wrote to Sheaf. Almost two months later, just as he was about to give up hope, a letter arrived from Sheaf apologizing for the delay and explaining that she had been in the hospital to have her appendix removed. (She had indeed been at Anzio during the shelling—a silver-dollar-sized piece of shrapnel had even zipped through her tent—but she was unhurt.) Once again they were corresponding regularly, and Skogsberg could not have been more elated. “You have no idea what you do for me,” he gushed in August 1944. “Half an hour ago I was ready to burst and then I am handed your letter of 30–3 July and what do I do? I melt.” What he wanted most of all was to see her again. After winning a three-day authorization pass in a card game, he planned to surprise Sheaf in Paris, where he had learned she would be visiting. It had been eighteen months since they had seen each other, and Skogsberg could hardly contain himself. The night before they met, Skogsberg—after a few drinks—revealed his feelings for her. (Lorraine was Sheaf’s middle name.)
23 Feb ’45
Dear Lorraine,
Good evening, Honey. Tonight I am celebrating and as you can guess I have had a few too many. You see, there is plenty of bourbon and gin at this club and tonight I have had more than my share. First I went to a movie and then it was booze time. But there are others that have fared worse than I. There are several “out cold” in the halls here.
Honey, have I ever told you that I love you. No? Well Sweetheart, I am telling you now, and not just because I am tipsy. To confirm it I will tell you again in the morning when I am cold sober I’ve kept this inside me as long as I could. So, until then, Sweetheart—I love you, and I’ll be dreaming of you until then. Goodnight kiddo.
Love and Kisses,
Paul
Here I am again, Honey. It is morning, not bright yet, but it is early and I am cold sober. Yes, I do love you and have been bursting at the seams for a long time wanting to say that to you. See you soon.
All my love and kisses
Paul
Sheaf never responded directly to the letter and their correspondences remained those of close friends or pen-pals. Skogsberg was torn. Sheaf was the woman he loved, but if they married he would have to go through an agonizing divorce back home. But, he also reasoned, it was a separation that might happen anyway; he and his wife had married hastily when war was declared, did not have children, and had not spent more than a few months together before he was shipped overseas. Skogsberg also rationalized that, if he didn’t survive the war, there would be no need to choose. And this was not unthinkable. Skogsberg was seriously wounded in action in February 1943, and he had had a close call in April 1945 when a bullet struck him in the head. (Luckily, he was wearing his helmet.) When the war ended that May, he and Sheaf were very much alive, and Skogsberg was still in turmoil.
June 2
Dear Sheaf,
I don’t suppose you are sitting in tonight thinking of me, but I will write to you anyway. I must admit that I am a bit on the lonely side tonight and I am feeling blue. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, do you? I guess you do. Couldn’t be that I miss you, could it?
You know Sheaf, my mind has not been at ease for a long time. I’ve got troubles and need someone to talk to. Should I tell my troubles to you? No, maybe that’s not such a good idea. It might complicate things more. We never were ones for saying much, were we? I believe we have both been doing a lot of thinking. I have found myself deep, deep in thought lately and saying over and over “I wish, I wish, I wish.” And what do I wish? I wish I could tell you. Maybe someday I will. It is hard to say and it is even harder not to say. Yes, maybe I will tell you. I am not much of a letter writer and probably a lot of them sound silly, but at least these letters let you know I am thinking of you. And this is probably the dopiest one of all.
I suppose you are having a good time on your leave. At least the guys who manage to date you will be happy. I don’t suppose you are having a moment to or by yourself. I am green with envy. I might as well admit it. I know I have no right to feel that way, but there are some things you just cannot control. I suppose I should say, I hope you meet some nice guy who will treat you right, but I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I said that.
I guess I had better sign off before I crack wide open! Nite, see you in dreamland, and as the song goes, “You Can’t Stop Me From Dreaming.”
Love,
Paul
Two weeks later, Skogsberg made up his mind and proposed to Sheaf. She did not say yes—right away. First, he had to promise to explain everything to his wife. (He did, and they divorced three months after he returned.) Second, she said, “You’d better not get into any more messes.” He gave his word he wouldn’t. (He did not, and they married in 1947 and have been together ever since.) Not all such affairs, of course, occurred abroad. The strain for spouses and sweethearts on the homefront proved excruciating for many of them as well. The wait was too long, the uncertainty too great, and the temptations too overpowering. Serving aboard the USS Ajax, an auxiliary repair ship in the Pacific, twenty-five-year-old Seaman Sylvan “Sol” Summers had the wind knocked out of him by a succinct, handwritten letter from the States. Dated March 25, 1945, it was from his fiancée, back home in the Bronx.
Dear Sol,
I know its been quite some time since you last heard from me and no doubt you’ve been wondering why the long absence. This is by far the most difficult thing I’ve had to do and you must realize how much it pains me to do this.
I’ve always been honest with you Sol & I believe you deserve only the truth from me, for you yourself are so fine & wonderful a person. So I’ll be perfectly honest with you, I’ve met someone I care for very much.
I realize too well how you must feel right now, but do you think it fair to give only part of my devotion to you? You deserve more than that, for you are too fine a person to receive anything halfway about it. And it would never be fair to either of us.
Don’t think for a moment that it was your fault Sol. I don’t believe it was either of our faults. Neither of us wished to have things happen as they did. It just happened & we can’t do anything about it. Guess they call it fate.
You’ve been wonderful to me all along & I think you are one of the grandest, sincerest people I’ve had the honor of meeting. I’m certain you’ll meet someone in the very near future who will be able to give you what I can no longer give. For someone as fine and understanding a person as you Sol deserves only the best in life.
I’m returning your gifts & the ring to your mother, which I believe is the only fair thing to do. Thank her & your Dad for being so wonderful to me. If I could but spare you & them all this, believe me Sol, I would, but I see no way.
Please try to find some forgiveness in your heart, for I honestly didn’t want it this way, but I guess it just had to be.
I’d like very much to remain friends but that of course is entirely up to you.
Here’s wishing you the very best in life, for all who know you, know full well, that you certainly deserve it. Good luck to you always & here’s wishing you a happy voyage home & soon.
Although his crewmates made a ritual of gathering together their “Dear John” letters into a small pile, lighting them on fire, and ceremoniously dumping the ashes into the sea, Summers never threw Annette’s letter away. (As heartbreaking as the rejection was, it turned out for the best: after the war Summers met and proposed to the love of his life, Rose Lee Nowack. She said yes, and they remain happily married to this day.) Some couples endured rocky times even before the men headed overseas. 1st Lt. John David Hench, in training in Corpus Christi, Texas, received a letter from his wife, Barbara, confessing that she had been unfaithful to him. Overwhelmed with remorse, she emphasized she still loved her husband and did not want to end their marriage. Hench, understandably upset but remarkably forgiving about the matter, explained why her actions pained him.
March 8, 1943
Dear Bobs:
There is nothing for me to say as far as I can decide concerning your nocturnal adventures. I am deeply hurt, more so than I ever dreamed I could be, but I think I know why, and I’ll try later to explain my reasons. Regardless of your strength of character and will, I love you and consequently, the whole matter is finished with the completion of this sentence!
The reason behind my hurt, however, cannot be disregarded. I find it comes from being or at least trying to be an officer in the United States Marine Corps. I am no longer an individual. My ego, which has always been large, is now part of the Espirit de Corps that make the corps the fightenest bunch of men in the world. A Marine is more honest, more truthful, more military in his bearing than any other type of man. He is forced to be all Marine by those under him and unless those under him respect and admire his judgement, ability and character, those above him will soon lose faith. To be a good Marine is to be more than a man, and to be, as I want to be, the best Marine is to draw more outside of myself and make me more than I am now. I am fighting every weak impulse, every soft tendency in my body to gain for myself the respect and approval of other Marines. This is hard. I work long hours, fly long hours, and study long hours to be all that I dream you, staying behind me, hope I am. The forgoing gives you some background as to why I was so dreadfully hurt by what you told me. Now, a failure of will or character to me, regardless of reason, is so much graver an offense than ever before, primarily because if I ever failed in one of those respects, I’d have to quit.
I hope you understand now something of the life I am trying to carve out for us. I am proud of my uniform and my title of officer; surely, I can’t be requested to be less proud of those I love even more dearly, and of whom am even more proud.
I am sorry not to have written sooner, but I just didn’t have anything to say.
New: I AM FINISHED PRIMARY!!
My new address is: BOQ Aux. Cabiniss Field, Corpus Christi. I am house hunting after I finish this letter. So I should be able to let you know the 15th!
I start in Basic tomorrow and my new ground school starts Monday! So I’ll be rushed for a while.
Must close now.
Love,
J.D.
P.S. I hope you all are feeling a hell of a lot better!
Several days later Hench wrote again to his wife, who was still consumed with guilt about the incident. (“The boys,” mentioned at the end of the letter, are their two young sons, Michael and Christopher.)
March 11, 1943
Dearest:
Spent another hour or so on the phone today with no luck whatsoever. We may have to take one of these little 3 room shacks for the time being, but even that would be better than this ghastly separation.
All your letters which I got today are so sad and mournful of your midnight adventure. Forget it—it’s not going to change anything. Our life together has never had sex as its main and unfailing point of contact. We have evolved some relationship between ourselves which far transcends the mere physical contacts of sex. Sex, as we both agree, is a wonderful emotional background for marriage, but it is by no means the cornerstone of the foundation. That is “Sense of Humor” or at least as far as I am concerned, sense of humor is much more important than Sex. This, of course, doesn’t mean that I shall condone or even put up with any more nonsense like that, for the act of yours was, as far as I’m concerned, about the lowest anyone can pull. Because it was just giving in to promiscuity. If you thought or believed yourself dreadfully in love or something like that, I might understand it. But just leaping into bed with strangers is the business of some women, the pleasure of others, but my wife fits neither of these categories. Enough said!
Keep right in with your plans for moving. I’ll find something. If necessary you could always get a room or two in a tourist court until we can find a home.
I started formation today. How I hate it. It keeps you keyed up fit to kill. Got two 4.0’s in my first two tests in ground school. Looks like I’m doing all right. Keep the letters coming. I love you dear. Kiss the boys for their Dad.
Less than a year later Capt. John David Hench was in the Pacific, where he earned the Distinguished Flying Cross for his skills as a marine Corsair pilot. His relationship with his wife was stronger than ever. “I love you darling,” he reminded her in a letter dated March 6, 1944, “and each day apart from you is only a half a day lived.” Soon after writing this, Capt. Hench was returning from a mission in the Solomon Islands when the throttle went out in his plane. He successfully ditched in the ocean, swam to his inflatable life raft, and, once in, waved to his comrades circling above. It was the last anyone saw of him. Devastated by her husband’s death, Barbara Hench never remarried.