WEDNESDAY, August 15, 1945, dawned sunny and hot across vast reaches of the forty-eight states that formed the American republic. Paperboys cycled on their delivery rounds, barely noticing the seemingly endless succession of small blue-starred banners in living-room windows that reminded passersby that one or more occupants of that home were active members of the armed forces of the United States. An ever-increasing number of the blue stars had been replaced by gold ones, a silent reminder that a family member had made the supreme sacrifice in the service of his or her country. Nearly 400,000 windows now held gold star banners in this 1,347th day since the Day of Infamy at Pearl Harbor had plunged the United States into World War II.
As the sun rose higher, housewives and mothers made their daily excursions to grocery stores, butcher shops, and clothing stores, carefully clutching multicolored booklets of ration coupons that largely determined the eating habits, clothing styles, and transportation arrangements of every American over thirty days old. Butchers informed customers what meats were available that day, grocers apologized for the absence of several varieties of canned fruits and vegetables, and restaurant patrons breathed a sigh of relief that today was not a meatless Tuesday or Friday so that a relatively complete menu was available.
Housewives were not the only people on the street. Children walked, ran, or roller-skated with the carefree abandon of pupils on summer vacation; teenage girls in bobby sox and saddle shoes playfully teased boys in baggy pants and crumpled fedoras; older men sat contentedly in the sunshine in the town park or played checkers with cronies. Yet a casual visitor would soon notice that this picturesque scene included very few young men. Millions of young Americans were either overseas in war zones, preparing for combat in training camps, or working in the never-shuttered factories that made the weapons for a conflict that General Dwight Eisenhower had recently named the Great Crusade.
The 130 million Americans of 1945 who were living in this time of high drama and significant personal sacrifice were part of a society that seemed incredibly modern and fast moving, compared even to the relatively recent turn of the century just four decades earlier. Daily newspapers, lavishly illustrated magazines, and theatrical films and newsreels were major elements in a sensory bombardment that addressed the entire enterprise called the “War Effort.” But the most intimate yet universal source of knowledge was the radio, which had become the centerpiece of virtually every family’s living room. Whether it took the form of an ornate mahogany console with rows of illuminated dials or an inexpensive table model with a few functional knobs, a radio was the lifeline to the outside world as authoritative, well-modulated voices kept listeners informed of the dramatic, sometimes tragic, events that marked a nation engaged in total war.
In the preceding twelve years, even before the terrible news of Pearl Harbor in 1941, the most recognizable voice on the radio was the melodious, confident diction of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who, through his “fireside chats,” seemed to become an additional family member in the parlor. Just as the Nazi Reich entered its final days, a radio voice trembling with emotion announced that the commander-in-chief had died in Warm Springs, Georgia. A grief-stricken nation mourned its fallen leader, even as it heard of the death of Hitler and the surrender of the German Wehrmacht.
A new voice now entered American living rooms—the flat, businesslike cadence of former Missouri senator Harry S. Truman, who was catapulted from relative obscurity into the Oval Office. Thus when network announcers notified their audience that the president would address the nation at 2 P.M., Eastern War Time, on this summer afternoon, the voice that followed still seemed a bit strange, especially to the millions of American children who had known only one president in their living memory.
Harry Truman may have sounded a bit too abrupt to be pictured sitting by the family fireside, but the message he delivered was likely the best news in the lifetimes of most Americans. After almost four years of war, 400,000 American deaths, and 50 million worldwide fatalities, the Emperor of Japan had accepted Allied surrender terms, and peace was about to return to the United States. Twelve million American servicemen and servicewomen would now return to civilian life and experience every conceivable type of reunion, from family picnics to engagement parties to wedding celebrations. Marines occupying the bleak landscape of Iwo Jima, airmen stationed on bomber bases in England, sailors serving on destroyers in the Pacific Ocean, soldiers manning foxholes against the last sporadic Japanese resistance on Okinawa, and nurses captured on Bataan and held in Manila internment camps for three years were all coming home. Some would come home to spouses and children, others to fiancées, boyfriends, or girlfriends. Many had met someone special during their service activities. However these young American men and women had developed relationships that led to marriage, they would produce a second legacy beyond winning World War II and securing the American way of life and the dreams that accompanied it. During the next two decades this “Greatest Generation” would in turn create a new generation of almost 76 million boys and girls who, despite enormous differences in lifestyle, education, and attitude, would share membership in a group that would soon be called simply the “Baby Boomers.” America would never again be quite the same.