by Anna Elizabeth “Betty” Robertson Digby
Usually when I recall bygone days, my mind returns to the peaceful setting of my childhood and all is seen against a backdrop of nature, wooded hills, and an endless sky.
Today, however, memory turns to the white marble and granite structures of Washington, DC. I see myself standing on the Capitol Steps or eating a bit of lunch on the grassy slope between the Navy Department building on Constitution Avenue and the Lincoln Reflecting Pool. I sit by myself or with a friend dressed Mainbocher-designed Navy uniforms.
Our daily routine during the war involved walking across the Arlington Memorial Bridge that spanned the Potomac River and connected the bustle of the War Department at 21st and Virginia Ave NW with the silence of Arlington Cemetery and our WAVE barracks, Lincoln Memorial looming mid-way.
In March of 1945, after a cold winter of training in New York and Iowa, I stepped off the train in Washington to a warm, sunny day, and was greeted by hundreds of strikingly- beautiful white and pink blossoms of the “Oriental” cherry trees. That’s what they were called during the war years, as nothing good could be labeled “Japanese.”
The WAVE barracks at Arlington Farms, the old Robert E. Lee estate–were in a perfect setting – on a main road to downtown Arlington, where we could hop a bus to a Hot Shoppe for a hamburger or an ice cream treat before lights out. We lived away from the constant bustle of work, yet near enough, so we still felt connected to our purpose in being there.
Our housing was surrounded by wild honeysuckle and looked out on a vast expanse of sky – a perfect place to see a shooting star–meteoroids that leave a bright tail behind)- or watch a blazing sunset and its reflection in the river below. On occasion, we heard the faint sounds of a Sousa march – “The Stars and Stripes Forever” or “Taps” – closing a nearby Marine concert.
Although our WAVE housing was primitive compared to today’s standards, it was far better than what I had back home.
In the Navy, I had a bed of my own — the top of a bunk bed – and my own dresser and metal wardrobe space, in a partitioned cubicle, with access to a large room with enclosed showers and other bathroom facilities.
My roommate, Helen Peterson, and I were friends from the beginning. She came from Binghamton, New York, and lived in a multigenerational extended family much the same as mine. As a WAVE, Helen was assigned to work with commissioned attorneys in the Judge Advocate General’s office. I worked with commissioned patent attorneys in Research and Inventions (the office of Admiral Harold Bowen, who was also assigned as special assistant to the President).
Helen really helped to expand my horizons. Coming from a Russian background, she enrolled for a night class in Russian at the American University so she could better communicate with her grandparents. I joined with her, not realizing how difficult it would be to master a language that was written in non-English letters and characters!
During the few years I was in Washington, my world expanded beyond anything I could have imagined. I made more friends than I had in my entire childhood. One friend, Philip Churchill, an attorney with whom I worked, lived in neighboring Georgetown. He would invite Helen and me to Sunday dinners and afternoons with his wife and young son.
This was my first experience in a home with domestic help – paid persons who served our meals and helped with other needs. I felt uncomfortable at first, but everyone was so friendly and genuine that I soon looked forward to our times together.
When the war ended, Philip returned to his former place of employment, Fish, Richardson & Neave, a large patent law firm based in New York City. Helen and I were invited for a weekend with his family at his home in Scarsdale, New York, where we stayed in a studio-cottage nestled among his back-yard landscaping. There was never any feeling of class differences, as I had experienced back home. I was enjoying a friendship that happened to give me a taste of how some other people lived.
Another attorney I met was Jo Bailey Brown – one of the most outstanding patent attorneys in our country – recipient of many prestigious awards – who would occasionally come to town to talk with one of the heads of our patent department.
Near the end of the war, he said he would have a place for me in his law firm if I returned to the Pittsburgh area. I was working conscientiously, always doing my best, but I was also growing socially and intellectually. No matter the circumstances, I would not be the same person when I returned to my little valley home of West Liberty, Pennsylvania.
Those years in Washington were not just a time of transformation for me – they also saw great changes for our nation. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the only President I knew during my childhood. My cousins and I would sit on logs near the bridge where we played and re-hash Roosevelt’s famous Fireside Chats we heard on the radio. Those radio talks were our only connection with the outside world of high power and influence. They kept us informed of national and international affairs in a language we could understand. Roosevelt sat behind a desk in the White House and spoke informally to the people, like a friend, and always ended with a personal touch. Those broadcasts made us feel as if the President was by our side, taking care of us and the country.
After high school, I attended the Stenotype Institute of Pittsburgh, on my way to becoming a court reporter.
But Pearl Harbor changed everything. On December 8, 1941, at 12:30 in the afternoon, I was sitting with a dozen or so of the students and faculty from the Stenotype Institute when President Roosevelt gave a different kind of speech.
He told us that “Yesterday, December 7, 1941 – a date that will live in infamy – the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
Three years later, on the lunch hour of my 20th birthday, I enlisted in the WAVES. My stenotype skills ensured I was sent to Washington, D.C., the city where Roosevelt lived. I would be working near the President. The very thought was thrilling.
But just a few weeks after my arrival in Washington – before I ever saw or heard him speak – Roosevelt, our great President, was gone.
I had faced death only once before, when Grandpap, with whom I had been living, died. Grandpap had no friends other than family. Roosevelt was beloved by millions.
April 14, 1945 was hot,and sunny. Flags flew at half-staff over the Capitol and White House, and all Government offices were closed. Thousands of mourners lined the streets to witness the cortege as it processed from Union Station to the White House, where Roosevelt’s closed casket would lie in repose for four hours before a private service for family and a few friends and government officials. I stood on Pennsylvania Avenue – front row – in full-dress Navy uniform, waiting to offer my gratitude and respect to our Commander-in-Chief. A police motorcade led the procession, followed by armored vehicles carrying infantry men. All branches of the Service had marching units– and the Navy and Marine bands played “Ruffles and Flourishes” four times. There were honor guards along the entire route – everything was according to a government protocol unknown to me.
As soon as I saw the American flag, I stood at military attention, and when it came to my area, I saluted and held that posture until the last of the immediate cortege passed by.
There were six light grey, nearly white, horses, two-by-two, with a rider only on the left-rank horse, pulling a four-wheeled Army caisson that held the flag-draped coffin and body of our beloved President.
One riderless horse followed. No one waved or shouted – the only sound was the clattering of hooves. Thinking I heard the drone of aircraft, I looked up into the cloudless sky and could see a squadron of bombers approaching, with six fighter planes in formation underneath. As the fighters came near, one of them swooped down over the cortege and then back up to formation.
It was stirring beyond description, a sight I’ll never forget.
I was so moved by the morning events that I returned to the White House later in the day so I could stand at the fence with hundreds of other mourners wanting to say a last goodbye to Roosevelt before the horse-drawn caisson slowly made its way back to Union Station, where the President’s train was waiting to take him to Hyde Park, New York, his home and final resting place.
I thought of those days nearly 80 years ago when I made what might be my last trip to Washington in the fall of 2004. I returned to the place where I once served my country, where I learned the meaning of dedication and comradeship.
I visited the World War II Memorial and wandered slowly past the granite and bronze structures and fountains commemorating the European Theater of Operations. At one point, I broke down thinking about my late husband, David Lee Digby, who served in the 190th Field Artillery at so many battles between Normandy and Germany.
It all brought to my mind, for the first time, the historical importance, as well as personal significance, of that time during World War II. I had never before thought of it that way. And I realize now that my seeing and touching the cold surfaces of the World War Il Memorial after so many years, brought closure.
It was my tribute and final goodbye to long-gone, treasured friends – Joe, my friend from stenotype school who had listened with me to Roosevelt’s announcement of war, enlisted shortly thereafter, and later piloted a downed fighter plane.
Ed, who was on the Bunker Hill aircraft carrier covering the invasion of Okinawa when it was struck and set afire by two Kamikazes.
Cousin Louis, who was in the 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry Regiment, 1st Infantry Division, that was in the first-day amphibious invasions of North Africa, Sicily, and Normandy, and fought through perilous territory on its way to Germany – awarded the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, and the Purple Heart for his gallantry in action – and then killed in the Battle of Aachen.
And Ross Reno, only child of a widowed mother who was reported “Missing in Action” early in the war and never came home. Even today, he remains among the 23,000 from World War II still listed as missing.
The Washington scene that I recall is no longer there. It has been replaced by the National Mall and sundry memorials, museums and cultural centers. The temporary War Department buildings have been torn down, and reflecting pools have proliferated. Nothing stays the same.
The best we can hope for is that some of the proverbial roses we once stopped to smell are still there; that cherry blossoms will always welcome us in the springtime; and the fragrance of the honeysuckle will still be lingering around the river shore, where it once grew wild.
