[Virgil] Pinkley returned Friday [blacked out] still rather ill with a chest trouble resembling pleurisy that he contracted in New York “from dashing in and out of those sweltering eighty-degree office buildings.” … Pinkley gave forth as follows: (1) He was very sorry that he missed you. He described his antics while searching for a beautiful red, copper, or auburn head at both exit gates until the crowd thinned to only a few among which he saw no one resembling what he thought you should look like. He then went to Western Union to dispatch a telegram to his wife, wandered to the newsstand to buy some postcards, and departed. (2) He showed me your letter to him. (3) He said New York was highly pleased with my work, that I was slated for one of the three, four, or five-man bureaus as bureau chief with some hope that in two or three years I would be moving into top job in one of the three main-line bureaus—Paris, Berlin or London. It all listens good—but we shall see.
I’m absolutely worn out with working so hard. I’ve been missing a lot of meals or forcing down some horrible brown bread and Spam sandwich in order to direct every move of the air war coverage. I’d like to be able to take a rest of a week or so but with the story getting bigger and bigger every day that is, of course, impossible. Incidentally, since I seem to be on the subject of health, I’ve noticed in recent letters indications that your eyes are bothering you. Honey, I do wish you would see about them and get glasses if necessary. It would be better to wear them while doing close work now than have to wear them all the time later. I love you. Walter
NEVER BEFORE IN his life (and certainly never again) would Cronkite spend as much time fretting about food and clothing as he did during the war.
Monday, March 20, 1944
My darlingest Betsy:
If I can get my jaws unstuck I’ll chat with you a little while this evening. I got the quart of lovely pineapple juice, the nuts, and the toffee you mailed Feb. 2 today. I’ve just finished one of the boxes of nuts and am now wrapped up in the toffee—and I do mean wrapped up. Thanks so much, honey. I feel a little guilty, though, since just today I also got a letter from Molo in which she mentioned that pineapple juice costs more points than any other. Please don’t use your points for me, darling. Things probably sound a lot worse over here than they really are and I get along okay. I do miss fruit juices, though, and if you have extra points left over juice is the most welcome of all items. Right now I’m pretty well stocked on haberdashery. I need suits rather badly but even if I could get the coupons or do a little black-market dealing, I wouldn’t spend the money … Although wartime has helped alleviate the situation a little, this country like all the old world, is still a little finicky about dress and “lounge suits” as all my tweeds are called are not quite the proper thing for dinner. Which reminds me that John Parris scored a great beat today. Through careful development for more than a year, he wangled an invitation direct from King Peter of Yugoslavia to his wedding to Alexandra, and tonight when he came in to write his story he had on the whole morning suit from top hat to grey gloves and spats. He wrote a beautiful story, too. The way he has developed his refugee government sources in the two years since he grabbed hold of that run embarrasses me in the light of my superficial reporting of the air force … I love you and Judy. Always, Walter
PULITZER PRIZE–WINNING PLAYWRIGHT William Saroyan was serving in the U.S. Army Signal Corps when Cronkite met him in London.
Cronkite had one brief encounter with the king of England during the war. More common were encounters with Hollywood royalty, such as Clark Gable, Jimmy Stewart, Adele Astaire, and in March 1944, George Stevens. Stevens commanded the unit in which Saroyan served, and would go on to film the liberation of Dachau concentration camp. In addition to The More the Merrier in 1943, Stevens had directed such films as the Rogers-Astaire musical Swing Time in 1936, Gunga Din with Cary Grant in 1939, and Woman of the Year with Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn in 1942.
Grace and Holy Trinity Cathedral, which Cronkite preferred to Westminster Abbey, was the church in Kansas City where he and Betsy were married in 1940.
Sunday, March 26, 1944
My darlingest wife:
It is now noon and, so far, this is a perfect day on all scores except the most important which is, of course, that you are not with me. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun is bright enough to penetrate the slight haze that always hangs over this city. Apparently there is no action up country that is going to call me into the office. I have no other obligations for the day. All in all, it looks as if I’m going to get a day to myself. I got up early—about eight-thirty—and shaved and dressed in my blue Bonds suit just like I had something to do. The elevator man who usually forgets this morning remembered the papers. I read them until breakfast—oh, yes, there was a hitch there. The stupid little Charlie, a midget who is one of the characters peopling this place, said there was a real, honest egg for breakfast. But when the meal came, there was only a fatty slab of what they call bacon. It seems Charlie was wrong. Ah, well. Then I walked the few blocks to Westminster Abbey in which I had never been. And now I have just come back from the morning service there. The building, of course, is lovely but it is so vast that the service in the nave is lost in it and, as a result, not nearly so impressive and so honestly inspiring as that at Grace and Holy Trinity. And the Dean’s sermon today barely compared with one of Dean Sprouse’s poorer ones. Perhaps I’m judging unfairly, because this may have been one of Westminster’s lesser ones. The fact is that all sermons fall off a little in the weeks preceding Easter. They always wander into the theologic and I am one who believes in a little more religion for the common man—a strictly practical application.
I’m going to finish this note, take it by the APO, have lunch at the officers mess (it is so large now that they are calling it “Willow Run,” or alternatively, the “Spam Room”), go by the Army hospital to see Pneumonia [Virgil] Pinkley, then to the PX for my tobacco ration, perhaps if I have time then to a new flat I’m considering (in an effort to live by myself where perhaps I can get some work done), then home. I suppose Pinkley’s room will be crowded again but I hope to hell I get a chance to talk with him alone soon because I am anxious to find out what the chances now are of getting you over here.
Last night I had dinner at Sandy’s, as I have managed to quite a bit lately, I was alone and so was the Armenian GI who had been pointed out to me once as William Saroyan, private, USA. So Saroyan and Cronkite, those two famous writers, hung over the bar together discussing mostly the American educational system until Saroyan’s pals headed by George Stevens, director of “More the Merrier,” showed up …
I love you, darlingest, and will write more tonight. Forever, Walter
Love and kisses
CRONKITE’S CAMPAIGN TO bring Betsy to London proved an emotional roller coaster. Vague assurances of interest from higher-ups at the United Press and the Kansas City Star never panned out.
Tuesday, March 28, 1944
My darlingest Betsy:
This letter is all business—the most important business we have discussed in a long time. I have started the ball rolling in a new game to get you over here but it is going to take a lot of drive, stamina, persistence on your part, honey.
I talked to Virgil [Pinkley] Sunday afternoon. He said that, because of your newspaper and radio experience, United Press would like very much to get you here and certainly could use you. But, he added, to bring you over would raise a hue and cry from other of the London staffers whose wives also are newspaper women. He suggested, therefore, that it would be far better if you could come, say, for the Kansas City Star. Because the UP would figure on perhaps sharing you with the Star on occasion, they would see that all transportation expenses were paid—thus costing the Star nothing.
Yesterday noon I talked with Marcel Wallenstein. He is crazy about the idea. As I explained to you some time ago, Wally’s principal business here is a photo agency. His Star work, although paying him well, no doubt, is strictly a sideline …
> My suggestion to Wally was that we get the Star to send you over, expenses paid by UP or even us, if necessary, and that once here you could do work for him on a space rate basis. His answer to that was that once you got here he probably would use you full time …
Darling, I feel very encouraged about this whole thing. I feel that chances are fairly good that our long separation will be ended and we can start living again. In all fairness, though, I think I should warn you again that living is not too pleasant over here right now. I’ve gone through all the horrors of it before so there is no need to repeat them, but there is need to keep them in mind. There is chance, too, that we will have further separations even if you are here—but if you are here, the separations will not be nearly so long. What we would have, is a chance to share the same experiences and the same friends again. I feel an urgent need to close the gap that with every month widens in our interests and acquaintances.
Of course I’m going to be on the old needles and pins waiting to hear from you. Write your reactions as soon as you get this letter, honey, and cable me Roberts’ reactions as soon as you see him. I’m sending along a condensed version of this by V-mail, so make plain in your answering letter that you got one or both of them, will you?…
I worship you, Walter
CRONKITE DECLARED PRIVATE war on Hitler, blaming him for the long separation from Betsy.
March 29, 1944
Dearest Betsy:
Doubt comes sharply on the heels of hope. I have been in rather frequent discussion with Ed Beattie about the possibilities of getting you over here and he, of course, is very sympathetic and helpful—as are all the boys who want to get a look at this glamorous red head I describe …
Tomorrow is our fourth anniversary. I’ve just sent you a cable, night letter, saying the only thing I seem to be able to think; that the first two years seemed to go so quickly, and the last two have dragged so horribly. Two whole years out of our lives. It makes this war with Hitler a pretty personal matter. I want to take out on him and all those responsible the months that we have missed and the hundreds of days that we never shall be able to regain. I have been terribly lonely without you, my darling. I have been busy—true. I have been on the go almost constantly. But no amount of activity, no number of new experiences, not scores of new acquaintances are sufficient to fill the gap left by you and Judy. Everything I see I want you to see with me and everything I do I want you to do with me. I don’t know that in these years we would have been able to maintain much of a home life as such, but at least we would have been together and we could have had fun …
The Pollyana approach still is the saving feature of the whole mess. We at least are doing the old building act for the future—I keep telling myself. It is a better fate than that of a lot of our contemporaries …
I love you, my precious wife. Tell all the family and little Judy that I love them, too. Walter
CRONKITE’S DRAFT DEFERMENT for color blindness was suddenly thrown into question on the eve of what he called “the big story,” i.e., the invasion, but he had faith that the United Press would straighten out the problem with his draft board.
April 9, 1944
My darlingest one:
… Don’t worry about the draft situation. The UP here immediately got a cable off to New York, after I received yours, advising them of the situation and they answered back this morning that they are appealing. I can’t tell you about it, but some behind-the-scenes machinery also is working here so that I think the possibility of my being plunged into the army, at least any time in the near future, is virtually nil and certainly no better than one to a hundred. I would hate to have to leave here right now but actually I wouldn’t mind being drafted if it meant seeing you even if but briefly.
I’m getting very nervous and jittery over impending developments. Much of the way in which UP fares when the big story breaks depends on the groundwork I lay now and the way in which the boys working for me function. The responsibility is great. I love you, Walter
CRONKITE’S STORIES THAT spring increasingly focused on the impending Allied invasion of France.
From the front-page lead story of the New York World-Telegram, April 18, 1944:
2500 U.S. PLANES END LULL BY BATTERING NAZI CAPITAL AND FRENCH INVASION COAST
By Walter Cronkite
United Press War Correspondent
LONDON, April 18—United States air forces thundered back into action against Berlin for the first time in nearly a month today when some 2000 heavy bombers and fighters struck heavy blows at the Nazi capital and other targets in Germany …
While Lt. Gen. Carl A. Spaatz’s main striking force was hammering Berlin a small formation of Liberators attacked the Pas de Calais coastal strip of France under an umbrella of Thunderbolt fighters …
Attacks on the Pas de Calais region served a dual function. Some hit genuine targets of interest, like the Nazi V-1 rocket launch sites. But they also served to draw the Germans’ attention to the region—and away from the real invasion coast of Normandy.
The story resulting from Cronkite’s ten-day trip to an unspecified location in England did not make the pages of the New York World-Telegram. And, “pleasant and interesting” as the trip may have been, he did not offer any clues in subsequent memoirs what he did. The stories that did run under his byline in April reported more raids on Berlin and the “invasion coast” of the Pas de Calais.
Monday, May 1, 1944
My darlingest Betsy:
Happy May Day, Red! Pun—just couldn’t help it. Like the story about the man who yells from the kitchen upstairs to his wife: “Honey, can I bring you a drink?” She replies: “Oh, yes, thanks, darling. And when you come up would you mind bringing me a couple of safety pins, too?” “Come down and mix your own bloody drink,” he answers.
I’ve just come back from a ten-day trip which was one of the most pleasant and interesting on which I have been since coming to England. I’m sure if I told about it here it would be slashed by censorship but perhaps the World Telegram will use the principal story I got out of it and you will get the idea. The story was moved on the wires last Tuesday night and probably would be in the April 26 issue. At any rate, the sun shined almost every one of the ten days. It was warm and I was out in the open most of the time. The result is that I feel better than I have in some months and people tell me I look better. The improved appearance is all accounted for by a hefty sunburn which I hope to turn into a tan by getting in some tennis should the weather remain at all good.
I got in three games of tennis week before last, before leaving on the trip. I played twice with Ed Murray (from the office) and once with Jim [McGlincy]. The last time I played with Ed we both seemed to be back in top form and were really slapping the ball around. We play out at Queen’s Club, one of the once swanky, Victorian London tennis clubs that have opened their doors to “Allied officers” for the war years. We rent equipment out there and the full afternoon’s expenses run only a dollar and a half or so. Right now play is on the clay courts but the grass courts will be open in mid-May. The club used to have two large indoor tennis courts and several large squash and handball courts, but they were burned out in one of the recent raids. The club house itself got one incendiary through the roof but it was doused by the eighty-year-old caretaker before much damage was done.
I got three packages and quite a batch of letters from you when I returned today. The letters practically all were concerned with the draft situation. Honey, I’m sorry but I can’t shed much light on the situation. After receiving your two cables I cabled New York to advise them of the situation, and telling them to keep you advised by telegraph of all steps. The only thing I have heard from them was the one cable two days after mine, which I think it would be a mistake for me to go meddling in the thing from here and I’m certain United Press is capable of doing whatever is necessary. Personally, I’m not very worried. As for your handling of the matter, I think it has been perfect. I know it must be har
d on you, darling, but I trust it is all right now and you can rest assured that every step you took was exactly the right one. I’ll get off another letter tomorrow. I adore you, Walter
THE UNRELENTING PACE of the air war continued in May 1944, as did the countdown to the invasion. Cronkite had never worked harder, but he could still get annoyed by a purloined byline, as evidenced in his letter of May 9, 1944.
Tuesday, May 9, 1944
My darlingest Betsy:
It has been more than a week since I have written and I feel very guilty. Most days I have been working my cockeyed head off from eight a.m. until nearly midnight and, on at least one occasion, beyond … With the air war now the biggest daily story of the world I try to get in by eight o’clock to ride it right on through from the first Air Ministry communiqué on the RAF’s night bomber activity until the last American day bomber communiqué rolls in somewhere around midnight. So now, whereas I used to ride to work around ten or ten-thirty with all the decent people here, fighting my way through brief cases and umbrellas and canes to get on the Number 11 bus, I now am one of the wage slaves and hack my way through a living wall of lunch buckets and Daily Mirrors. My showing up early has finally brought to a definite showdown this matter of by-lines. Phil Ault, who has the early desk shift, has been almost habitually signed by New York to the day air story with me being signed to the nightwire story. I could not, in the past, complain too loudly about this inasmuch as Phil did handle the first story of the morning—the RAF communiqué. But now I am handling the whole thing, Phil doesn’t touch it, and the last two days New York has again shown total disregard for the facts and put his name back on the yarn. I don’t think I’m getting to be a prima donna or anything of the kind when I insist that I get credit for the work I am doing. As long as all the responsibility for the air coverage, and the grief when it goes wrong, rests with me, by Gad sir, but I intend to get whatever credit may accrue. Jim and I have tickets for the preview of “A Canterbury Tale” tonight but I have to go back to the office to do another air piece—a “think” piece on “what it all means”—and I don’t know that I’ll finish in time for the picture, which is at ten o’clock—scandalously late for this town. I love you, honey. Forever, Walter
Cronkite's War Page 21