LADY FROM ARVIN

Where we're going is a little out of the way. So, you keep a sharp eye for that turnoff signpost. And after you make the turn, you'll go through Wheatpatch. That's right. Wheatpatch. Then comes Arvin. Arvin, California. A typical Western small town. Looks about the same now as it did before the war. Nice, normal bunch of folks. It was just before the Christmas mailing deadline. And the post office was the busiest spot in town. Just about everybody was sending a gift somewhere. To the young fellows from Arvin. All over the world now. Over in a corner sorting out her share of the mail to be delivered is Effie Mae. Quite a lady, Effie. She's been hauling all kinds of mail in all kinds of weather for 16 years. Since the war, she loves to see the V-mail come in. And honks her horn like a kid in a jalopy when she delivers any. Because Effie knows that mail from overseas is going to do double duty before she's finished with it. Effie got the idea more than a year ago over at the Red Cross while she and Mrs. Bone Steel were rolling bandages. She was relaying some of the news about the men overseas that she'd picked up from families on her route. And Mrs. Bone Steel said she knew her son in the South Pacific would like to hear about the other fellows from Arvin. Well, pretty soon all the news about men in uniform that Effie could collect was in a special issue of the town's weekly paper and mailed to every last man from Arvin. Effie got quite a kick out of the letters of appreciation that came in from those APOs. So, she's hard at it again for a second year. There's more than mail traveling with Effie. There's a scratch pad and a pencil so she can jot down everything that might be of interest to the men from Arvin wherever they are. About passing the Rock Pile School, for instance, and seeing the youngsters at play during recess. And of the three mothers at her first stop waiting for news from their sons. Mrs. Woods with two in the Marines and one in the Navy. Mrs. Stamba, mother of a gunner on a B-29 in India. And Mrs. Garrett with a Navy son in the South Pacific. Plenty of news here for that special issue of the paper. There's more than people to be written about. Like the new fields of wire that most of the men have never seen. In three more years this crop will be harvested for synthetic rubber. And Effie writes of the cotton fields along her route. And the ladies and the kids and the old men doing the picking. She writes of the kids running to meet her for the mail that didn't come just like she saw the men from Arvin do so long ago. And how the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Long light up when she bangs on the horn to announce mail from their two sons somewhere in the ETO. A letter from either one of the Long boys means more news for reporter Effie. It's been a little tough on the Longs running their farm without the boys, but the mail is a powerful tonic. At Martha Wilson's place, Effie sees that monthly get-together of the young wives whose husbands are away. Always a jackpot for Effie here because the girls get together to exchange news of their men and snapshots from far off. And if Corporal Wilson of the 9th Air Force is looking, here's that youngest one you haven't seen. Later these kids will be cared for by one mother while the others go to Bakersfield for their one movie a month. Civilian style rotation. Down the road a bit, Mrs. Lister is waiting with a package for her son in the Pacific. And Johanna McBride isn't forgetting her navy brother. And down at the camp where the Mexican nationals come in to help the Americans harvest the crops, there's quite a bit of mail addressed to Americans overseas. Like the husband of Ramona Martinez, who sent her his Purple Heart from a hospital in England. Effie writes that her sale of war stamps and bonds is very good here. And in her report to the men from Marvin, Effie tells of the solid truckloads of people leaving the Di Giorgio packing plant in the morning heading to the vineyards. Women mostly and men brought in from Mexico. Some of the grapes are already picked and are drying in papers on the ground. Just about everybody works in the vineyards at the peak of the crop. Eleanor Sue Jones is a college girl, a little proud of the dust and sweat of the vineyards. Henrietta Culture is another one of the many volunteers in the AWBS with a sister in the Red Cross in Italy. It's a 9-hour day for the gals, 6 days a week. And the entire crop goes to the army. The raisins, Joe, not the ladies. In the big Di Giorgio packing house, the women are by Mrs. Dolly Workman, who often gives Effie news about her two brothers in the Marines and the one in the navy. And Effie has a woman's pride about her friend Mrs. Bryant, who stayed on the job the day she learned that one of her boys was lost in Africa. Rex Davis is a quiet young fellow discharged from the navy with a Purple Heart and a Presidential Unit Citation. And his co-workers don't even know he's ever been in uniform. Collecting the news and jotting down her impressions while she delivers the mail makes a pretty long day for Effie, but she loves it. She tells the men of the Milo Maze crop good heavy feed and the side of Bear Mountain from the highway and the huge crop of potatoes stored in the new warehouses built this year and the new bank that finally made Arvin feel like a city. Finally, Effie goes to the little plant of the weekly paper, the Arvin Tiller, and turns over all her news to the publisher, printer, business manager, editor, and linotype operator, Mr. Ree. And in a couple of days, a special issue is coming off the press ready to be mailed all over the world to men who want to know every last thing there is to know about their hometown and their people and their pals who are fighting on other fronts. Effie has a little thought for the men away from home. She realizes that a letter from home can mean everything to them, but she wishes they could see the faces of the mothers, the wives, the fathers, the youngsters when a letter reaches home from a man overseas. It's enough to put a lump in your throat even after you've been delivering good news and bad for 16 years. Well, that's the story of the lady from Arvin. Nice going, Effie. Back aways, back in 1941, this was our house with a little fence around it. A fence keeps out some things, but it doesn't keep out sparks. Our neighbor's house was burning down. We had a garden hose. Now, we could have sat down and figured out exactly, to the penny, what our garden hose was worth. Precisely how much the nozzle cost us. But our house was in danger. So, we lent that hose. Our garden hose was lend-lease. The first lend-lease helped Britain, Russia, China. And when the Axis ganged up on us, we were not alone. We had fighting allies. Together we formed the United Nations. And in our common cause we shared what we had. We pulled our armies, our resources, our ships, everything. Lend-lease began working both ways. Give and take. Japs threatening our West Coast. Japs threatening the canal. Britain rushed us the AA guns and the barrage balloons we needed. Nazi submarines off our eastern seaports, torpedoing, shelling, sinking. Britain sent us corvettes and trawlers. Hitler driving toward Moscow. American and British lend-lease planes and tanks helped stop him in his tracks. Rommel breaking through to Suez. American Lend-Lease helped plug the gap. Lend-Lease helped block the enemy while we gained time. Time to build ships. Time to build factories. Time to build our fighting forces. Time to move them overseas. The United States hurried men to the Southwest Pacific. And through reverse Lend-Lease, Australia and New Zealand furnished them with clothes, shoes, hospitals, food. We sent our allies what they lacked. Tools, machinery, seeds. The United States shipped men to Great Britain to join in the building of tremendous allied invasion armies. Britain furnished us with airfields, hospitals, bombs, Spitfires. We sent every weapon we could spare as fast as we could to Russia. And the Russians furnished us with dead German soldiers. Everything we could get there, we did our best to get to China. And the Chinese armies furnished us dead Japs. Lend-Lease in action. Give and take by 35 United Nations. Together, we put it on the line. Together, we forged one weapon. Who made the parts, how much the parts cost, isn't the point. The point is, we are attacking. This bomb will be paid for by the Nazis and the Japs. The price they will pay is unconditional surrender. Joe was about 3 years old, maybe 3 and 1/2, the day they found him wandering down this lonely road in Yunnan. But he was old enough to be scared of soldiers. But soldiers to Joe meant bayonets and a burning house, and his mother lying very still beside it. No, at first Joe didn't see the difference between uniforms and ours. But the old farmer who reminded him of his grandfather knew the difference. Somehow, when the GIs from the nearby 14th Air Force bomber base began talking to Joe, finally scooped him up and put him in their chariot, which they called a jeep, he began to understand, too. These soldiers were friends. They took Joe back to their base and presented him to their company commander. The interview was pretty frightening. A lot of talk about something called a T.O. and whether there was room for Joe in it. Finally, the captain said there was always room for a good man. Everybody seemed pretty happy. All except Joe. Was it good or bad to get in a T.O.? Joe decided it was good. Before he found himself with a couple of hundred bodies taking turns knocking themselves out over him. Then he found himself decked out in some extra fancy issue, getting a special assignment from the company commander. And it was a pretty important assignment as anyone could see. The first sergeant sat here. Right next to him sat his assistant. Joe, called Tiger because he was fierce. Yeah, that's how the story of Tiger Joe began. And Joe, like all the kids adopted by GIs the world over, became just about the most important man in the company. They had given Joe a home. But at the same time, he had succeeded in bringing their home a couple of thousand miles nearer. There's something about teaching a three-year-old how to use a knife and fork that can remind a man of more good things than all the movies and magazines in the world. And every night when Joe was put to bed in an army bunk instead of a baby's crib, his foster fathers would remember some of the reasons why they were soldiers fighting a half a world away from their own homes and their own families. But it wasn't all easy going for Joe by any means. Like the rest of the company, he had his soldiering to do, too. When they stood inspections, there was Joe standing very straight and dressing on the guy next to him. An assistant first sergeant has to set an example for his men. No matter how hard the CEO inspected, somehow Joe never got a gig. Well, this is about the end of Tiger Joe's story. Maybe it isn't a very important story. Then again, maybe it is. Because maybe Tiger Joe is one of the reasons we're fighting this war. So that in generations to come, other little Joes will be running home from school instead of tagging behind a platoon of soldiers.