Postcards Dad sent to Mom during WWII.

My parents planned to marry in June, 1941. But one month earlier, the U.S. navy called Dad to active duty. They postponed their wedding until war’s end—not knowing at that time, when that might be. If ever. On December 7, 1941, Dad was at Charleston Naval Base in South Carolina. On December 8, he shipped out for the Pacific.

Security was tight. Communication between loved ones was controlled and highly censored. Dad devised a simple, visual way to dodge the censors and let his fiancé know he was okay and even where he was: postcards! He seldom wrote anything on the back, not even his name. It was feared such bits of information could lead clever spies to deduce specific personnel and ship movements. At least that’s what people were told then. What was really feared was that uncensored news of the horrific things going on might leak to the American public, affecting all-important home front morale. Regardless, in a time when personal communication was almost entirely restricted to surface (or air!) mail, that medium was now severely limited.

So, throughout the war’s duration, Mom received a steady stream of insipid postcards from all over the planet. She affixed each one into her scrapbook (note the aged tape along an edge of the cards shown above). But there was a personal message beneath the bland images. The front of a card might illustrate a corny joke. Dad’s questionable taste aside, this let her know he was in good spirits. Or, it could have the touristy picture of a landmark or pretty scene. He was telling her he’d been there, seen that, sent the postcard. More importantly to her was the un-censorable postmark on the back. He was telling her that on this date, in this place he was thinking of her.