Slow Boat to China:
The Personal Diaries and Letters of Pegge Parker, 1942-1951
Pegge Parker
Edited by John Hlavacek
“Here is the incredible story of an adventurous Catholic girl with only a high school education who set out to ‘write herself around the world’—and did—to Washington, Alaska, China, Europe, the Middle East and beyond.”
~Max Desfor
Associated
Press Pulitzer Prize-Winning Photographer
“Parker’s story reads like a spy novel except none of it is fiction. The CIA’s mistreatment of her—widow of the first CIA officer ever killed in the line of duty—is only one thread within this powerful book. Who would have thought the CIA could manage to deny the widow of the founding father of the CIA a pension for decades? But Parker’s story is much bigger than that. Those interested in the birth of the CIA, how the CIA evaded control by the State Department over covert operations, Sino-American politics, the Soviet Union’s Atomic Weapons programs, American national technical means regarding the long range detection of atomic explosions, the Cold War, Tibet, Xingjiang, Kazakhs, White Russians in China, freelance journalism or Feminism, will find Parker’s book essential reading. Gripping, packed with first hand revelations. This book is like an exotic long-distance train ride across Asia: it offers a firsthand glimpse into worlds one would otherwise never see.”
~Thomas Laird
Into Tibet: The CIA’s First Atomic Spy and His Secret Expedition to Lhasa and The Story of Tibet: Conversations with the Dalai Lama
© 2009 John M. Hlavacek. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Any similarities to other intellectual works are either coincidental or have been properly cited when the source is known. Trademarks of products, services, and organizations mentioned herein belong to their respective owners and are not affiliated with Hlucky Books. The author and publisher shall have neither liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused, or alleged to have been caused, directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
Published by Hlucky Books at Smashwords
Omaha, Nebraska 68137
This book is dedicated
to Mary and Mike
[Pegge’s Posey and Butternut]
Contents
Acknowledgments
First, I’d like to thank Pegge for recounting the moments of her adventures in exquisite and vital detail in her poetic, vibrant style... and for preserving her personal letters, diaries, clippings and photographs for me to discover and explore while creating this tribute to her.
The undertaking of creating a book of such a vast collection of Pegge’s diary entries and personal letters would not have been possible without the help and guidance of many talented and caring people:
Lisa Pelto and the Concierge Marketing crew, Gary Withrow, Erin Pankowski, and Ellie Pelto—thank you for pulling the artifacts of Pegge’s life together and designing and editing a wonderful book that many people will be sure to treasure for years to come.
Janet Tilden—thank you for spending countless hours sanding down the rough edges of the original manuscript and even more time putting all of the original documents into chronological order.
Sandy Wendel—your advice and counsel in the world of words are priceless.
For anyone else I am forgetting—I truly appreciate everyone who has encouraged me to get this book into print, in a form that is accessible for anyone who is interested in reading about a life such as Pegge’s.
Foreword
DECEMBER 1951. I first met Mrs. Douglas Mackiernan, the Vice Consul of the United States Information Service (USIS), in Lahore, Pakistan. She and I were the only two Americans attending a meeting of the Pakistan Newspaper Association. She was one of only two women attending; the other woman was clad in a black burka and worked for a Pakistan Urdu language newspaper. I was at the meeting in my role as the Bureau Chief of the United Press for India and Pakistan, as many of the newspapers were clients of my United Press news service.
She invited me to lunch. For her, a business lunch, because she wanted to learn what I knew about Pakistan reporters and editors. At the lunch, I learned she was a widow with twins who were living with grandparents while she was on her first tour in the diplomatic service. It was not a pleasant meeting. I wanted to know why she was in Pakistan and her two year old twins were in Boston.
A few months later she was transferred to the American Embassy at Karachi. As Karachi was part of my United Press territory, we met again briefly. Then in the spring of 1952, with a consular friend, she took a vacation traveling to Goa, then a Portuguese territory on the west coast of India. Her route took her through Bombay, my headquarters. I saw her off on the train and met her when she returned. We had a few days to begin to know each other before she flew back to Karachi.
After a stormy courtship she agreed to marry me, and we were married on October 20, 1952. After a honeymoon in Europe, she returned home to get the twins, Mike and Mary, and we began our married life in Bombay. We soon added two boys and a girl. We were married for 56 years, traveling and working in India, New York, Jamaica, Miami and Omaha for United Press, Time/Life, NBC News (radio and television) and the New York Daily News and newspapers in Canada and France.
Although we worked and traveled the world together, Pegge never said much about the stories she had covered in her earlier life. It was only when, in her late 70s, she showed evidence of dementia and possibly Alzheimer’s, did I learn of her personal diaries, letters and clippings. I found them in the basement of our home when we moved into an assisted living retirement center. In reading them I decided to publish them because of their beautiful writing and the story of her self-educated determination to become a brilliant and adventurous foreign correspondent. It is a beautiful history which I wanted to leave for her children and grandchildren.
Introduction
Margaret Witwer “Peggy” Lyons lived two lives. The younger daughter of a middle class Catholic family in Harrisburg, PA, she attended public schools. After graduating from John Harris High School, she went to New York to become a “famous” actress. Her mother had been a child actress and her grandparents were actors on Broadway. Her uncle, H.C. Witwer, was a World War I war correspondent and later wrote sports novels in the style of Damon Runyon. He also wrote scripts for movies in Hollywood and had acting parts in several movies.
In her own words at the time—“I had hoped to be the next Sarah Bernhardt but it was not to be.”
After a brief stint as a Powers model, and writing radio scripts for the Woman’s Home Companion, she returned to Harrisburg. After writing a series on furniture for an advertising section, she persuaded the publisher of the Harrisburg Telegraph to let her write, in 1940, an advice column for teenagers, ‘Teen Topics. She also took a pen name, Pegge with an “e” and Parker, “because everyone had a Parker pen.” Her daily column became so successful that she became a celebrity, interviewing with the likes of General Jimmy Doolittle, the Duchess of Windsor, and Rita Hayworth.
After writing over 700 columns, she took her clippings to Washington in 1942 and was hired as a reporter on the Washington Times Herald. Within six months she had been promoted to Women’s Page editor and soon became a “star” reporter. It was wartime, and Pegge wrote stories about training with the paratroopers, riding with the tank troops, and even slogging with the infantrymen. She also continued writing about women’s issues, posed for fashion photos, and became a “celebrity” culminating in being a Camel Cigarette poster girl, though she never smoked.
Slow Boat to China takes you on her journey from Washington to Alaska to China and beyond. Slow Boat to Pakistan continues her journey across the world.
Washington, D.C.
1942
JULY 7, 1942—HARRISBURG, PA—“Miss Pegge Parker? One moment please. Washington calling.”
A whirl of “city desk... Washington Times-Herald... like your work... would you be interested... come immediately... straight reporting...” And there I was—assigned to the staff of a newspaper in the most dramatic city in the world—Washington, D.C.—the vital center of political, military and international news. A dream come true for a budding reporter, especially right now while the nation is at war!
There was no sleep in the Parker household last night. I had that excited feeling of “I-must-be-dreaming” until this morning, when I rolled paper into my typewriter and tapped “Teen Topics” across the top. The words seem to look at me as I tapped out my final columns for the Harrisburg Telegraph.
JULY 10, 1942—I made my last trip to the paper to say goodbye. I also bought a war bond for $18.75 to keep a promise I had made to “help” a Washington publicity promoter, Meredith Howard, who got me a room in a guest house in D.C.
JULY 12, 1942—WASHINGTON, D.C.—Arrived by train and took a cab to the guest house at 1805 19th Street SW. Very disappointed—not at all what I’d been built up to expect.
JULY 13, 1942—Met my baptism of fire on the night staff of the Washington Times-Herald under noted city editor Wayne Randall. I was given re-writes, obits, and copy from the desk with instructions to “clean up a coupla paragraphs.” At the end of the first day, Randall stopped by my desk to talk with me. He was so reassuring and friendly that I found the courage to ask if he was pleased with my work.
His face went into deep creases. The hard, sharp eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses shone.
“I was very pleased with your first story because it confirmed a hunch that you can write. I didn’t have to change a line. That is very unusual.”
[Editor’s Note: Reflecting on her time in the nation’s capital in later years, Pegge believed that Randall had hired her because she wasn’t a daughter of one of publisher Cissy Patterson’s society pals or the many friends-of-friends with whom the staff abounded. “Crackshot hotshots not worth a damn” was Randall’s comment. Kathleen Kennedy, the daughter of the American Ambassador to London, Joseph Kennedy, was one. Kathleen began as a research assistant to Frank Waldrop, the executive editor of the paper. Kathleen also assisted with reporter Inga Arvad’s column, “Did You Happen to See,” which profiled government officials. Kathleen was then promoted to reviewing plays and movies in her own bylined column and took over Ms. Arvad’s column when she left the newspaper. Pegge, by contrast, was a kid from the sticks of Harrisburg who walked into the newspaper with a clipping book under her arm. The clippings were two and a half years of her “Teen Topics” advice columns for teenagers. (A collection of the columns can be found in her book ’Teen Topics, published by Concierge Publishing 2008.)
The Times-Herald was losing male staffers to the draft, and Pegge was a safely draft-proof female who seemed to want to work and learn a lot. She was very serious, timid, easily hurt and frightened, but very determined and pathetically humble. She had a number of beaus in the military who occupied much of her time with letters, phone calls and occasional dates.
Pegge made several visits home and always enjoyed reconnecting with Lois Fegan, her reporter colleague on the Harrisburg paper.
On Thursday, August 13, 1942, a month after Pegge had started working for the Times-Herald, she had a byline story in the Five Star Final on the FRONT PAGE: a story about “coincidental twins” (babies born to different families on the same day).
She was thrilled with the byline, for she was just 23 years old and had only two years of newspaper experience, with no education beyond high school. Thinking a brush-up on grammar would pay off, Pegge enrolled in a freshman English class at George Washington University, Because she worked the night shift at the newspaper, she was free in the daytime to attend class. Her first paper for the freshman English teacher was graded “Excellent.”
Pegge was sent to cover a rally but was too shy to talk with Edna Ferber, who attended the rally with Eleanor Roosevelt. Pegge described Mrs. Roosevelt as “very tall, dressed in white lace, her hair quite gray.”
On August 20, 1942, Pegge was tried out on the beat of the U.S. Senate. It was just a gamble, a trial run—could she be trained into the job until the regulars got back after the war? The regular reporter for the Senate beat, Frank Smith, thought “a pretty girl up here would get to know the boys and they would give a pretty girl tips and leads they wouldn’t give another male reporter.” That would be Pegge’s special plus for the paper. She wrote later, “It was a fantastic opportunity, quite, quite lost on me. I had no training, schooling or grasp of legal affairs or the role of Congress in wartime.”
A week later Pegge was still covering the Senate, and by August 31 she was on her own, without Smith.]
AUGUST 31, 1942—WASHINGTON, D.C.—Still in the Senate. Took over single-handed for the first time yesterday, but nothing much happens on Saturdays. Lunched with Frank Smith’s nice wife and she tells me I’m the SWOON of the capital… the darling of all the guards, guides, elevator boys and cops! I never trolley on the rotunda that my vision is not bug-eyed, amazing. But if this is so why can’t I capitalize on it to the extent of getting good slants of news? I feel myself gathering confidence and acquiring an insight into the ways of legislation. Glad I worked because my looked-forward-to weekend with Darwin in Richmond phooied into cancellation and I had nothing to do all day.
At 9 p.m. I turned U.S.O. hostess. Tall and girlish I was, in a powder-blue hat and pink princess coat.
“Good evening,” I greeted the elderly directors like a nice girl. What a role I was playing being “Peggie Lyons.”
I was told to write my name on a slip of paper and pin it on my dress—complete with “where from” identification. I was a little bewildered with tickets and slips and “where-can-I-check my coat” when all at once a sailor stepped up and took me in tow with unquestioning authority. He just managed the situation and me. He was all “gob” too—white ducks, flowing tie, and an eagle and chevron on his sleeve. I was disappointed that the Navy had me and not the Army or Marine Corps. Still, he’s not bad-looking, I thought. When we got to the cloakroom his nice manners impressed me. The more we talked, the more interesting he became. Then I learned he studied pre-med at some western university. Loved classical music and had a curiously alert, enquiring mind. We danced carelessly and badly all evening but I found myself having fun. He excused himself once and was gone a long time. I had a sinking feeling that he had disappeared for good and was probably busy with other faces in other places. But finally he returned and said he had a 4 a.m. watch and would have to return to base. I went with him and his little rolling tough-faced sidekick “Stunky” and rode halfway downtown before we separated, I with a grin that I’d added the Navy to my “armed services” and he with my address and telephone number. His name: TOM Sawyer. Not fiction but truth.
SEPTEMBER 4, 1942—Accomplishments since last I took up the pen: One romance and one byline. Career before love, so: I’ve been taken off the Senate and put back in the office. Things too slow up there to occupy three reporters. Yesterday, September 3rd, a women’s conference was called in Mrs. Patterson’s office and there, hiding behind a food editor, I studied the famous Cissy Patterson and what’s she but a GRAND GUY. She was relaxed, responsive, receptive. We were addressed by first nicknames. Katherine Smith, women’s page editor, was “Kathie”; others were “my dear.” We were all “children”: “Thank you, children, you may go.”
“Mrs. Pat” as Mr. Randall calls her, is a perfumed, plainly but expensively dressed middle-aged woman with one of those “voices.” She flips rose-tinted goggles on and off a nice round nose. Her eyes are wide and deep brown, dark glow in pale-pink puddles of wrinkles. Her hands were square and her fingers blunt, nails well manicured with a rose polish. Tension was high among the hired girls. Elaborate poise was politely perfect. Each offering of words had had a quick composition and editing before spoken for Patterson’s ears. I got as far as composition and editing and hoped “she” wouldn’t see me. She didn’t.
But I fell heir to one of her suggestions: a series of articles on women in war jobs. All day I telephoned—everyone, everywhere. Women driving trolleys, piloting planes? Instructing in colleges? Finally landed a girl in the long-distance travel office of Bell Telephone. Much hectic last-minute confusion but got the story. Came back with NO IDEA what to write, what angle to write up, or anything. Oye! Randall was on the desk too. Your BETTER BEST Parker struggled and gradually a pretty good story thumped its typewritten trail across two sheets of copy paper. When I’d re-read it, I gained enough confidence to show it to Randall. He read the lead and second paragraph. “’s good, I like it.” He put it on the desk and took pencil in hand. “By Pegge Parker” he signed it. Bless him. Oh dear God, bless this darling man who is the sky sun shines on. P.S. He even insisted I sign up for overtime and get paid extra. His praise was more than money—so I’m outrageously overpaid for today’s work.
Now to my love affair. Bob Jenkins, the first soldier beau I ever had, called and came to dinner one night last week. He was to be a second lieutenant on the morrow at Ft. Belvoir. Would I celebrate with him and two friends? And would I get dates for said friends?
Finally arranged, and we met Jenkins and friends. He was one of the friends; name’s George Fullmore. We went to the Shoreham, and George sat across the table from me. I thought him very engaging and nice-looking, but Jenkins was my date. As the evening wore on George and I found ourselves more and more conversant and held in a kin bond for books. It was fountain overflowing—stand-up depth going flood. Jenkins danced with George’s date and the SWITCH was on. George and I danced later—and suddenly my heart had wings. I was dancing, laughing, YOUNG again—after weeks of wear, worry and emptiness. George—brains and near beauty—brought me home and the goodnight was a kiss we couldn’t help, with many more to follow with whispered “oh honeys” and even “darling” which...
[Editor’s Note: The next page of the diary is missing—Pegge might have deleted it at some time so we won’t know how the evening ended. The diary was suspended in September after her diary entry of her date with George Fullmore. Pegge must have re-read her entries and decided they were not to be saved for posterity.
The stories Pegge wrote for the Times-Herald must have caught the eye of the publisher. Among other stories, Pegge began a series on table manners for which she posed. Her photographer was the Post’s Dimitri Wolkonsky. His name appears in her diaries because he was teaching her Russian words. The next entry is probably from December 1942 or January 1943.]
My adored Mr. Randall was fired by Mrs. Patterson, and I am heartbroken for him. He came into the office the other day and I jumped up and ran over to him. He looked at me embarrassedly, the high-humbled before the worshipper, he was achingly unpretentious, a man out of a job. I wept for him. So happy to think I’m considered his friend.
Two of Pegge’s featured articles.
Friday night I was getting ready to go home when Mr. Dewitt’s secretary (he’s a little god, archangel to Mrs. Patterson) called me into his office—would I take a long-distance call from New York? Mrs. Patterson wanted to have me do a story on Clare Boothe Luce, new Congresswoman. Flora had written a story on her, too. But orders were orders, and I was to do the piece. Flora was so upset she resigned. Not accepted—anyway, I was in a high nervous state all Friday night and Saturday. I started my chase—didn’t get to Lady Luce but wheedled enough from the secretary to cut a story out of whole cloth. Flora liked it, against her better judgment, and Mr. DeWitt said it was very good. (Relief and ten years shaken from these shapely shoulders.) I stand by for reaction tomorrow.
Next day: Reaction swell. Flora quit and I’ve been taking over. Working my typewriter with a hand pump. Yesterday I posed for some fashion pictures and with retouching they came out very well.
No new men in my life—none that mean anything—and the only thing I look forward to romantically is visiting Lovey in Atlanta when he’s graduated from Benning (March 9, 1943).
[Editor’s Note: “Lovey” is the nickname of Pegge’s first boyfriend. He was a regular at the Lyons family’s Saturday night dinners for the servicemen.
After Pegge made her mark with her story on Clare Boothe Luce, she reported widely. She covered a sensational murder case in Annapolis, and she soon had her own daily column. She was sent on assignments to New York and Philadelphia.]
More photos from Pegge’s fashion entries.
Pegge’s article featuring Clare Boothe Luce.
JANUARY 13, 1943—I have just come home from the Stage Door Canteen where I met a very odd boy indeed. It wasn’t one of my Look—Wow nights and I walked out rather diffidently. Competition is keen if ultra-sophisticated. I stood in the back of the theater—converted music hall—for a moment, looking over the field. A tall George Fullmore-ish, clean-cut looking chap named Ray McKay sidled my way. “I’ve given my ankles to my country—up thar”—nodding toward the very crowded dance floor. I was delighted that such a catch came my way—tall, good teeth, nice eyes and just back from Alaska! We danced and after making with the “ankles” he turned to a lone sort of homely, shoulder-length soldier who stood with his back to a spotlight that threw an odd gold and red glow over his head and outlined his face in a blaze of radiance. His manner was in sharp contrast. He was oddly, tremendously appealing. He began by joyously insulting this brother in arms, but when Ray let go of my hand and the music began, he grabbed me and we danced. His name was Bill Spragg or Sprigg. His face was open, young-kid rough and tough, eyes wide, devilish and very brown. His mouth was large, crude, and his lips were oddly moist and shining like a girl’s. His teeth were very white and straight. He was from Chicago and before the war had been, unbelievably, a stenographer. Now he was an M.P. just a month out of Alaska. The thing about him that I thought noble: Here’s a real soldier who needs the Canteen and all a hostess can give for relaxation and enjoyment. He was grim, tense, fidgety, morose, bitter. “Look at these sons of b’s sitting on their fat fannies—call themselves soldiers—look at the trinkets they wear (medals).”
[Editor’s Note: Several pages are missing here.]
Withstood stimulating heat. I wish I were kinda madly in love with someone. I can’t get to see Lovey (Bob Weborg) until March 9 at Ft. Benning—or go to West Point to work on Jerry (Capha) till even later, if at all. My favorite pastime, I find, is being in love.
Got word long in advance of President Roosevelt meeting Churchill in Casablanca for a secret conference. News breaks tonight—that the big heads were put together in AFRICA which somehow I doubt very, very strongly. Getting to know Cissy Patterson better and better. Oddly, have complete confidence in her presence. Could be because I’ve merited no criticism or messed-jobs in her eyes to date. Unfortunately little Flora is not missed.
FEBRUARY 19, 1943—Guess I was wrong about the Casablanca conference, which has been confirmed with pictures and newsreels. Made a special trip to the House to hear Clare Boothe Luce make her first speech. She’s a slim, too pale, bony-faced madame, exquisitely smart German blonde, very confident and compelling as an orator. Spoke with harlequin goggles on her nose, reading a very marked copy of her speech on freedom of the air as dangerous to peace and international relations.
Shoe rationing met with surprised dismay. Men don’t mind it, but women wear shoes as an accessory. I was fair to middlin’ supplied. Horse meat has been introduced with amusement. I’m afraid of meat a la stew or hamburger ever since.
Last night met my first Marine from the battlefront at the Stage Door Canteen. He was a tall, solid, blemish-complexioned sort of Marine, with a few dull sharp-shooter medals and one yellow, red, white and blue ribbon on his coat. The ribbon took my eye. “You’ve been overseas,” I observed, giving him rapt awe and two free Philip Morris cigarettes. He joked back but admitted he’d seen four months of the Solomons. I got his story later walking home. He was an Italian who shied at revealing his last name with the “I” on the end. Had been in the bakery business in Philadelphia before enlisting. Went overseas as a private and came back the same but with a bullet wound in his hip and the claim of a Purple Heart medal for being wounded in action. He was common but had a kindly, chummy, well-meaning manner which, plus his marvelous STORY, made him an interesting date. His wrists were deeply scarred from bayonets. He said the Japanese are more human in combat than what we’re led to believe in what we read. They’re subject to fright and flight and only an officer commits hari-kari, if he can, before being captured. The soldiers, some of them radicals, blow themselves to bits with grenades. The way they try tricks of getting through our lines by speaking perfect English and wearing Marine uniforms don’t always work. They’ve got the English but not our slang. Marines treat their buddies’ wounds as they advance or fall back by each one doing part of first aid and moving on. These are the scraps I remember.
Something more intimate happened in the way of servicemen last week in New York. I was sent over for a week on assignment. While I was there, I decided to explore the Merchant Marine, Dangerous Barnacle Bill, little-known branch of the service. I made arrangements to be a hostess at a Valentine Party at the Marine Club on 30th Street (February 15, 1943). It was a small, jammed, smoky, perspiration-smelling little stuff box of a canteen, and the Marines in civilian clothes were an assortment. Some had BEARDS, scars, heads bandaged, and all appeared in a mad assortment of civilian clothes. I was introduced to a fascinating character called Charles Ripetoe (Rip a toe—got that). His nickname was “Rip,” and he was an unwritten short story. Rather attractive, French black eyes, good teeth, good skin and high color, thinning black hair. He held me when we danced as though he had me alone and we were lovers long affairing. His eyes embraced me. “I want to kiss you. You got a nice mouth, and gee, honey, I’d like to go to work on it.” He was story stuff, so I suffered his offensiveness. He had just come back from ORAN—Africa, troop ship. I asked him, interview-wise, what was the first thing he did when the boat landed. He looked at me with great amusement. “Really wanna know?” he asked, pulling out his wallet and fishing out a little white engraved card that looked like this:
Telephone 4-588
Madam Rosette
12 Rue de la Bleu
ORAN
It was a real HOUSE card. I was delighted and shocked and intrigued. “Oh, it’s government inspected and exclusive for the Merchant Marine!” Rip put in, reading my outward disgust. The girls, he said, were French. “They show you a good time and you sleep with them. What’s wrong about that?”
After Rip, a little U.S. uniformed sailor blew up, “Wanna dann’ss?” We dann’ss’d and I spied Wayne, Wayne Baxter. And here I go again. He’s tall, blond, clean-scrubbed, and has STUFF, was formerly a cop in Detroit. Has three citations for single-handed captures, etc., even confessed to killing three men in a point-blank see-the-whites-of-their-eyes gun battle. He was to have come down this weekend. Feel terribly let down; I thought I was in love again—after so long.
Jerry Capha invited me to the 100th Night Show at West Point for the weekend of March 6th (1943)—two days before I go to Atlanta to see Lovey (Bob). The first time I went to West Point and met Maxie was at a 100th Night Show. I’d love to snare Jerry if he’s available. [Editor’s Note: Pegge, when writing her “Teen Topics” column, had interviewed Jerry Capha when he was a cadet at the academy.]
Wistful and terribly upset over Wayne at this writing. Waiting for him to call, I washed everything in sight to get my longing out of my system. Maybe word tomorrow.
MARCH 15, 1943—This is like writing the last chapter of a book, looking back with a sigh that so much has gone before to be written up to date. Well, briefly: Wayne came to Washington and we had a very un-enjoyable time except when he held me in his arms and gave me his picture autographed like this: “To My Darling.” The following weekend I went to West Point. It was a triumph and delight. I’ve never been so thrilled and happy. Jerry was boyish, completely endearing and wonderful. In my flats I wasn’t taller than he, I had the clothes to look the part of West Point, and at the dance met another cadet very much my style: one Jim Giles. It was one of my nights. I belonged. I was “right.” Sunday Jerry took communion for me and I for him. It so happened we came to the altar rail at the same time and knelt beside each other. One of the most perfect and soulful communions I’ve ever received. Bless Jerry. After chapel we took pictures and went on Flirtation Walk, which was dazzling with new-fallen snow. I have never been so COLD in my life, but I smiled and tried to look beautiful. We passed kissing rock three times, and the third time I wrote “‘til we meet again” on the rock. May it remain to be rediscovered someday. I missed three trains because I didn’t want to leave Jerry. Wayne was waiting for me in New York. We had nowhere to go to be alone so sat in the Waldorf lobby. Sitting there he seemed so dear to me I told him I loved him. He grabbed my hand and held it crushingly. “Are you sure?” he asked with such honorable intentions in his eyes. We moved to the Roosevelt lobby for more privacy and there on a love divan on the balcony we held each other—and there he told me he loved me too. I felt oddly heartbroken when he said it—feeling, I guess, why is it all the men who love me are so ineligible, so one-of-the-ordinary masses—so un-marryable. We ended up at the Webster where I was staying—in the lobby, too—and he finally left about 2:30. I was quite starry-eyed and in awe of my triumph. Didn’t think I could get him to love me.
Monday tore around the office getting things cleared up for Atlanta. Had no word from Lovey about his passing the tests but was determined to go anyway. Left Monday night on the Streamliner. The trip was seemingly short and enjoyable. Thought of Wayne all the way down. In Atlanta went to the Biltmore, unpacked, and headed for the first newspaper office. Was made welcome by everyone. Met Margaret Mitchell, who wrote Gone with the Wind. She adored the hat I was wearing (one I made for $2), and we became quite friendly to my keen delight. She even invited me to a press club cocktail party. I was the guest of honor, if you please, and am so under the spell of her Southern charm I’m going to make her a hat. Imagine me making a hat for Margaret Mitchell!
[Editor’s Note: Pegge describes making the hat for Margaret Mitchell in her book Alias Pegge Parker.]
Tuesday morning at 6 a.m. I was awakened by mistake. A call from the desk. All this time no word from Lovey—got busy on telephone and half-hour later had Bob—No, he didn’t make it. Flopped the second time. I was to come to camp. Flew around like mad packing and talking aloud to myself in anger and disappointment. Hopped the first train to Columbus, got a room with a local family, changed clothes quickly and grabbed a taxi for a $4.50 fare to Fort Benning. Little did I dream what a hand fate was dealing me. That the hectic confusion was all part of an inevitable scheme. Met Bob at the Service Club. He looked yellow, pink, blue and beautiful. We talked and loved.
Thursday I came to camp to say goodbye—had a reservation on the Southern for that night and decided not to go—changed all my plans at the last minute. Stayed on the post at the hostess’s house. We sat up late that night. Fate hovered around as we made plans for Bob’s last day before being sent back to his old regiment, the 28th in Florida. He was to meet me for breakfast. I dressed accordingly on the destined day of March 12. Bob didn’t come.
I decided to busy myself with a story on the paratroopers I was seeing everywhere in the round-toed, high-buttoned shoes. Looking lacy, flowered and feminine, I strolled over to the Public Relations office. A young lieutenant with an eye to woman’s kind was eager to do all he could for little Parker. One idea led to another. It ended with my being the first woman writer to be granted permission to fly with paratroopers when they were jumping. The War Department in Washington had to be called for clearance, and by miracle the officer in charge was a pal of Lt. Tukey’s (the Public Relations man). Then a certain Captain (Sanford) Frank, chief of the jumping section, was consulted. He said first, “Is she pretty?” The good lieutenant avowed in kind (breakfast with Bob... trimmings)?
We piled in a jeep, and over to Lawson field we went. Walked through the hangar where the paratroopers fold and pack their precious chutes. All eyes upon me. I felt so “only womanish.” The officers in charge were both young. Both tall, tanned and good-looking.
[Editor’s Note: The diary is interrupted here. Pegge must at some time have re-read the diary and eliminated certain pages.
Her authorization to fly with the paratroopers resulted in two full-page stories, with pictures, in the Washington Times-Herald. The first story appeared on April 3, 1943, and the second just a week later, April 11. Pegge was featured in both stories. A photo shows her wearing a flowered hat, interviewing Brigadier General George P. Howell, the commandant of the paratroopers. Two other pictures show Pegge standing in the plane talking to the “jumpers,” with a close-up of her dressed in helmet and jump uniform. She wrote in her story that she had to promise the army brass that she would not try to jump: “No jumps for me unless ordered because of plane failure. But I did like to think about it. Did I have the nerve or not. I’ll never know, I guess.”
The first of Pegge’s full-page articles featuring the paratroopers.
Additional photos from Pegge’s paratrooper and fashion articles.
Additional photos from Pegge’s paratrooper articles.
Additional photos from Pegge’s paratrooper articles.
A third full-page story described Pegge’s visit to the Tenth Armored Division in May of 1943. The Sunday feature titled “Tiger Men and Iron Tanks” showed Pegge emerging from an M-5 light tank. She told her story of spending a day with the tank men, slogging through the mud and firing a carbine.
Pegge’s exploits made excellent reading and led to her spending a day with the glider soldiers in Kentucky at Bowman Field. The resulting story, “Soldiers with Silver Wings,” appeared in the Sunday, July 25, 1943, issue of the Times-Herald. In the story she told of spending a day in the field with the men to “really see and feel what they go through.” An excerpt: “ ‘O.K., sister, you asked for it,’ was their attitude and they spared me nothing. At the uncivilized hour of 5:45 the next morning, in coveralls, leggings, helmet and pack, Parker hit the gravel. Word went down the ranks, ‘We’ve got a gal commando up front. Let’s see if she can take it.’” The story featured four pictures of Pegge: (1) riding in the glider with the men; (2) demonstrating bayonet drill; (3) emerging sodden from the pond, and (4) shouting when sitting in a ‘booby trapped” chair. The caption says: “OOPS.. A CHAIRFUL OF TNT— No one told Pegge Parker this comfy chair concealed a highly explosive booby trap of ‘live’ dynamite set by glider pilot shock (!) troops, and so when it went off with a boom, Pegge broke the Bowman Field shriek record.”
The fourth full-page story featured Pegge falling in the control tower chute. The caption reads: “Two hundred and fifty feet down sails “Rookie” Parker, strapped into a control tower chute. Her descending screams all but brought the Marines on the run! The beginner seat harness, which is to accustom paratroopers to weight, also brought feminine yells from the American girl reporter, to the amusement of rigging instructor Sgt. Bill Duncan.”
Pegge’s reporting exploits paved the way for several visits to Ft. Benning and led to reporting on other branches of the service. It also led to a torrid romance with a paratrooper which was shattered when Pegge found out he was married.
Pegge went to New York in September and reported on the Merchant Marine. She was pictured on deck with crewmen, and another photo shows her pulling levers in the engine room of a merchant ship.
In October she made a trip to Camp Davis, North Carolina, for a story on the WASPs: the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots. The lady pilots were civilians who wore officers’ uniforms without insignia. Pegge reported they were paid $285 a month, which corresponded to the pay of a First Lieutenant. The lady pilots flew planes pulling targets for training anti-aircraft batteries.
Pegge’s columns related the varied circumstances in wartime Washington. Many of her columns commented on the complications of wartime romances. One whole column was written from her experience of living in one of the two wartime Washington hotels for women.
When the diary resumes, we learn that she had a passionate romance with Captain Frank, who showed up in Washington in December of 1943. The diary reveals her heartbreak. Meanwhile, we can only assume that her Harrisburg boyfriend, “Lovey,” who had flunked out of school for the second time, was no longer her swain.]
LATE DECEMBER 1943—Pounded out an article on the Public Health officers. I told you how Papa Denby took up the sword against it? Well, worse. I revised it and sent it to Mr. Randall, my original city editor who is now working for the Washington Post. He returned it with a painstaking criticism: “This is an example of the potential writer who gets a piece of swell material by the tail and hasn’t the capacity to handle it in an acceptable manner. When you tackle a big thing like the exploits of the Health Service in this tremendous war you haven’t the technique to put it over.” It was a slingshot letter, hitting with a zing and stinging mightily. But try harder and harder I must. I see this writing career is going to find me gray-haired after all… and I wanted so much to be YOUNG and be-you-ti-ful when I began selling stories or articles. I’m so inwardly ill at ease over how cock-surely I can sell Cissy on Alaska after the flop of my Public Health.
And now on the drama side!
I was wringing out a lead on my Sunday story, one about Irinia Skariatina, a Russian countess and foreign correspondent, when the phone rang. “Who is this?” a bass voice enquired charmingly. All unaware of impending shock, I answered, “This is Miss Parker. May I help you?”
“Why,” the voice hesitated, “I wonder if it would be possible to obtain a copy of the paratroop article.” Delighted and intrigued with the deeply intoned modulation of his cultured voice, I bubbled, “Yes, of course! Who is this?”
Silence fell—with silent stealth like snow on a hillside. I felt the delicacy and wondered—the voice answered then: “Why—this is Captain Frank.”
After a gasp of anguish and disbelief and wonder: “Captain Sanford Frank?”
“Yes.”
“Sandy.”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Oh, Sandy.”
My heart broke open anew—pathetic fluttering wings beat inside me—hope—my love come back—Sandy—SANDY.
He was calling from Ft. Meade. He expected to go overseas that morning but had been left behind for some inexplicable reason. The exquisite sound of his voice in my ear and the memory it revived made me feel old and wise as God. I listened to all he said with doubt and disbelief and to my own appalled sadness I realized that the little girl Pegge is forever gone. In her place is a sophisticated woman who knows too much of the clay feet of MEN to ever believe and love and trust heart and soul again.
Sandy and I talked for an hour. Emotion ebbed and surged like a tide between us. We spoke as two about to be torn asunder, as two who bid each other a last farewell through barbed wire. I lashed out at him once in accusing him of a heartbreak and disillusionment I had not the experience and sophistication to defend myself against. Sandy protested that he loved me too—with his “whole soul.”
He called me back that afternoon, and we talked again exhaustingly. I told him all the little things I remembered. The things that had hurt me so. He denied being married and said Carol had lied to me. He spoke of my adored Captain York as a bitter rival (and I was glad).
I had my friend Helen Baker check up on his record and check the veracity of his unwed declaration. Helen reported a “Mrs. Gertrude Margaret Frank and daughter” listed as dependents. My heart accepted the illegitimacy of Sandy’s ardor until he called again the next day and in answer to my protests that he was NOT as eager as I for a reunion he began the Old Benning theme. He had a job to do, etc. etc., and if he ever saw me again and held me close in his arms (I wept inside my heart at that), he would never be able to leave me—and he would ask me something…
“What would you ask me, Sandy?” I put in sharply, expecting a “beautiful proposition.” What with Gertrude Margaret Frank at this ironic moment, my swain newspaper man, Karl Hess strolled up to my desk. He heard my distinctly and so earnestly repeated question: “What would you ask me, Sandy?” Karl mocked an answer in fun—embracing me, telephone and all, he cried, “Will you marry me?” I shoved him away in annoyance and at that double MOCKING moment Sandy pronounced these words, “I’d ask you to marry me, Pegge.” I listened, interested as a spectator in a wonderful story happening to me. Sandy, my only love, had expressed a longing to marry me.
After THAT phone call I went out to finish my Christmas shopping. Jostled around in the crowds trying dazedly to recall sizes and desired colors, etc. The desperate bittersweet agony of Sandy confronted me. Life tosses no sugar plums into your lap, I thought, Bitterly. Bitterly—BITTERLY. And why had Sandy loomed up uncalled for, out of a long-quieted well of heartbreak, to enrage my hopeless longing, to make me suffer all over again—at Christmas, too. And when I was so innocently going my way.
I spent a dull and time-dragging holiday at home. Daddy drank too much champagne at an office party and came home rocking on his heels. I recruited poor Paul from his hospital for Christmas Day. But at the last minute he couldn’t come.
Always Sandy, Sandy was in the back of my mind. And the empty-shell despair that here I am 24 with no Mike McCoy in sight—and as nowhere else, in Harrisburg I am screamingly unwed, unengaged, unsought… and to offset this nothingness what have I on the career side? An equal balance of NOTHING. Nothing and a reminder of my inexperience and doubt of any real ability. I never felt so OLD. Old in my life and so frightened of my outcome. I want desperately to RUN, but I don’t know where or to what.
Feeling this giddy off balance of emotion and career. I grabbed my phone and called Butch, my deepest, dearest, friend despite everything. He had received my gift and seemed pleased with it. Tonight when I came home a big package from Lord & Taylor (“our” store) awaited me. I know it’s from Butch, but I haven’t the delight to open it tonight.
Sandy.
Oh, my darling—why did this have to be?
JANUARY 4, 1944—Midnight music, cakes and ale, exquisite setting for a story. And I have a real one to tell. My heart lamented Sandy’s return and rebelled in anguish that it should be broken again. For no reason, seemingly. But yes, there was an answer, or consequence.
It was New Year’s Eve. I was dressing laggingly to go to a last-minute formal press party when the telephone rang. It was Mrs. Patterson’s secretary. Would I care to attend a New Year’s party at her home the next day, and would I bring a BEAU. I twittered my delight and hung up, wondering where and how I would pull a “beau” out of the air worthy of the occasion (or just a beau, period). I remembered that last week a Captain Theobald had called from Ft. Meade for Sandy, requesting my envelope of clippings be forwarded to him. Ever quick on the “business business,” I got as much out of Captain Theobald as possible.
Now at this ZERO hour I recalled him. A paratrooper—but still in camp? Available? Old—young? Glasses, bowlegged, big nose, pimples—married? At any rate, I called him. Trumped up the party and made it for servicemen and I was to bring a paratrooper, etc. He’d love to go—would meet me at the hotel. I dressed nervously that night. I was overwrought at seeing Mrs. Patterson and had last-minute misgivings about this man I presumed to parade before Mrs. P and assembled guests. What a risk-all gamble I was taking. In my jittery state of plot counterplot I went overboard on my apparel for the Grand occasion. I wore the Ft. Benning pink wool suit—sewed my pink earrings to the jacket and made a hat of frosty white-pink flowers. Sensing this anonymous Captain Theobald would be a RUNT, I wore flat sandals. When he called from the lobby I went down to say hello. Oh, Heaven is Kind. He was DARLING. Had the nice face of a puppy and the manner of a sweet, shy Mr. Chips. We walked up to Mrs. P’s while I warned him what to expect.
The whole office was a fascinating ordeal. The Du Pont Circle “estate” was jammed. All the women were in BLACK and diamonds. I burst into their midst like a bon bon or bridesmaid: all PINK & FROTH. Realizing my mistake, my diffidence mounted. I clutched George’s hand. He stuck by me reassuringly. Mrs. Patterson stood at the top of her marble staircase looking tall, old, wrinkled, handsome in her mahogany-colored hair. She spoke in the throaty tones of an actress. She wore a full black skirt and a Chinese jacket of red, black and bright gold lamé plaid. I had hardly greeted her when she turned and introduced me to Mrs. Byron Foy as “our fashion editor.” My little mama’s girl pink burned into my consciousness. Mrs. Foy was dressed in black, black as widow’s weeds. Near her was Justice Murphy, his bushy brows cocked over a stiff glass of ginger ale. No one paid the slightest attention to my Captain, so I began introducing him as “my paratrooper.” Still no one drew him into conversation or gushed that it must take a hell of a nerve to jump out of a plane. My apologetic inferiority complex cloaked poor Captain Theobald in my eyes. It was awful.
I met the Finnish Minister, who kissed Mrs. P’s hand but only shook mine. And Mrs. Lionel Atwell, the legendary Mrs. Douglas MacArthur I—she was bosomy but better-looking than I had thought. Music drifted into the library—a deserted ballroom with a small orchestra. Two bars flowed freely. In another room sparkling with crystal chandeliers and candles, guests ate piecemeal and devouringly of a buffet spread in lavish array. I dreaded my contacts with Mrs. Patterson (with Alaska up my sleeve, she terrifies me), and taking our leave was an ordeal. I grabbed Captain George Theobald’s hand for moral support. Just then our city editor came over. He is a tall, bony, T.B.-looking blond Swede. “Looks like you two are engaged or something,” he said brightly with the boldness of ambrosia. George patted my hand and beamed at me in the fond manner of one who’d known me a year, not just an hour. We left, finally, and outside I was 20 years younger and possessed of a relief and gratitude for George. I wanted to hug him and say, “Thank you, darling, darling.”
We went to dinner and I proceeded to work on him. The only encouragement I got was an occasional remark about my eyes. To the movies later, then home. It was a momentous evening—George and Mrs. Patterson. He was dear but strained and fiendishly polite. It was his birthday come midnight, so in saying goodnight I first gave him Sandy’s envelope of clippings and then leaned forward slightly and kissed him softly for his birthday. We (at my prompting) made a date for Monday to go to the theatre if he would get out of port-of-embarkation camp. Sunday I went to an eggnog party with Helen Baker. The offering was given by Westinghouse for its Russian constituents. I went only because Helen asked me. At the first round of drinks Helen slid up to me and whispered, “The man in the grey suit has his eye on you.” She brought him over then and introduced Bud WALLACE. He turned out to be the best informed, most interesting man I’ve met in all Washington. He brought me home by way of dinner and ended up asking if he could kiss my eyes.
Monday, January 3, 1944, was a Day of Destiny and pouring rain. (Continued in the Pullman car of the 4 p.m. express to New York Sunday Jan 7, 1944. What a week and what occurrences—on second thought this jerky writing won’t do. Will have to wait till we get back in New York.)
Before I expound on the drama (Acts I, II & III) of my Monday, January 3, 1944, I must quickly record two inside stories. One is on Clare Boothe Luce, whose only daughter, Ann Brokaw, 19, was instantly killed two weeks ago in a tragic automobile accident. I had written several stories about her Annie which pleased Mrs. Luce very much. I have also become a good friend of her secretary, Al Morano (36 years old), a stocky, mild-looking, blond man with a broad, kind face, shrewd but not hard-boiled. Al gave me the inside details on the tragedy.
It seems one Virginia Blood, tall, spinsterish, rawboned, but smartly chic, secretary to somebody in the Luce outfit, told Clare outright, bluntly, terribly that Ann had been killed in an accident. Clare yelled at her, “You’re crazy! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” But it finally penetrated in all its irrevocable awfulness. She was in San Francisco at the time. Grabbing her hat and coat, she ran out of the apartment, around the corner to a little Catholic Church where she knelt in convulsive agony and prayed her heart out.
When she came on to Washington before going to South Carolina (where the Luce country home is located), Al saw her at the Wardman Park. He was extremely emotional, nervous and apprehensive for his and Clare’s future. (He was afraid she was quitting and getting out of politics.) Clare greeted him with poise. She wore black clothing, little make-up, had dark circles under her eyes and murmured something about just having had her hair set. Her husband was with her, shoulders broad and protective in his wife’s tragic crisis.
Al said Clare spoke vaguely of “the office,” but her mind wandered and after a while she began babbling incoherently of little things she and Annie had done and said. She wept, and her husband held her in his arms, kissing her ashen cheeks. Later, alone with Al, he said movingly, “I have really discovered my wife almost for the first time since this happened and I admire her as I never have before. She is truly a great woman. Really and truly.” Al dropped a hint—discussing the fateful WHY did it have to happen to a sweet, innocent young girl—that this sorrow had brought Henry and Clare closer together than they’d been in a long time. He also told me that when Ann’s body had been recovered Clare removed a ring from the slim, dead hand. It was an old, worn antique circulet she had passed on to Ann as a special sentimental keepsake. Now it was hers a second time after Ann’s death. Clare resolved to part with it forever. She phoned a very special beau of Ann’s and asked him to come to the apartment. He came—tall, homely, gulping his embarrassment and fear of a scene. And Clare gave him Ann’s ring. “Keep this and wear it in her memory,” Clare implored, “until you fall in love again and marry. Then give this ring to your bride but never tell her where you got it or whose it was.”
Al is apprehensive for Clare’s political future. He maintains she cares little for it now that she has been tested and proved her mettle. A list of telegrams received was prepared for her perusal. It was interesting to note or hear that the President (whom Clare has so viciously ridiculed and attacked) had sent her a personal note, as did Mrs. Roosevelt. Everyone but the President and Mrs. Chiang Kai-shek (the Chinese “issimo’s” wife) were to receive printed cards acknowledging wires and letters of sympathy. Neither did her brother.
Now for the second dispatch—most extraordinary things have happened since I met M.F. [Frank Murphy—discreet initials for a man you’ll hear a lot about later]. The first day I returned from a week of fashion shows in New York, his secretary called and invited me to tea with M.F., whom she called, as he calls himself incognito, “Mr. Williams” (at the C.S. building, no less). C.S. for Supreme Court—I had bought a fur coat in New York ($358.50 as a price comparison—knee-length skunk—very smart) and wanted to wait to wear it, so I said later in the week. Next day I changed my mind and called his secretary. M.F. picked up the phone and spoke to me himself. Down I went, working up squared-shoulder poise from remembering the “man” I knew or thought I did from the first meeting at this hotel when he was ill. I was nervous and tongue-tied by the time a Negro servant had showed me into his sumptuous office. His secretary greeted me with strained cordiality as though to insignificant Me she should be saying “He can’t be seen” when ACTUALLY she was saying “Please go right in.” “In” was a huge vast office—an imposing mannish fireplace—a marvelous collection of portraits on all four walls. Three flags stood in the far corner. His desk was a plateau of leather and marble. A servant spread cookies and tea before me. M.F. was a different man in his office than in his “home.” He was skirtingly garrulous on rambling subjects—especially on “ME—I—the President—the Philippines—when I was Mayor of—Governor of.” I listened. I said “Yes,” “No,” and “Really” at the right times. I died. I made the most of my eyes. I was smitten with complexes all degrading (especially as he rambled on about all the wealthy, beautiful and charming women he knew). Worst of all, the man who wanted a “son” (somehow or other) was gone—and with him my only hold on him. The whole affair dragged on, and I was relieved when he called a taxi for me. An overpowering sense of LOSS possessed me.