The senior Davis, born 5 February 1915 in Providence, Rhode Island, often did odd jobs and ran errands for pilots and airport personnel at the original Providence airport near his uncle’s farm.  Payment or reward for his work would often come in the form of airplane rides, which Davis would turn into lessons.  He soon earned his private pilot’s license, and on a list issued by the Commerce Department in January 1939, Davis was the only African American pilot from Rhode Island.  World War II began in Europe later that year, and in 1940 the United States began preparing for involvement by establishing a draft.  Like many others, Davis did not wait for the draft to find him, but rather enlisted in the Army Air Forces in 1941.  He joined a select group of African American men in the 99^th Pursuit Squadron training at Chanute Field in Rantoul, Illinois.  Unfortunately for Davis, he did not qualify as a pilot, most likely because he did not have a college degree.

The unit relocated to Tuskegee, Alabama, where the pilots continued their training.  Davis, along with others, remained at Chanute to train as mechanics until the Tuskegee field could accommodate them.  The Tuskegee Airmen faced a huge obstacle in the racism of the time.  Many believed that African Americans were incapable of serving in the military in almost any capacity beyond basic behind-the-lines support.  The Tuskegee Airmen refuted this notion and served ably when transferred to the European Theater of the war.  The squadrons escorted 200 of 205 bomber missions without a loss, the best record of any bomber escort group during the war.  The unit twice received Presidential Unit Citations.  Equally as impressive as their war record was their maintenance of such a high standard, both in the United States and abroad, in the face of often overt racism.

The yearbook, published in 1943 and titled Tuskegee Army Flying School and AAF 66th FTD, provides an excellent portrait of the Tuskegee Airmen in training.  After supplying a general history of the Army Air Forces, the volume displays images of Tuskegee’s officers, cadets, and training and support personnel, including Ralph Davis as a member of the 889^th Basic Flying Training Squadron.  It not only chronicles the aviators and their support units, but also includes photographs of the field’s medical department, the band, the quartermaster’s units, the signal corps, and the ordinance company.  The yearbook includes photographs of these men at work and training, as well as at rest and leisure, providing valuable documentation of African Americans serving in the military during World War II.

Ralph Davis’s service in the Army Air Forces was only one episode in an active life.  Besides earning his pilot’s license before the war, he also was a star athlete in high school (baseball and basketball) and later a semi-professional baseball player.  In his baseball career, Davis helped integrate two semi-professional leagues in Rhode Island, first the Pawtucket Twilight League as a member of the East Providence Belmonts and then the Pawtucket Inter City League as a member of the East Providence Townies.  He also played on area African American ball clubs and earned a spot on the Boston Chronicle’s all-star team from 1933 to 1935.  In 2012, the Pawtucket Red Sox honored Davis.  Clinton Davis accepted the honor for his father.

During the war, Davis went on leave to Front Royal, Virginia, with a friend who lived there.  While in Front Royal, he met Mary Tate (1920-1983), a teacher from Staunton.  After a quick courtship, the two married and Davis settled down in Staunton.  After World War II, he worked for the Augusta County Board of Supervisors.  In 1968 Davis, along with fellow Staunton residents Larry Williams and Conrad Maxwell, purchased a 1947 Piper Cub airplane.  From 1985 to 1986, Davis and Williams put in 500 man hours to restore the aircraft.  Davis often flew and displayed it at events in the Shenandoah Valley. 

Ralph Davis died 16 November 2002 and was buried in Thornrose Cemetery in Staunton.  The Ralph Hickman Davis Papers (LVA Accession 50284) are open for research at the Library of Virginia.

-Trenton Hizer, Senior Finding Aids Archivist

Today, on the 68^thanniversary of the Allied invasion of Normandy, one of those voices speaks through the June 1944 diary of Douglas J. Raymond (1921-1994), an acting petty officer in the Royal Canadian Navy.  A native of Rosemont-LaPetite-Patrie, Quebec, Canada, Raymond became a United States citizen and resident of Virginia after the war.  While keeping this diary, he was serving aboard the destroyer HMCS Saskatchewan providing anti-submarine protection for the landing forces.

Raymond’s widow, Mary, donated the diary to the Library of Virginia last July.  In a note she tucked in with the little book, she apologized for her late husband’s spelling, saying that it was more phonetic than technically correct.  No apologies are needed, as the diary is an honest, sensitive, and exciting account of what a 23-year-old man saw, thought, and felt in the midst of intensely stressful circumstances.

Recorded in a thin, pocket-sized notebook, the diary is dated 4-24 June 1944.  Seeking to cover the entire event, including the lead-up to the invasion, Raymond seems to have made the 4 and 5 June entries retrospectively, with the narrative switching to the present tense on 6 June.

The first entry, 4 June 1944, states simply, “In English Channel cleaning out German subs.”  The next day’s entry marks a stop in Plymouth, England, to load up on fuel and “more d/c” [depth charges], before sailing that night “for unknoon destonation for the greatest Invation ever known.  Our nervs were very tense.”

Raymond’s account of D-Day, 6 June, begins with evocative details:

1^st the air force laid smok screens between us and the french coast.  what a sight.  then we blasted the hell out of the German costal guns on the cost of France through the smook screen, shell after shell.  then com the envation barges packed with soldiers.  thousands of barges.  I can’t express our feeling, except we all have tiers in our eyes and our hearts are in the pit of our stomacks.

we are just a stones throw from shore.  shells landing all arround.  blazing planes crashing to the earth and water.  ships dissipearing beneath the surface and they say this is Gods world.  will we ever get to our love ones will we.

The crew gets word that approximately 200 German reinforcement subs are headed north from the Bay of Biscay, and the Saskatchewan (“now leaving the human hell”) sails to meet them.  As they get on their way, Raymond looks toward the shore and sees the invasion troops “are still poaring in,” while out to sea he observes “enmy subs.  so many I cant count them.”

the battling is fearce.  but we cant let them pass us.  part of our guns are facing the sky blasting at all kinds and tips of gerie [German] planes.  the other guns are blasting subs on the surface…d/c are rooling off our decks like pees on subs beneath the surface trying to sneek under us to get at our troops.  Im fighting like mad for a personal reason and I hop one of these subs is the one that Im looking for.

The “personal reason” Raymond alluded to was the loss of his brother Russell, who was killed on 7 May 1944 when his ship, the HMCS Valleyfield, was torpedoed by a German U-boat in the North Atlantic.  Just one month later, surrounded by death and with his own life in danger, Doug Raymond had a heavy heart.

I never thought the young men lik us could stand sutch a cean.  and be so hard and heartless.  without sleep.  and just an aud bite.  the water used to be a lovely light green.  at the present its curdled with human blood.  and is a redish color.  bodies and reckage floating all over.  our fotilea of destroyers…sig sag.  to try and avoid gerie bombs.  which explode on all sids of us.  splashing that dirty water.

On the night of 6 June, with word that eight German destroyers (in addition to the aforementioned subs) were sailing in their direction, Raymond and his fellow crew members could still “hear the roar of the army guns ashore in France.”  They got in about an hour and a half of sleep before being summoned to action – two of the German destroyers were in sight, guns blazing.  The Saskatchewan and other ships in the flotilla returned fire and sunk them both.

The next day began off the coast of Brest, France, with orders to stop a group of Nazi destroyers, sweepers, and subs from fleeing the Channel.  That night brought four hours of continuous action (“more torpedoes around than water”), during which two torpedoes exploded in the ship’s “cat geer” [Canadian Anti-Acoustic Torpedo gear].  Further engagement with submarines followed in the early morning hours of 8 June, after which Raymond wearily wrote, “lovely moon light.  but we are sore all over and very tired.”

The evening of 8 June found Raymond “not feeling so hot.”

a gerie bomber attacked us and mad a lucky hit dident do much damage.  but the explosion nocked me up against the torpedo tubs and gave my back an awful wollop.  the musick on the radio is lovely wish I were home.  if I get home it will tak a stick of TNT to meove me.

Two hours later, having been alerted to an imminent engagement with five German destroyers and an untold number of subs, Raymond wrote that, “I cant explane how I feel.  exept at a time like this its our familys we all think of.  were doing it all for them I hope they can see it our way.”  The next day as he recounted the evening’s “exciting…wonderful” events, he recalled watching another of his flotilla’s ships sink a German destroyer.

It was a perfect sight to see thos two destroyers monover in the moonlight trying to get in possession to begin to fire.  then the chance came.  our ship opened a brod side it blue her funnell clear off the oper deck.  then the smoke seemed to blind her crew.  because her shots seemed to be to high or to low brod side after brod side then she settled to one side and sunk.  our sirens all sounded in Victory.  it seems a dam shame but that’s war.

Over the course of the next two weeks, the entries become less detailed.  The Saskatchewan remained in the Channel for the most part, with some time on shore in England to load up on ammunition and fuel, and to repair damage to the vessel.  His 23 June entry records their participation in an attack on German coastal guns some 100 miles south of the invasion site: “what a surprise he [the enemy] got when the fog lifted and 4 distroyers were there looking him in the face.”   The next day, in his last entry, the euphoria has worn off.  He writes only, “June 24/44 still battling subs. (Im fed up.).”

After the war, Raymond returned to Canada, where he spent a year in a remote cabin in Arundel, Quebec, needing solitude to process his war experiences and the loss of his brother.  In the late 1950’s, he moved to Staunton, Virginia, for a job, and there decided to become an American citizen.  He later moved to Chester, Virginia, where he met Mary Keifer in 1969.  The two fell in love, marrying in 1974.  It was the second marriage for both, and a happy one.  Raymond helped raise Mary’s son, Chris, as if he were his own.  They built a quiet life far from the horrors of war.  He occasionally shared humorous stories from his time in the service, keeping the difficult memories locked inside.

Doug Raymond passed away on 4 June 1994, fifty years to the date of his first entry in the diary.  His memory as a kind husband and father is still deeply cherished by his wife and stepson.  His wartime service and vivid account of three historic weeks can be appreciated by us all.

The Douglas J. Raymond Diary (LVA Accession 50043) is available for research at the Library of Virginia.

-Jessica Tyree, Senior Accessioning Archivist

In September 1942, the Virginia Conservation Commission’s Division of History and Archaeology, under the direction of Dr. Hamilton J. Eckenrode, began a war records collection program. Unable to continue the Division of History’s historical marker program because of wartime rationing, Eckenrode sought to “record the history of the Old Dominion’s war effort while the history is still fresh in the making, rather than wait until after the war when the events and details would be more obscured.” The Conservation Commission began a correspondence program in which a non-salaried correspondent from each locality sent reports about local war activities and local effects of and reactions to the war.

In March 1943, Mrs. Mary B. Thompson of Stafford County submitted to the Commission the “Story of Stafford Evacuation” by Elizabeth Russell Powers.  Approximately 350 families lived in the 30,000 acres of condemned land in Stafford County.  Powers described the difficulties the families faced moving:  locating a new home, packing belongings, a shortage of trucks, and muddy and washed out roads.  Powers also addressed the “fine spirit” of the people forced to leave their homes.  Their spirit “has suffered, and they feel for good and sufficient reasons” - the short moving time fram, lack of assistance from the Marine Corps, and lack of payment by the United States government for their property.  “Though I sympathize with the men and women who feel they have been unfairly treated,” Powers concluded, “I believe they will live to realize an economic and social benefit.”  A contemporary newspaper account seem to support Powers’ assertion.  A story in the 8 October 1942 issue of the Washington Post quoted Robert Guy, a life-long resident of Stafford:  “We’re blessed here,” he told his sister.  “Why shucks, over across the water, they’re killing men and women and little children every day and bombing their homes.  All we have to do is move out.  We’ll still have our families.”

While families were forced to move on short notice, they did not receive payment for their land for months and in some cases years.  The Richmond Times-Dispatch reported on 29 October 1943 that title to only a third of the condemned land had been deeded to the United States government.  For those owners still awaiting payment, Fauquier, Prince William and Stafford counties added insult to injury:  the owners had to pay property tax on land that they no longer possessed.  A.B. Cloe, deputy treasurer of Stafford County, explained that while the Navy took possession of all properties by December 1942, the property taxes were only shifted to the purchaser when legal title had been transferred and recorded in the county clerk’s office.  “When the government took over the land last year [1942],” Cloe said, “I don’t know of a single person who minded paying up taxes through December, even though many had to get out of their homes a month before the end of the year.  However, it is hard for them to understand why they must pay this year’s taxes [1943] when the government has had possession, and use of their land.”  By 1944, the Navy had title to nearly 70% of the condemned land.  In 1945 the United States government surplused some property obtained for military use during the war – but they kept the 50,000 acres for Quantico.

The records of the Virginia Department of Conservation and Development, Division of History is open for research at the Library of Virginia.

-Roger Christman, Senior State Records Archivist

In late 1943, Leona Robbins was 12 years old and living in Norfolk, Virginia.  Her neighbor and close family friend, Army Lieutenant Charles Field, was headed overseas, where he would be stationed in Norfolk, England.  Field suggested that Leona and her friends pull together some toys to distribute to the children there.  England had been at war for over four years at that point, and the deprivation and danger faced by its citizens was considerable.  Leona responded sympathetically, gathering some dolls and toy cars for the children.

Lt. Field delivered the package to the junior school in the village of Carbrooke, Thetford, Norfolk, in March 1944.  Headmistress Mary Norton and each of the children in her class wrote Leona letters of thanks and introduction.  Miss Norton spoke highly of the American soldiers, who had thrown two separate Christmas parties for the children the previous December: “They spoilt our children, and consequently are very popular!  I honestly think this last was the best Christmas our children have had since 1939.”  The students also drew pictures, including some of a christening ceremony they had for the dolls (naming one of them Leona Mary).

The correspondence continued for a little over a year, with each side sending letters and small gifts. The letters show typically curious children, wanting to compare ages, schools, recreational activities, and vacation schedules with their friend overseas.  Nearly every detail was worth checking: “Do you milk cows by machinery in America?  We do about here.”  They also shared the sorts of stories that kids find newsworthy.  A nine-year-old girl wrote of a humorous incident from a recent family visit, recalling “Our uncle wanted a piece of pie, Auntie wouldn’t get him any, so he sat with his elbows on the table saying ‘pie, pie, pie’ over and over again till she gave him some.”

Mixed in with these average childhood concerns were more or less casual references to extraordinary circumstances.  Several children identified themselves as evacuees from London.  Many referenced “doodlebugs,” a slang term for the German V-1 flying bombs (described by one child as “the Jerry’s latest weapon of war”) that were raining down on England at an alarming rate in the summer of 1944.  In a letter dated 26 March 1945, another child relates that “The Germans came over on Monday night, the bullets were flying around our house, we were watching some and had to run in, dad thought we would have to go in the dugout, but we didn’t.”

Finally, in late April 1945, Miss Norton writes with relief, “I expect you are just as delighted as we are about the news of the war in Europe?  By the time you get these letters it may well be over.”  In the same packet of letters, several children write to reassure Leona that her namesake, the doll Leona Mary, is doing well – all things considered. “We still have got her, and she is still as strong as she was when she came here, execepting [sic] one hand which is off.” 

The unfortunate Leona Mary’s injury did not prevent her from going on an adventure or two.  “We are going to play mother’s [sic] and father over the meadow today, and I am going to have Leona for my little baby,” writes Marlene Thompson. “Mary Dunnett the girl I sit next to is my husband and Norah Walker is Joyce Starwood’s husband. Yesterday our husbands took us to the pub and we got drunk and fell off our bicycles.”

The final letter was written by Miss Norton in August 1945, having left her teaching job in order to prepare for her upcoming marriage.  She wrote that she hoped the correspondence would continue.  Unfortunately, as Leona Robbins (now Fitchett) reports, all contact dropped off as everyone “recovered and recouped” from the war.  Still, the letters remain as a sweet and sometimes poignant example of the relationships (however fleeting) that can spring up in the darkest of times.  “We all think it so very kind of you to take so much trouble over a bunch of kids you’ve never even seen,” wrote Miss Norton earlier that year. “But if you could see the pleasure they have given I believe you would feel a little repaid.”

A quick check of the internet reveals that Carbrooke School is still in existence today, and marks its 165^th anniversary this year.  The letters written by Miss Norton and her class, along with the children’s drawings and a handful of photographs, are cataloged as the Leona Robbins Fitchett Collection (Accession 50068) and are open to researchers at the Library of Virginia.

-Jessica Tyree, Senior Accessioning Archivist

Transcript of 29 March 1944 letter from Mary Norton to Leona Robbins

Transcript of 30 June 1944 letter from Fred Laws to Leona Robbins

For this week’s Veterans’ Day-themed post, I am going to depart from our usual practice of focusing on images, documents, and stories that Library of Virginia archivists uncover as we process collections.  Instead, I would like to share the story of Cecelia Graham and how a chance conversation with my wife led to the emotional discovery of the World War II Separation Notice of Cecelia’s father.

The Virginia World War II Separation Notices was one of the first collections I processed at the Library of Virginia; it contains approximately 250,000 notices for World War II veterans discharged between 1942 and 1950 (with the bulk between 1944 and 1946) who sought employment in Virginia.  A disastrous 1973 fire at the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis destroyed a large percentage of Army and Army Air Force records in federal custody for veterans discharged between 1912 and 1960.  The LVA’s collection of separation notices became invaluable to Virginia’s servicemen and their families after the fire.

These records have been part of the Library’s archival collection since 1950 but they were in no order and the Library did not have the resources to process them.  I recognized the importance of the collection and, being young and impatient, I was determined to do “something” about it.  That “something” turned into the largest filing project in the LVA’s history.  From September 1998 to June 2003, I alphabetized approximately 250,000 separation notices.

A few months after I started processing the collection, my wife Kim mentioned the WWII Separation Notices project while trying to explain my job to Ceceilia, her friend and co-worker.  Cecelia’s father, Cecil Graham, served in World War II; she asked Kim if I would search for her father’s record.  I agreed.  We had not developed any access procedures or request forms for the collection yet, so I just wrote Cecil’s name and birth date on a yellow piece of paper and taped it to the wall in my work area.  About a year later, I found Cecil Graham’s record.  He was in the United States Army from 1943 to 1946 and served in both the European and Pacific Theaters.  I made a copy of the record and went back to processing.  When Kim gave it to Cecelia, she began to cry.  Cecelia lost most of her family at a very young age; her father died when she was still a child.  She had no one to tell her stories about her family and knew nothing about her father’s military service.  She treasured this record.  Having a copy of her father’s record was like having a part of him.

Cecelia later called me at home to thank me for finding her father’s record.  She then told me something I’ll never forget.   She had two sets of military dog tags but never knew which belonged to her father and which belonged to her deceased brother, also named Cecil.  Having learned her father’s service number from his separation notice, she could now distinguish which was which.  Finding Cecil Graham’s separation notice is the proudest moment in my 16-year career as an archivist.  Cecelia’s story changed how I viewed my own work.  Processing the separation notices was no longer a filing project.  Each record had its own story and each could have its own Cecelia looking for answers.  For the remainder of the project, I kept the yellow piece of paper with Cecil Graham’s information taped to the wall to remind me of Cecelia and the emotional impact one record can have.

The Virginia World War II Separation Notices contain privacy-protected information such as such as social security numbers and medical information.  Access to the collection is limited to veterans and their next-of-kin.  For more information on the Library’s wealth of resources on Virginia’s wartime experience, please see the November 2010 issue of the Library of Virginia’s e-newsletter.

-Roger Christman, Senior State Records Archivist