When my mother kissed my father goodbye on that Navy pier in Los Angeles the morning of August 5, 1945, they both assumed he was headed for the invasion of Japan, possibly the Pacific equivalent to D-Day in 1944. He was a 24 year old lieutenant (junior grade) fresh out of his war-accelerated medical school and internship. She was 23 with a couple of years of college and no kids after three years of marriage. Were they facing months, years, or that dreaded final separation? Did they dare try for contact of any kind?