When 289 of us entered Radcliffe in 1942, the war had been on for nine months. Half of our class, including myself, were commuters. For those of us who lived in the dorms, the pleasant pre-war amenities soon became memories. By 1943, most of our Harvard classmates were in uniform. The WAVES moved into Briggs Hall and then later into Whitman. Radcliffe students were crowded into the rest of the dorms and outside houses. Progress across the Radcliffe and Harvard Yards meant dodging lines of marching women and men.

We were unquestioningly patriotic and accepted these discomforts. What we could not make sense of was a tragedy in a Boston nightclub. The Coconut Grove fire in the fall of 1942 killed hundreds of young people, including a Radcliffe classmate. It was as near as I had yet approached death; my date and I had tried to go there that evening but the club was full and we were turned away.

After acceleration came into effect in 1943, many of us pushed to get through in three years "in time to save our country." Others dropped out to join the armed services or to follow husbands to military camps and naval stations, returning to finish college after the war.

By 1943, many professors had left for war service or Washington. There was neither teaching staff nor time to give a lecture twice, once at Harvard, once at Radcliffe, and our classes became partially co-ordinate (a more dignified word than coeducation) with Harvard. We took notes now amidst a sea of V-12 white-suited sailors and the navy uniformed ROTC, and sometimes they copied what we wrote. I remember Professor Payson Wild commenting on the results of a final exam in international relations: The Radcliffes scored on average 10 points higher, but the Harvards' bluebooks were more interesting to read.

Even in war time, we had memorable teachers. Professor David Owen taught British history, and his Crystal Palace lecture was famous. I remember "Doc" Davison in Music 1 lecturing on the music of William Byrd with such enthusiasm that there were tears in his eyes. F.O. Matthiessen's Shakespeare-reading course in Adams House was another highlight. (I think it was in Adams: memory sometimes double-faults.)

Eleanor Roosevelt paid a visit to Radcliffe, the first president's wife ever to do so, and gave two addresses. She told a Phi Beta Kappa that--I quote from the Radcliffe News of December 18, 1942--"she thought this decade the most exciting in all history for the young girl--the young college girl. 'Not since pioneer days have women had such great chances to prove their worth."

I believe most of us agreed with Mrs. Roosevelt. But it is also consistent with the times that so few of us criticized Harvard's closed-to-women graduate schools and libraries, and the lack of women on the Faculty.

Most of us only reacted when professors and section-men dropped disparaging comments about women as students. (We could handle our Harvard classmates, as they greatly outnumbered us, and curfews and gas rationing prevented them from getting to Wellesley very often.)

As a member of the staff of the Radcliffe News, I got a coveted press pass to hear Winston Churchill speak in the Yard and then receive an honorary degree in Sanders Theatre on September 6, 1943. Churchill wore a grey suit with a black bow tie, Oxford hat and a red academic gown which draped around him like a kimono. The academic ceremony pulled out all stops, from the magnificent sheriff of Middlesex County to then-president James B. Conant '14 awarding the degree in his nasal voice: "by virtue of the authority delegated to me."

As undergraduates, we were constricted by parietal rules. We wore skirts to classes (except in Cambridge blizzards and when the oil shortage became acute) and hats and gloves to teas. We never smoked on the street (the only place you can, now, as one classmate has pointed out). The college food was terrible, running to all-white fish and potato and cauliflower meals, and Halloween salads of shredded carrots and raisins. Sweet sherry was the beverage of choice for fancy functions.

Nevertheless, we had good times. Mine included rehearsing the "Brahms Requiem" with the Radcliffe Choral Society, the Harvard Glee Club and the BSO; hanging out with some fairly pretentious literary types (among whom I include myself) in Eliot House getting high--I kid you not--on conversation and strong tea made in a samovar; attending a harmless little riot on Garden Street following an alleged robbery by Harvard boys on Radcliffe's dorms; helping to found Pro Tem, which was, as its Latin announced, an interim war-time magazine. Our advisor was Mark Schorer, then teaching English at Harvard.

We debated the future of the world at the Harvard Council for Post-War Problems, followed the war in the Pacific, rejoiced at the D-Day landings, mourned President Roosevelt's death and celebrated V-E Day in Harvard Yard. When the atom bomb dropped, we did not agonize over its use, because it had brought us peace.

The war had forced us to face death--if not our own, that of brothers, fiances, friends and lovers. Limited as to travel, hedged about like all civilians, with regulations and rationing, we hastened toward our degrees.

And when we left Cambridge, quit "our little corner of the world," we were, in many ways, adults. My husband (Harvard '46, naval ROTC) and I became engaged when we were 19 and, like an astonishingly high number of our classmates, we are celebrating our 50th anniversary this year.

We were also idealistic in a way hard to understand in 1996. Europe would be reconstructed; this time world government would succeed; racial and religious bias would end. And, one way or another, we all would be a part of it.

Most of us found employment right after college. Marriage, followed by children, made me resign, as many other classmates did, from what is still called "work" as opposed to what's done in the home. I have to say I chose to withdraw.