November 29, 1990

Dear Alice and Christine,

You have asked me about my Army service during World War II. Early in 1942 my draft board deferred calling me up so that I could be graduated from OSU. I had not asked for a deferment. I was told to report to Newark on November 11, 1942. I did. Your mother was with me when I boarded the troop train for Camp Atterbury in Indiana. Because this group of recruits had been placed under my supervision, or whatever the word is, I was the last to climb aboard.

Here the pace picks up. Camp Stoneman in California was my headquarters very briefly. On my 31 st birthday, Dec. 1, 1942, I passed under the Golden Gate Bridge headed for Hawaii aboard the Gen. Frederick Funston. We reached Honolulu on Dec. 8, and I had my basic training at Schofield Barracks, Oahu, not far from Honolulu. The Barracks proper consisted of permanent, solid buildings, but we were not assigned to them. Our quarters were comfortable and airy, and largely open on all sides, as I remember. They measured about 20 feet by 40 ft. We slept on regular army cots, each with a much-needed mosquito net. We did not have hot water and there was no plumbing in our building.

Basic training consisted of instruction in the care and use of our weapons, in firing practice, in judo (jiu-jitsu), in close-order drill, in military courtesy, in the manner of serving on guard duty, in the occasional 15 or 20-mile hikes, in the use of the compass, and in the use of camouflage, among other items.

About February 1, 1943, I was assigned to Hq. Co, 1st Bn., 165th Infantry, 27th Division. The 27th was from New York and most of my company was right out of Brooklyn. In Hq. Co. I was placed in the Communications Platoon. This platoon had three sections: radio, wire (telephone and telegraph), and a message center. I was first placed in the message center, but in late ’42 and early ’43, I was sent to radio school, and after “graduating” there I went into the radio section. I stayed there for the duration. I learned Morse code, of course, and for a time, at least, I could receive 20 words per minute.

There were at least two other platoons in my company: Pioneer and Ammo and Anti-tank. Correction: There were at least three. This other one consisted of cooks and non-coms whose work was centered in the orderly room, clerks and/or stenographers.

Pioneer and Ammo refers to the duties of this platoon. Pioneer meant that these fellows might be sent ahead of the company to search out any means of advance against an enemy, and be ready to, say, build a bridge or repair one, as the need may be. Ammo (ammunition) meant that the men were charged with the duty of seeing that the company’s supplies of ammunition and food were adequate at all times.

The Anti-tank platoon was our only offensive unit. It had three cannons, as I recall. Each was on wheels, of course, each was transported by a Jeep, and each had a bore of about two inches. I would guess that about ten men served each weapon.

In September or October of ’43, our division was given the job of taking Makin Island in the Gilberts from the Japanese. The Marines were assigned to Tawara. Makin turned out to be a picnic by comparison. We lost Col. Conroy, our battalion commander, on Makin, but I can name no other casualty. The Marines ran into some of the fiercest resistance of the entire war. It sticks in my mind that they lost about 1000 men in an area hardly in excess of one square mile; also that they had considered calling our division for help. They did not. I think our forces lost an aircraft carrier in the battle for the Gilberts. I remember seeing the glow from a large fire at sea.

Our next job was Saipan. As I recall, most of us got ashore about midnight or 1 AM on the 17th of June 1944. (D-Day in Normandy, you recall, was on the 6th. We were at sea on that date.) When I landed, the beach was under artillery or mortar fire, and it is a thundering wonder that some of our piled-up ammunition didn’t “go” because of all the shelling. The island was “secured” around mid-July.

We were still mopping up in August, however, because I got my eye banged up on August 8. Somebody or something set off a land mine outside our defense perimeter. Perhaps five or six seconds later, a piece of that contraption came down and cracked me in the skull just over my right eye. The injury proved not to be serious although the eye was blind for a time.

My company commander remarked that if the thing had hit me “going north instead if coming south”, the results for me might have been significantly different. He probably had a point. I was hospitalized on Guadalcanal for about a month, after which I returned to my company. The division by that time was on Espiritu Santos, so I went there from Guadalcanal. We lost some men on Saipan (the total for our battalion was 69 so the sergeant-major told me), but more on that later.

Next, and last, was Okinawa, the largest amphibious assault during the Pacific campaign. We landed there in early April 1945. FDR died on April 12, 1945. We had not yet gone into the lines at that time—and that is as close to the date of our doing so that I can come. (See footnote 1)

The battle for it, and for Iwo Jima, has been called the greatest air-land-sea battles in which U.S. forces have been involved. We suffered some 77,000 casualties in that effort. (See footnote 2) We were not at the front very long. As I understand it, we incurred such losses that we were withdrawn before the fighting ended.

The following accounts might personalize (somewhat) my experiences of the war for you.

You, Alice, have asked about the small scar I have in the middle of my forehead. Here’s the story: In the cartoon strip “Beetle Bailey,” perhaps you have noticed that “Cookie” is drawn with hair growing down over his shoulders. My training section in Oahu had a cook who could have been the model for that cartoon. As I was going through the chow line one evening, I heard a trainee’s voice refer to that cook as “Hairless Joe.” I do not know to whom the words were addressed, or whether they were in fact addressed to anybody. That cook, however, was in the serving line and he heard the words.

Nothing happened just then; but as I was washing my gear at the inside sink provided for us, a large metal coffee pot hit the wall in front of me, bounced back and cut the skin where my scar now appears. Before I knew what was happening, a second missile, a heavy restaurant-type cup, hit the same wall and embedded itself therein. (The wall was constructed, in part, of building paper.) The fellow with the loose tongue was behind me and the projectiles had been meant for him. This was the first of only two times I needed first aid in the Army. (The second was on Saipan.) The cook apologized to me and declared, “You and I are friends.” I do not believe he was disciplined. That cup might have cracked a skull.

There is a short sequel to the above yarn. On passes in Honolulu, I had a few photographs taken. One of them in particular showed that forehead scar pretty well. I decided to send it to your mother. No soap. My company commander called me into the orderly room, where he noted my words on the back of the photo, “Souvenir of a mess-hall brawl.” He didn’t like the language. He said it would tend to give the people back home a wrong impression of the Army. Of course, I didn’t argue, but I was flabbergasted. People back home were expected to think that millions of young bucks, away from home, never got into scraps of any kind??? Phooey!

I shared a rather harrowing experience with other members of our company one day on Saipan, in the shadow of Mt. Tapotchau. Anybody with any sense would have known that the choice was bad, but somebody had decided that our unit should dig in for the night in a grove at the base of that mountain. We had just about gotten ourselves settled—rations and ammo moved in, foxholes dug—when the first of probably two or three dozen mortar shells came whistling in. I wasn’t in my foxhole yet, but I d----- soon got there.

I use the word whistling. Whispering would more nearly describe the sound. Mortar shells are shot high in the sky at about 45 degrees; and come down at about the same angle. They are relatively slow moving and one can hear them coming. I remember listening to a few of them, and wondering when one with my “name” on it would land.

Well, I looked around and saw my comrades clearing out of that area. I figured orders had been given to get out (they had not), so I grabbed my weapon and pack and cleared out, too. Curtis was killed in the mortar barrage scrambling for safety—getting out of there. I am not sure of other casualties. A tank was called up to fire at the rocky face of the mountain, in the hope of hitting the spot where the enemy lay. I am not at all sure if it did a bit of good. Needless to say, we didn’t bivouac there again.

Another time, in Okinawa, we were under a heavy artillery barrage. I had a foxhole next to that of a private named Bianchi, one of our cooks. I asked him in the morning if he had done any praying in the night. His answer was typical GI: “You ain’t a shittin’ I was prayin’!”

On both Saipan and Okinawa there were many hillside tombs, small concrete- faced mausoleums containing earthen urns in which the remains from cremation of the native dead were placed. We had been encouraged not to use these tombs as shelter. The argument was that, in the view of the Japanese, we would be committing sacrilege. We routinely ignored the suggestion but the places didn’t smell too good!

On Lt. Burns’ last night of life, on Okinawa, a stray Japanese soldier came down over one of these tombs and landed between a small group of our men. Burns grappled with the Jap who must have been prepared for what happened next. He set off a hand grenade between the two of them and they both died instantly. Hector Garcia was one of the other men present. I suggested, in my later correspondence with Hector, that Burns should have been given an award of some kind for his actions. Hector very definitely agreed, saying that he thought Burns had saved his life.

I need to mention the men who lost their lives. On Saipan, as I recall, there were Curtis, mentioned earlier, Hill, Kyle and a lieutenant named Tuoby. Hill and Kyle were the first to die. They both were in Intelligence—people whose job it was to scout out the enemy. They had gone out ahead of our positions in the night and were returning to our lines. I don’t know precisely how the foul-up occurred, but they were gunned down by one of our own men. All of our rifle companies (A, B, C, D) should have been told our men were on reconnaissance, and should have been given a password to use in challenging any intruder. It was one of the sad incidents that are all too common in any war.

On Okinawa, I know of the following men who lost their lives: Hughes, Cowart, Haibe, Stewart, and our platoon leader, Lt. Burns. Stewart and Haibe were killed together when their jeep hit a land mine. I think Hughes was killed as the men were stirring out of their foxholes in the morning. I have previously described how Lt. Burns died. I do not know how Cowart (or Lt. Touby on Saipan) was killed. We also lost medics who were killed trying to save wounded soldiers’ lives. They were attached to our company but I didn’t know any of them personally and cannot list any of them here.

Of the men named above, only Hughes was from Ohio. While your mother and I still lived in Columbus after the war, a buddy named DeLay with whom I served, and I, went to visit Hughes’ parents in West Liberty. We were able to tell them how he died—instantly, from a bullet through his head. I do not know whether we were any comfort to the pair. “Pop” Hughes was very well liked in the company.

I was on my way home by October 1945. Our troop train stopped briefly in Chicago. We didn’t have to get off the train but some did, presumably just to stretch their legs. I was seated by an open window (it wasn’t cold) and happened to look out to see a returning soldier standing in the middle of the adjacent tracks with his back to an approaching locomotive. The engine was so close to him that I had not time for a warning yell. Instinctively, I jerked my head back from the window. The next instant his body was flying along side the engine’s drivers. They gathered him up in pieces.

A little later an officer came through my car asking for names of witnesses. A few returning soldiers were reluctant to speak up so I volunteered my name and your mother’s home address. Some days later, I received an inquiry from the Army. They wanted to know how fast the locomotive was traveling (in my estimation, of course), and whether I had heard a warning whistle. I could not help much. I told them about what I have just told you.

Perhaps you have heard the saying that “Life isn’t fair!” In my view, few incidents can demonstrate the truth of this saying more faithfully than what happened on that October day in Chicago. Here was a young man who had been overseas perhaps longer than I. He had perhaps survived the bloody hell of combat. In any case, he had survived, only to be cut down in a freakish accident possibly a few miles from his home.

We can surmise, but not really appreciate, the agony of that soldier’s family at his homecoming.

Alice, you asked me what it was like when I found out that the war was over.

My feelings at the end of WW II, I think, were adequately expressed in my letter to the ( Columbus) Dispatch. I had said, “I expect never to see such joy again.” I had added, “We had survived the war. We would go home, to wives, sweethearts, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters—to all the things American which make life in our great land enjoyable.” Beyond all that, of course, was the thought of coming home to marry the girl I loved, to establishing a home, and to possibly fathering a family. And on this day, forty-eight years and one month later, and two days before my 79th birthday anniversary, I will say the “journey” has been worthwhile.