The 11th Airborne Division, still in New Guinea and continuing to specialize their training are coming closer and closer to their time for combat, unbeknownst to them. Their commander, General Swing, awaits the word from General MacArthur.
Letter XII ?? Problems ?? 0800 Sunday 9/3/44
Dear Mom, We will start off first with “Webster’s” definition of the word — problem. “A question for solution, and a proposition to be demonstrated.” This is all very true, only in the army, although it is demonstrated, it never turns out in a satisfactory solution.
For some unknown reason, the hint of a problem soon-to-be gets around long before it is ever officially announced. When once you hear about it, you begin to wonder just how you will get out of going and wonder if going on sick call will help. The best thing is to try to get on some detail, but generally, the details floating around loose at that time are of such a nature that going on the problem is much easier.
No one likes or cares for problems including the officers and non-coms, except maybe a few who are bucking and hope to show their leader that they have tactical and sure-fire P.F.C. abilities.
No matter how easy or simple the problem, you always have to carry around a load of unnecessary equipment. On the day set forth for the problem they put up a list of the stuff you are to take with you. After an hour or two spent trying to get everything into the pack, just big enough to hold a pair of socks, a tent, poles, rain gear, poncho, insect repellent and your toilet articles, you are pretty well tired out and lie down for a few minutes rest. You no sooner do that than the sergeant will come around with a revised list of equipment and again you unpack and re-pack. This goes on through the day until finally in utter despair you pick up your duffel bag and carry that on your back.
Finally the whistle blows. You hurriedly put on your pack, pick up your rifle and dash to fall in the formation forming outside. After standing there for 30 or 40 minutes, you realize that all your rushing was in vain and that you have a chance to untangle yourself from the pack harness and straighten it out. You no sooner start to do this than the order comes to pull out and get going.
While marching out, it suddenly dawns on you that a quick visit to the latrine would have helped, but is now impossible to get to. After walking for two hours, your pack feels like a ton and your five-pound rifle now weighs twenty. The heat is slowly getting you down and you begin to wonder, is it all worth it? Soon the Lt. comes prancing alongside of you and walking just as easy as falling off a log. He says a few words to you, such as, “Close it up.” “Keep in line” or “How you doing fella?” as he passes by. You wonder how the devil he can keep it up, until you take a good look at his pack. Many are the times when I wondered what would happen if I stuck a pin in it. Wonderful things these basketball bladders.
When finally you arrive at the next to last stop, the Lt. calls his men around him and proceeds to try and tell them what this problem is about and what we are supposed to do. We are all too tired to listen in the first place and in the second place — don’t give a damn. All this time you watch the Lt. and soon you realize that he didn’t much care for the problem and is probably just as annoyed as you.
When you finally hit the place where the problem is, confusion takes over and the problem is started. Orders are given and not carried out, cause generally the G.I. has been told before to do something else, so that by the time order is restored, all is in a worse shape than before. The Lt. takes out a map to try and locate himself and is only to find that the map he has is the one relating to last week’s problem. No matter, from then on, where the C.P. and assembly area were to be, now, wherever you are at that particular moment will become the C.P. and assembly area. If the rest of the company was fortunate enough to locate the right place — the hell with them — let them find us.
You are then assigned to different spots and told to dig in. Now, digging in calls for some thought. If you just dig a slit trench, it doesn’t call for much work, but you can always be seen and so you can’t sleep. But, if you dig a larger hole, called a foxhole, you can safely sleep away the night and also — the problem. Myself? I go for the foxhole on the slit trench side as it affords me the opportunity of sleeping in a horizontal position.
Soon the whistle blows announcing the end of the problem. You awaken to find that it is the next day and that once again you slept through the whole mess. Questions are asked as to who or what side won, did the enemy get through and a thousand and one others. Before leaving the place, you now have to shovel the dirt back into your hole, as leaving blank open holes around are dangerous to life and limb. When that is completed, you put your backpack back on and trudge your weary way back.
Upon arriving back in camp, critiques are held and then you find out what you were supposed to have learnt while you were out there. I have always been of the opinion that if critiques were held before going out, it would save us all a lot of trouble and also make going on the problem — unnecessary. Once back in your tent, you unpack and think that now you will lie down and have a little nap, only to find out that the detail you tried to get on in order to miss the problem has materialized and that you are to get up and get on it. Oh, weary bones, will they never have any rest?
Don’t give up, for after all, the war can’t last forever. One thing you can always count on though, problems are the pride and joy of the army and will continue on being as long as there is an army.
Hope I’ve confused you as much as we are. I’ll leave you as that damn detail has come up and so I’ll have to carry my weary body out and hope I last out the day.
Confused as all hell, Everett
But training goes on …..
For a period of five months the 11th Airborne Division would receive jungle warfare and intensified combat unit ground training in the primitive land of jungles and mountains and thatched huts. Many called the native population, Fuzzy Wuzzies, but this was considered a derogatory term. The Papua brigades and Allied forces that constituted the Cartwheel Operations before the troopers made this landing possible.
Letter VII 6/8/44 Land
Dear Mom, Well, here we are on the island of New Guinea. From what we can see if it so far, I know we’ll never go hungry as the coconut trees are as thick as a swarm of bees.
We started for our area in trucks after all the rumors said we’d walk and we “Oh!” and Ah’d” all throughout the trip. Not wanting to show the natives here how smart we are, the driver proceeded on his own when lo and behold — where were we? I don’t know, no one knows, so right away we all knew that wherever we were — that wasn’t where we were supposed to be. Now, of course, we weren’t to blame, as after all, this is a strange and new place to us and they didn’t give us a Socony road map or a compass reading, so no matter — drive on — come what may. Of course, some large and strange appearing trees which grew in the road had different ideas and no matter how hard we hit them, they consistently set us back. How they ever managed to find a road to grow in is beyond me, but then they were here before us. Naturally, after the way they treated our truck, we gave them a wide berth, eventually leaving the road al together.
When after what seemed like hours, we finally found our area, much to the delight of the lower hind part of our anatomy. Then, our shoulders and backs had to haul our bags around until we found our tents. This was done very systematically: someone had the idea of first asking the captain just where we belonged and he proceeded to take us there. We could see at once that this place was no place for us and got right down to thinking up goldbricking alibis.
Work here is the main word we soon found out, and might I add we are all still trying to duck, but it seems that as soon as one finds a spot in the woods, oops I mean jungle, the tree-chopper-downers come along and there you are not only up to your neck in work, but also find out that now your haven is so exposed as to make it useless again as a hideout.
You might wonder what all this labor is about and also expect to find out in this chapter or letter, but no, it shall never be. I’m saving that for the next installment, which I’m sure you will be breathlessly awaiting. Regards to all.
Love, Your son, Everett
The origin of the nickname, “Angels” for the 11th Airborne has always been up for debate. At Dobodura, New Guinea, while unloading the supplies off the ships that were constantly pulling into port, it became well-known that the troopers of the 11th A/B were a bit more light-fingered than the other units. The distribution of the food and war materiel was severely unbalanced, with the bulk of it going to the troopers. It was definitely at this time that they acquired the title of “Swing and his 8,000 Thieves.” My father and many other troopers believe that the title remained with them up until the release of the internees at Los Banos prison on Luzon, when a nun looked up and said that the parachutists looked like “angels sent to save us.”
One other theory I found, while still on New Guinea, a senior officers questioned General Swing about the uneven delivery of supplies. Swing , with a rather tongue-in-cheek attitude, replied that it could not possibly be due to his “angels.”
And yet, there is another idea on the subject. The troopers, with their antics, were often in trouble. After a rather rough weekend, a senior officer asked just how many of the 11th airborne’s “little angels” were in the stockade. The reply, of course, was, “none of my angels are.”
No matter what the reason or nickname, this undermanned and under-equiped division trudged on.
Just as Smitty expected, their destination was quickly coming up over the horizon. The fleeting glimpse of solid land, Milne Bay, New Guinea was only a short stopover for water (such a disappointment) and they continued their cruise north. The 11th came upon the humming waterfront of ships manipulating to unload troops, supplies and equipment in Oro Bay. They witnessed a paradoxal view of organized chaos. Down the rope ladders they went to the beach taxis, DUKWs (2 ton amphibious vehicles commonly called “ducks”) and onward to the awaiting shoreline. At latitude 8*52’60S and longitude 148*30’0E would be the first step for many a G.I. on foreign soil. On the beach, the heat seemed to slam into the troopers and their uniforms became soaked within minutes, but they proceeded on to the Buna-Dobodura area to make their new base camp.
As written in the Australian newspaper, The Canberra Times, 1944: “New Guinea was a country out of the Stone Age that was whizzed through the centuries. A country that had previously known only natives, grass huts and raw nature has been blitzed from all angles with every piece of equipment known to modern engineering and warfare … the skies are as busy as a beehive with bombers and fighters and transports.”
The 11th had entered the jungles amidst torrential rains, mud and heat. On their first day, the meals were prepared in Australian chuck wagons and the idea of fresh food would be a distant memory from the past. From here on out, everything would be canned, dehydrated or cured. Having come from the fishing town of Broad Channel, Smitty was accustom to eating seafood and was even teased in boot camp for liking the creamed chipped beef on toast (more commonly known as -“shit-on-a-shingle”), but those days were long gone. I remember him saying more than once, “It wasn’t that the powdered eggs tasted bad — they just didn’t have a taste.”
Although General Swing had contracted malaria and was hospitalized when his men sipped out of the U.S., he boarded a plane for Brisbane, Australia to attend a meeting with Gen. MacArthur. Swing was briefed on the immediate plans for his command and was reminded that the 11th A/B was considered a “secret weapon.” Swing managed to be in Dobodura in time to meet his men as they disembarked.
Letter VI Land Ho! On the port side
Dear Mom, Well, land is in sight so I’ll just hold off this letter awhile until I can find out for sure if this is what we have all been waiting for or just another island…. Yep and yes siree this is finally it and from what I have seen up to now it is going to prove not only an interesting place, but picturesque as well. Don’t know yet if we can say where we are, so I won’t attempt it.
Everyone is standing along the railings with glasses while those less fortunate are straining their eyes trying to get a glimpse of our new and strange surroundings. It is all very exciting and thrilling and must say one gets sort of feeling down deep that is hard to explain. It might be that the sight of this long awaited place has sub-consciously awaked us to the fact that we are one heck of a long way from home.
Now that we are here in a port with a chance of possibly getting this letter mailed, I’ll close this letter and mail it as I know how anxious you must be about me and would like to hear from me as soon as possible. I promise you though that I will continue to write my letters like this and would like you to save them all so that when I get back I will have something to read back on and maybe remember.
I did finally get around to
part of this was censored so don’t worry any on that account. I know how you worry about things like that so thought it best that you know. the next two lines were also censored That is just about all there is for now, so with regards to all and hoping this letter is the answer to your nightly prayers, I’ll close with all my love and millions of hugs and kisses.
Your son, Everett
PERSONAL NOTE – If any photo image is too small to see, click on that image to enlarge. In future letters you will see the dry humor my father had. I can’t wait to get to those.