22 November 1944, the 11th Airborne Division received orders to relieve the 7th Infantry Division along the Burauen-La Pag-Bugho line and destroy all enemy on their way and in that sector. While the 77th and 32d divisions converged on the valley, the 11th moved into the central mountain pass from the east. During this time on Leyte, the 11th A/B was under the command of the Sixth Army.
Field Order Number 28 instructed them to continue through a very rough and densely forested area called the Cordillera. The rainy season dragged on and on and the mud not only caked on their boots (making it difficult to walk), but it ate clear through the footwear within a week. The uniforms began to rot away. The men were quickly beginning to realize why the natives wished to be paid in clothing rather than food or cash.
One part of the Headquarters Company was left guarding the perimeter of Mawala and the remainder of the unit went upstream to Manarawat to defend that perimeter. Here, the 221st Airborne Medical Company, with two portable surgical hospitals, took nip-thatched huts and lined them with parachutes. Despite the trials and tribulations of the troopers after they landed between Abuyog and Tarragona just four days previous, they proceeded in their mission to relieve the 24th and 37th infantry divisions.
Considering the advances the U.S. forces had already gained, especially at the ports and airfields, the Japanese Imperial Headquarters sent an edict to their troops demanding the destruction of Dulag and Tacloban airstrips. Japanese paratroopers immediately set out to jump on the Burauen airstrip; some missed their targets and landed on other airstrips.
At approximately 1800 hours on 6 December 1944, the American troopers heard and sighted Japanese bombers circling San Pablo airfield, but only a few bombs were dropped. Shortly afterward a large “V” of transport aircraft went overhead flying at 700 feet and 300 paratroopers of the Katori Shimpei Force landed and spread out. The Japanese command had named this operation, Te-Go. The Americans were taken by surprise. The only units stationed at the airfield were the 127th Engineers, the Signal Company and Headquarters Battery of Division Artillery. Many of the Japanese troopers died or were wounded when they jumped on Leyte due to a flaw with their quick release style parachute. Some of the men were being released 400 feet above the ground only to watch the earth rise toward them in their last seconds of life. Nevertheless, this did not stop the Japanese or even slow them down.
The enemy troopers commenced at once to set fire to the planes and supply dumps, but they appeared to be less than organized. Colonel Hildebrand arrived on the scene with the 187th RCT and the 674th Field Artillery division and they began to clear out the area. Many of the Japanese escaped into the jungles.
As the ships drew closer to Leyte, the American soldiers already on shore were being hampered by logistical problems which caused a severe delay in capturing the island. When the 11th A/B division arrived, General Hodge was finally able to move General Arnold’s 7th division and their plans came together.
Letter XV Landing Somewhere in the Philippines
We landed here in the Philippines yesterday morn, but before leaving the ship, the Japs treated us with their honorable (?) presence in the form of bombing planes. Shore batteries kept hammering at them in the gloom of a misty a.m. and the tracer’s bullets reaching up to the planes made a very pretty but gruesome sight. The way those tracer shells can pick out the planes you would think that they had a score to settle and just can’t wait to even it.
We landed finally on the beach, being taken to it in those much touted and not highly praised enough landing boats. How boats can ground themselves on land the way they do and still get off again unscratched is really a marvel. Those boys who handle them also deserve a lot of credit and, as Winchell would say, “A great big orchid is due.”
The natives here were real friendly and helpful in a dozen different ways. They ran up to the landing boats as soon as the bow of the boat sunk its bottom into the beach and helped us carry off our burdensome equipment. It reminded me of Penn or Grand Central Stations with porters running helter-skelter all over the place. The only thing missing to make the picture complete were the tell-tale red caps on their heads.
It wasn’t long after landing that we were organized into work groups and sent off to our chores. Work kept on until we were hours into the night despite the fact that again, Jap planes came over. I am happy to report that they will not be able to do so again, that is – not the same ones.
During the day we were handed K-rations for our dinner and after the excellent food we had aboard ship, they sure tasted like hell. Just before dark last night, we were allowed a few moments to ourselves and at once set to work getting our tents erected. Here again, the native men came in handy helping us to either put up the tents or dig our slit trenches. Of course they don’t do any of this work for nothing, but for items such as undershirts, trousers, soap or most anything in the line of clothing.
I will write more about the people in a later chapter. After all, you can’t do well to write about them on so short an acquaintance. Right now we are busy setting up a camp decent enough to live in. Having a few minutes to spare in between tents. I thought I’d write this down before it completely slipped my unrententive and feeble brain. There goes the whistle calling us back to work now, so until the next ten minute rest period, I’ll close with loads of love and car loads of kisses,
There were a few dogfights everyday above Bito Beach between Zeros and P-38s, but at night there was a rather unique spectacle watched by the men. Some of you might remember an episode of the television show, “M.A.S.H.” entitled “5 o’clock Charlie” – this had to be where they got the idea for that particular episode. The 11th airborne had their very own “Washing Machine Charlie” routinely chugging overhead. On a daily basis, his old engine coughed around so loudly he could be heard for miles. His flight path was so predictable that sounding the air raid alarm seemed ludicrous to the troops. The bomber only succeeded in landing one shell after his many raids and it happened to hit the causeway. The engineers were forced to return and rebuild the breach.
My father told me that he would just shrug it off when he heard “Charlie’s” plane overhead. He only hoped that all of the Japanese planes were in such rotten condition and the pilots had the same cross-eyed aim. (Too bad it wasn’t true.)
Unfortunately, Smitty did get to know some of the natives better, as I was to discover one day as watched the news about Vietnam. When it was mentioned that the soldiers found it difficult to distinguish between friend and foe, my father grunted. When I questioned him, he replied that he was very concerned about the welfare of our troops. Not one to discuss combat, I needed to prod him for an answer. He looked at me once and after that I could see that he was reliving the event.
“In the Philippines it was the same way. You couldn’t tell an ally from a makapili, that was one of the Filipinos who decided to side with the Japanese. We woke one morning and our usual Filipino woman who came to clean up the tent reported ill and her husband showed up to do her work in her stead. I had to go on patrol, so I didn’t think too much about it. My buddy was assigned to some detail and stayed back. When I returned to camp, things felt off. I knew something was wrong and I headed straight for my own tent. I don’t know why, I just knew the trouble was there. I found the cleaning debris out of it. The Filipino husband had straightened out our tent (lord only knows why) and left my buddy a surprise in his bunk – a grenade. They pull that same crap in Nam.”
Between his last letter and the following one, the 11th Airborne Division went through combat enduring some of the worst weather imaginable. The four days of monsoon rains made the smallest hill a slope of greasy mud and the flat terrain into knee-deep quagmires. The mud would cause a condition of the skin, especially their feet that the men would refer to as “jungle rot or swamp rot.” The troopers bivouacked under palm fronds in the coconut groves near Abuyog and Balay Baban villages trying to stay as dry as possible. The supplies, ammo and other war materiel had been separated and camouflaged and stayed dryer than the men. Natives and Filipinos worked to help accomplish this task and they were paid in pesos, food or clothing – whichever item they found most necessary.
It had been reported by The Courier Mail in Brisbane, Australia, that the mud was unique, “… a thin yellow soup, porous like quicksand and sometimes bottomless, yet the Americans made headway …” The heavy humidity soaked everything they possessed, including their meager rations, but they were hard-pressed to remain on alert at all times. The conditions proved beneficial for the enemy; their replenishments of food and ammunition were only hindered, while it became near impossible for the troopers. Making matters worse, there were no fixed battle lines and the Japanese were getting their supplies through the blockades. Wherever our men went, they encountered Japanese marines and suicide guards.
Click image to enlarge.
When the 11th airborne landed at Bito Beach, Leyte, they immediately began to unload the ships. The troopers worked around the clock, even as the tail end of the convoy was being attacked by Zeros. (The Japanese did have other planes, but the G.I.s tended to call them all Zeros.) The beach gradually became an ammo dump as Bito Beach was surrounded by water on three sides and a swamp covered the fourth, it was technically an island and therefore they were unable to move the crates out until the engineers built them some bridges. Throughout all this, air raids were being called which impeded progress all the more.
19 November 1944 – a kamikaze sank one of the transport ships only 1,500 yards offshore. It was left where it sank, sticking partway out of the water. The men used it as a sight to adjust the artillery aimed at the sea.
Letter XIV “On the Move” (again)
undated due to censorship
Dear Mom, We have been at sea now for three days heading toward someplace the Land and the great white father in Washington only knows.
As I sit here writing this, I just can’t help but feel like a very small insignificant part of something so vast that the mind can’t in any way begin to comprehend what it is all about. Here I am on a ship heading out to something, someplace, and it was all planned probably months ago, miles and miles away from anywheres near here. Suddenly it all takes form. Transports and other ships stream into the harbor and just as quickly and quietly we are made loose and moving out. It all happens so fast and so smoothly that you can’t help but admire it all.
Of course, as serious as it all is, the army just can’t help but be the cause of many amusing incidents. When we first landed in New Guinea we got lost looking for our camp and coming down to the boats, the trucks again got lost and so we had to travel up and down the beach until finally, instead of us finding the boats — the boats found us. Climbing up the gangplank with our packs and duffel bags always provide an amusing incident or two, but at the time seem pretty damn dangerous.
On board ship, we are once again packed in like sardines down in the hold. Once shown our bunk, we proceed at once to get rid of our equipment and dash up on deck to pick out some spot where we can spend the night, It isn’t long after this that the details are handed out — and so — what could have been a very pleasant voyage soon turns out to be anything else but. I was lucky in that I was handed a detail that only worked for an hour each day, but the poor guys that hit the broom detail were at it all day long. All we could hear, all day long, over the speaker system was: “Army broom detail, moping and brooms, clean sweep down forward aft, all decks.” They kept it up all the time until soon one of the fellas made up a little ditty about it and sang it every time we saw a broom coming down the deck.
The food was excellent and really worth talking about. On the first trip coming over from the states, we dreaded the thought of eating, but on this ship, it was more than a welcome thought. Generally, when you go to a movie there are news reel pictures of convoys of ships and the men aboard. They always try to show you a few playing cards or joking and say that this is how the boys relieve the tension they are under. Well, I don’t know about the seriousness of the situation was anything like what the news reels portray.
Of course, it was a strange sight to see the boys at night line up at the side scanning the sky and distant horizon. This was generally though at night and early dawn. What we expected to see, I don’t know and what our reaction would be, if we did see something — I hesitate to predict. It won’t be long after this letter is written that we will land or at least sight our destination, so wishing to be wide-awake when we do, I’ll close this letter now and hit the hay hoping I sleep an uninterrupted sleep.
Till next time, “Good night and pleasant dreams.” Love, Everett
Jungle training for the Second World War was held for the benefit of the soldier’s immediate situation, but its effectual results led into the establishment of the Special Forces. This is typified by the creation of the Recon Platoon of the 11th Airborne Division and the Alamo Scouts. Out of these units we witnessed the outstanding operations of today’s special troops. In New Guinea and later during their actual combat experience, what these men learned went on to be vital assets for the future generations of soldiers.
The advantage of being acclimated to a different climate and acquainted with the strange terrain served to aid them in their survival and the success of their missions.
Although the 11th A/B was small in size and short of arms and staff, they accepted orders normally issued to full size divisions. At this time, many people believed that MacArthur was obsessed with recovering the Philippines from the Japanese and perhaps he was, and with good reason. FDR had promised him serious military assistance in 1942, but it never arrived. As a direct result, MacArthur was ordered by his president to abandon his men on the islands and escape to Australia. The Commander-in-Chief of the U.S. had not only lied to one of his generals, but caused the forced surrender of American and Filipino citizens and military personnel. The infamous Bataan Death March and ultimate fall of the Philippines into Japanese control was the end result.
But here — the invasion of Leyte — would be, by far, the greatest operation of the Pacific. For the first time, the combines forces of MacArthur and the overseas bomber commands would be joined with the vast armada of Admiral Nimitz. Land and sea would simultaneously explode into action. The Japanese government also knew in their heart of hearts that the battles fought over the Philippine islands would decide the outcome of the war. Field Marshall Hisaichi Terauchi communicated orders for additional men and supplies, while General Yamashita attempted to convince his superiors otherwise. The general did not wish to remove men and arms from the more important island of Luzon, especially as transportation would now be a major problem — thanks to the U.S. Navy. Unfortunately, intentionally or not, FDR not only found a way to leak the plans of Leyte’s attack, but diplomatic sources in the Kremlin gave the Japanese a forewarning and the the enemy became determined to make the Philippines an all-out effort.
Certain matters would need to be dealt with by the soldiers, Allied and Japanese alike. For the Japanese, the concept of using retreat as a strategic tactic was confusing and unheard of by their standard of protocol. The very thought of retreat was a disgrace and therefore forbidden. The American G.I. was equally befuddled by hara Kiri and kamikaze techniques. The purpose that suicide accomplished in a battlefield was beyond their comprehension – yet these and many more differences had to be confronted. (The official name of kamikaze was Tokubetsu Kogekitai and was not quite as popular in Japan as some have been led to believe. This topic will be discussed in a later post as the action unfolds.)
Admiral Halsey led his famous fleet in the battle to clear Leyte Gulf and neighboring waters, thereby opening the way for troop landings. It was during the battle for Surigao Strait that Admiral Mitscher turned in early for some sleep and said to his aide, “It’s alright. Admiral Halsey is in command now.” But, all kidding aside, the Japanese had a very formidable navy and it would take more than one admiral to complete and win the last large sea battle of the war. Many historians , looking back on these ensuing battles, compared the forces of Nimitz with throwing a right cross and MacArthur’s troops following through with the left punch – the enemy did not stand a chance.
As General Eichelberger said more than once: “The 11th Airborne Division are the fightingest men I’ve ever seen.” And the largest and most violent armed conflict in history was about to start for these men.
November of 1944 arrived and with that came packing up for the next destination, Leyte, Philippines. It also meant the arrival of the rains, an understatement to say the least. Such downpours are alien to those who do not live in the tropics. Even the darkness is unique when it arrives in a flash and the blackness envelops everything like a sweeping shroud. A man’s eyes can no longer be trusted; he stands as though blindfolded.
Nine APA’s (naval transport ships designed to attack) and AKA’s (cargo ships designed to attack) would be required to carry the 11th A/B on to their target. Due to the constant barrage of weather, the journey lasted from Nov. 11 until the 18th. The Battle of Leyte was officially code-named “King II Operation.”
Being as their cruise took so long, Smitty had a chance to write home once again, Letter XIV will be included in the next post.
Personal note – Most acknowledgements will be at the end of this blog in the Bibliography; such as the photograph above which came from “The Pacific War Encyclopedia on-line.”
Back in the states, people were still dancing to the tunes of The Dorsey Brothers, Count Basie and Artie Shaw. They listened to the songs of Doris Day, the Andrew Sisters, Lena Horne and Rosemary Clooney. But, some others weren’t so lucky, in the army there was always latrine duty, as depicted in the following letter from Smitty.
The cartoons were thought of and drawn by Pvt. Smith. (They scanned in rather light, so you may need to click the photos to see them clearly. Sorry for the inconvenience.)
Letter XII Latrines Wednesday 9/5/44
Many are the times you have heard me refer to the latrines. Never before had I any conception or realized the amount of genius and mathematical figuring that was necessary for the building of one of these casual looking comfort stations.
Yesterday I had the dubious honor of being selected, with four other disgruntled G.I.s, to labor on a detail whose sole aim and mission was the digging and building of a latrine. It seems that in order to get a latrine built correctly there also has to be present a lieutenant and a hard to please sergeant. Their presence is essential due to the fact that if they weren’t around, it would never get built, no less started and to supervise the completion and finesse details of the finer points necessary for sanitation and the comfort of the men. You can most generally find these two worthy in some far off spot, away from all the work.
To begin with, a place is chosen suitable for a latrine, generally about a half mile from the nearest inhabitant and well hidden in the brush and woods. This is done for the very simple reason that it affords the stricken G.I. a chance to brush up on his long forgotten tracking and compass reading lessons, also the hike involved tends to make up for the many he has missed.
You wait then while the Lt., in a very business-like manner, marks out the length and width desired. When finished, he gives you a short speech on the importance of the detail and the time limit allotted, ending with: “Good digging fellows. I know you can do it, as you are the picked men!”
You pick up your shovels and picks and gloomily get to work. First, the picks are put into play loosening up the stubborn ground. Then, the shovels get to work removing the loose dirt, making sure to pile it evenly around the hole. This procedure is followed until finally you have now a hole six feet long by five feet in width with a depth ranging anywheres from six to eight feet. Try as you may to dig less than six feet, the sergeant always has a ruler handy which he guards with his life. One would think that a latrine hole that size would last forever, but as I found out, in the army — they don’t.
Next step is to lower into this hole oil drums whose both ends have been removed. This end cutting process is something foreign to us as they had another detail doing that the day before. I understand though that it is a highly skilled job in that keeping the ax blades from chipping is quite a problem. These drums, once lowered and set side by side, draws to a close the crude laborious end of the job.
Boards, saws, hammers and nails now appear along with some overbearing would-be carpenters. They proceed to build a coffin-like box which looks more like anything else but a box. This affair, when finished, is fitted over the hole, covering completely the hole and part of the piles of loose dirt spread around the outer fringe. This type of latrine box is called the settee type. It is very comfortable to sit on if rough boarding isn’t employed. When the box is completed to the satisfaction and sitting height comfort of all present, holes are then cut in the top. These holes are oval in shape, but of different width and shapes. The rear end of a G.I.’s anatomy, I’ve found, has many varied shapes and sizes.
The next thing to put in an appearance is the latrine blind and screen. This is very simple, although at times men have leaned back into it and got tangled up in the canvas, bringing it where the blind should be. While the blind is being put up on a long pipe, funnel-shaped at one end comes up and demands a lot of detailed attention. The height of this pipe, when set, is a trial and tribulation to all and never satisfies all who use it. This funneled affair is intended for what all funnels are. The directing of a stream of water.
The Lt. and sergeant now come out of hiding, inspect it and proclaim it a job well done and worthy of their time and supervision, strutting off gaily chatting, leaving us to find our way alone, unguided and without a compass, back to our tents. We, in the building of this latrine were fortunate in that we only had to erect it once and it was the correct position. Generally, you dig three or four only to find out that it is out of line somehow with the next latrine a mile away.
Generals, colonels and majors all visit while you are at work. Their presence is also needed for the fact that when they are around, you stand at attention and in that way get a moment’s rest. The captain generally comes out to see how you are doing and always tells you to hurry it up as the boys back in camp are prancing around like young colts and doing weird dance steps all the while hoping that they can hold out until its completion.
When once finished and back in camp, you are kept busy giving the boys directions as to where it is and then have to listen to them gripe about the distance away from their tent the blame thing is. It is, I have found out, a thankless detail and one I intend missing the next time there is one to be built.There are of course different types of latrines as the illustrations show, but most of those are for troops on the move. Now, why they should say, ‘troops on the move’ I do not know, for certainly no matter whether in the latrines or on the wat to it, you are most certainly moving.
Before any G.I. finds the latrine, the flies are already there. No latrine is a latrine until after a family or two moves in. They too are necessary in that without them as an annoying element, some men would never leave, others would fall asleep, while others would use it as an indefinite hiding place from some hike or detail. Latrines are also necessary for rumors. Until a good latrine is built, rumors around the camp lay dormant. Many new and strange acquaintances are made and the souls of many a man have been saved while sitting in this sanctuary place of appeasement.
No place in the army gets the care and attention of a latrine. Orderlies are assigned daily to see to its cleanliness. Medical inspections are twice a week, while on Saturdays it has to stand a general inspection. It is the haven of good-fellowship, conversations and a relief to all men in the end.
Hoping I have portrayed for you the army’s version of a rest station, I’ll close, as the flies in here are very annoying and the fellow standing and waiting for me to leave is going into a rage and walking up and down all the while eyeing me up and down as if to kill.
Ending this in a hasty departure and on the run, I am always, Your son, Everett
Smitty did not write home about his experience with the showers. (Unfortunately, I do not remember which island this story occurred on.) He was coming back into camp after having a nice cold shower. He walked back with a towel wrapped around his middle and held it closed with his left hand. The jungle appeared quiet except for the buzzing of the insects whizzing around him. He said, “You know how annoying just one mosquito can be when it’s hovering by your ears. This was like a swarm and I tried like hell to use my right hand to swat them away from my face. When I began to approach our tents there was not one man to be seen and I couldn’t imagine where they all went. As I got closer I could hear the G.I.s yelling and they were waving their arms as they crouched in their tents, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Besides, I was too preoccupied with swatting the bugs. When I got back to my tent complaining about how aggravating the bugs on the island were, I asked them what all the hooting and hollering was all about. All they kept doing was checking my skin and asking if I was alright. Somebody yelled, ‘Those were no jungle bugs — that’s shrapnel!’ When they discovered that I had been hit, someone happily said that I could put in for a Purple Heart.
After a good laugh between dad and I, I asked if he ever put in for the medal. He laughed again and said that he was too embarrassed. “For one thing I felt stupid for not realizing what was going on and second, I didn’t want to be grouped into being one of those guys that put in for a Purple Heart every time they nicked themselves shaving. It would be like taking something away from the men who actually did get wounded and deserved the medal.”
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 …..
This following letter from Smitty will show how much the G.I.’s of WWII and those of today have in common. Human nature doesn’t seem to change very much in 68 years.
Letter XI Java at 2100 Thursday 8/10/44
Dear Mom, Java at 2100 is nothing more or less than a good old-fashioned gabfest or the same as women folk back home call a “Koffee Klotch.”
There are a few differences though that need a little explaining. At home, the girls gather and talk, generally about the one who isn’t present; including in this conversation, her husband and his family, also hers and then down the line to her most distant relatives. Also, they will gab for hours about the gossip of the neighborhood and of course add a little more to it. At times, arguments amongst themselves will ensue and that ends the present meeting and the next few to come.
With us there are a few differences and variations, such as: we don’t care whether the person being talked about is present or not; although his absence is preferred and appreciated. Of course we have our little gossip circles, but they mostly run toward the rumor side and therefore no one puts much stock in them. Invariably we always talk of home, such as what we did before the President greeted us, also what we intend to do when we get back. This home talk most always leads into a lively debate as to whose state, city or county is the best. Arguing that topic is just like arguing religion; no one is ever impressed or convinced.
The officers are always good for a good 20 to 30 minute razing, with no one pulling their punches. At times though you must be careful, as there might be someone present who is bucking like the devil and the talk will go back. Never is there a good word said in the officers’ defense and I doubt if there ever will be.
Another colorful period is spent when someone brings up non-coms. What is said at this time is unprintable. Surprise to say that if I was visited by the seven plagues, I wouldn’t be as bad off as the non-coms, if even half the things wished upon him should ever befall him. I sometimes wonder if ever in their own conceited way they know just how the private feels toward them.
At home, the girls are all gathered around strictly talking, but here again we vary. Some may be playing cards with every now and then some player adding his say, much to the consternation and anguish of the others. Over in another corner are the die-hards who always listen for rumors and continue on talking about the latest one long after the others have dropped it.
All this time the water is being boiled outside in a large five gallon can. Every now and then, someone will go out to see if it is time to add the coffee. When once the coffee is added, there comes over the tent a lull and then everyone shuffles out to get his cup, which he will dip into the can of coffee before coming back in. Conversation for a while is a combination of talk, loud sips and the blowing of the hot Java. We manage also to provide milk and sugar and at times, crackers. The last is generally present only around paydays.
I don’t know whether it is the effects of the hot coffee upon the vocal chords or not, but always right after the coffee, some would-be Crosby or Sinatra starts singing some old favorite and that is when music conquers over all. They say music has its charms, but after listening to it here — I have my doubts.
Some nights the conversations are really good and so is the coffee, on those occasions, talking lasts after taps has blown and then you are sure to hear the mournful wail of the company charge of quarters meekly saying, “Aw fellas, put out the lights.” Never has it happened that the request was heeded and I doubt if it ever will be. It isn’t long after though that the first sergeant comes barging in bellowing, “Get those blankety-blank lights out and get the H–l to bed!” Lights immediately go out and good-nights can be heard throughout the company area as Koffee Klotches all over break up.
Peace and quiet prevails until all one can hear is the not too soft patter of feet heading out to the place where, at some time or another, we all must frequent. Bits of conversation can be heard drifting through the night, but generally isn’t worth listening to, as it is only the rumor mongers at work again in their office.
Before I close this chapter, allow me to say that the evening coffee, sugar and milk are all donated cheerfully by the fellow most unfortunate enough to have had K.P. the day before.
Having nothing more to gab about and also having to pay a visit down to the end of the company street, I’ll close before I have to make a run for it.
Gabbingly yours, Everett (The Donator of This Evening’s Coffee)
Thought I would throw in this photo of a half-track, a vehicle that Smitty felt had the capacity to go anywhere.
In Dobodura, New Guinea, the 457th began to notice severe shortages in their sugar supply. As it turned out, there was a major boot-legging operation in progress. With the absence of alcohol, the men felt necessity would be the mother of invention, but they were caught with their stills in production. The makeshift liquor companies were immediately put out of business.
My father had other ideas. The following letter was one I never tired of reading; it always gives me a chuckle or two. My father’s ingenuity was unfailing. He used to tell me, “If you think hard enough, there’s a solution to every problem.” After years of having tended bar, this was going to be right up Smitty’s alley.
Letter # 10 has been previously published by “Whistling Shade” magazine in 2007. I submitted it during their war story inquiry.
Letter X “Jungle Juice” Monday 7/17/44
Dear Mom, The title of this letter, at first glance, will no doubt puzzle you, but I suspect at the end you will know more than you do now. Before going any farther with this, allow me to explain the whys and wherefores of its origin and purpose.
The Army has been telling us, for some time now, that any day (they mean year), they are going to issue us hot, dry soldiers some beer. They haven’t told us the percentages yet, but never fear, it will be 3.2. In the meantime, we’re here in New Guinea patiently awaiting the day. We know, because our eyes and nostrils do not lie, that there is good whiskey slyly floating about. Try as we may to lay hold of some, as yet, none have succeeded.
There is an old saying, told to me by a much older and wiser veteran of this man’s army that goes: “Take something away from a soldier and he will, in time, make or find a better substitute.” Hence and forever after – Jungle Juice.
To begin the making of this liquor substitute, one must first overcome a few minor details in order to secure the necessary equipment and ingredients. First: You may try to cultivate the friendship of the mess sergeant. This is easily accomplished if one is well endowed with currency. Second: You may try getting on guard duty and taking a chance of getting the job of protecting the mess hall. (The odds against this working out is ten to one against you.) This is the hard way of acquiring the friendship of the mess sergeant and we will continue. With your new buddy’s help, you now have in your proud and cherished possession a quantity of raisins, dried prunes or apricots and some sugar. (Very rarely will one come up with any yeast, so we will forget it.)
Now, we need something to put all this stuff into. To make matters worse, it cannot be metal and it must be waterproof. A nail barrel will do the trick, if we soak it in water, thereby allowing the wood to swell. You could go to the supply sergeant and get a saw, hammer, nails and boards, but in taking this route, you risk your supplier discovering your idea and you will have to pay him off with the promise that, when finished, he will receive a share. Not only is this undesirable, but now you will have to sit out in the hot sun and build a cask. My first suggestion of a nail barrel will not only save you labor, but also add an extra drink of this wonderful alcoholic beverage.
Now, we are ready to begin. Into the empty cask, put your fruit and sugar, making certain to add water. With your hands, (clean ones are advisable) stir everything around while crushing some of the fruit with your fists. This is what’s called the “rapid juice extraction process.” When finished, cover the cask with a clean piece of linen long enough to drape over the side. Here, you can also use a G.I. handkerchief or undershirt. (This is just a sanitary precaution and it in no way affects the product.)
Now, dig yourself a hole (under your bunk preferably) large enough to receive the cask and conceal it. This is a necessary precaution as the manufacture of Jungle Juice is frowned upon by the Army and especially you C.O. or Inspection Officer. The finding of such might cause embarrassment. This way it will only be found if someone should trip you C.O. and he inadvertently falls face down on the spot.
All you have to do at this point is use some self-control and patiently wait out the next two or three weeks as the fruit, sugar and water do their stuff. We all know from experience that you will only sit out two weeks, so let’s get on with the last step. Surely you have kept busy locating empty bottles and cleaning them, so dig up the cask.
To accomplish the final phase, it is wise to get your mattress cover and put it over a clean, steel helmet. You will find that the Army had supplied you with a damn good filter. The whole parts stay on top and the liquid freely pours through, without blemish to the helmet. Pour the juice into the bottles and seal with candle wax, making them air tight. Here is the most difficult step because by this time, not only your curiosity, but your craving for a taste is so high — you’re almost completely out of control. But, you must put your contraband away for one more week.
As the expected day approaches, I want to warn you to be on the lookout for newly acquired friends who start calling on you, regardless of the fact that they never came near you before. Yes, you are suddenly becoming the most popular guy in camp. When the hour approaches, marked as the time of reckoning, I would advise you to make up your mind that you are not going to finish it all in one sitting. Actually, this precaution is really unnecessary, as the Jungle Juice will decide that for you.
I won’t describe the taste. For some it is bitter and others say sweet. No two batches are alike and in fact the Juice has no opposition. Even its most adamant foes agree that for variety, the Juice has no equal.
This recipe is given free of charge.
I hope to hear your hiccupping in your next letter soon. Your brewmeister son & never to be dry again, Everett
General Swing decided, after the stills were destroyed, to bring ice cream machines and set up sports competitions. Teams were made up for volleyball, softball and tackle football. This proved not only to lift their spirits, but the activities kept them in top physical shape.
It always amazed me that such a letter as “Jungle Juice” made it through the censors without Smitty ever getting into trouble. His little operation was never discovered.
In August and September of 1944, the division began to learn amphibious operations, which was a mandatory requirement for ANY soldier in the Pacific. They received jungle training that my father often referred to as “guerrilla war training” which he felt was needed to enter my room when I was a teenager – he couldn’t possibly have meant that room was a mess – could he?
“Fire and movement” was what the men called for throwing their hand grenades into the 8 foot high Huai grass, closing behind mortar and artillery barrages, flame thrower usage, clearing a jungle path with a machete and demonstrations of Japanese hand grenades came next; which caused one fatality. The troopers learned all this while they faced the hazards of scrub typhus, malaria, dengue fever and more. The 11th fared better than most thanks to their para-medical teams and the abundant supply of Atabrine. The medicine helped to ward off malaria, but turned the men yellow from head to toe. My father did still contract the disease, but thankfully just a mild case.
The 11th Airborne Division endured the rigor to become the elite that their commander, General Swing, expected. I had never heard my father say, “I did this in the war,” he always spoke in regards to the entire unit. They personified the idea of a band of brothers.
At the Casablanca Conference in 1943, Pres. Roosevelt said, “The elimination of German, Japanese and Italian was power mean the unconditional surrender of Germany, Italy and Japan.” This meant to all that there would never be any ardent peace talks — only unlimited war. The statement added fuel to the fire under the Japanese. Whether FDR realized it or spoke these words intentionally, he gave the enemy the added spirit they needed to continue onward with the fighting. Nothing the Japanese generals and admirals could say would ever rouse the exuberance of the enemy troops more than that speech by a U.S. president.
The up-coming posts I’m certain you will find to be far more humorous and light-hearted – just the way Smitty would have wanted.