Pvt. Morton D. Elevitch, in Basic Training, Informs His Mother He Is Learning How to Shoot, Beat, Stomp, and Bayonet Another Human Being

At the beginning of World War II, the U.S. Army ranked eighteenth in the world—behind that of such nations as Italy, Portugal, Sweden, and Romania. Millions of young Americans had to be rushed into basic training, where they were drilled, taught, disciplined, tested, and marched to the point of exhaustion. Morton D. Elevitch, a red-headed eighteen-year-old from Duluth, Minnesota, chronicled his wartime life—beginning with his enlistment—in hundreds of letters to his parents. Occasionally bawdy, frequently lighthearted, and always candid, Elevitch related anecdotes about his fellow trainees and the relentless instruction they endured on an almost daily basis. Writing from Fort Benning, Georgia, Pvt. Elevitch sent the following letter to his mother. (His mother’s name was Evelyn, not Louisa; he often playfully addressed her with made-up names and salutations such as “Moomu,” “Dearmadre,” and “’Allo mama,” and occasionally signed his letters with aliases or a simple “Yo honey chile.”)

Dear Louisa:

For the Nth time, thanks for your package. Please don’t send me any more underwear, socks, or candy. The Milk of Magnesia was absolutely unnecessary. I’M HAVING NO MORE BOWEL TROUBLE AND DON’T ANTICIPATE ANY.

This week they are teaching us to kill. Now you probably looked away and shuttered. Well, mom, I don’t like the idea, either, but we all know it’s for our own good. The most strenuous work we do takes place as we stand in one place—bayonet drill. We lunge about in definite movements and are required to growl, grimace, and look at each other with hate. Five hundred of us dance about, screaming, shouting and snarling.

A rifle seems to weigh a ton more with a bayonet on. Our arms feel as if they’re going to drop off as the Lt. holds us in one position and talks! Our bayonets have sheaths on them so that no one has his head cut off. They teach us how to withdraw our bayonets in a certain manner, too, because steel sticks to warm human flesh. (This sounds awful bloodthirsty, but everyone keeps serious minded about it.)

We are learning jiu jitsu holds—and to put it bluntly—plain dirty fighting. This will be invaluable in case anyone ever tries to pick on me. Maybe I shouldn’t put this in—in fact I know I shouldn’t—but it is going on so—Our instructors emphasize that we should be quick or be dead—always try to kill a man—break his arm first—then clip him under the nose—throat, neck or kidneys to kill him.

I’m afraid I’ll never be an expert at this, because I just can’t bring myself to go at this in earnest. Surprise is a very important element—I know how to break any hold, grip and throw a man flat on his face—They even teach us how to scientifically stomp on a man. I’ve left out many gory details.

By the way everything is done in double time this week. We move in place and from place to place on the double—puff puff.

Confidentially, I’m tired.

S’long

Mort

Shipped to Europe, Elevitch and his division joined Gen. George S. Patton’s Third Army. On January 27, 1945, during the Battle of Sinz in Germany, Elevitch was struck in the chest by mortar fragments. He survived, but was hospitalized for six months. Elevitch returned to the States by Christmas of 1945.