II 
TRAINING CAMPS
AS DEFENSE measures, the National Guard was ordered into active military service in September 1940, and the Selective Service sent young men to training camps for a year starting in November. After our declaration of war, December 8, 1941, both enlistments and inductions increased heavily, and new camps and especially air bases were built. The training period was disagreeable to almost all recruits, as the discipline was strange and the emphasis was laid on physical toughening. It was made more bearable by the USO canteens and the hospitality of nearby civilians. After basic training, soldiers and sailors were transferred to advanced training camps, specialist schools at colleges, military stations, or officer candidate schools. Crowded trains and troop trains passing in the night wove a web of intricate transportation throughout the war. Young women entered this masculine maze after the creation of the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps (WAAC) in May 1942, and the Women’s Reserve of the U. S. Naval Reserve (WAVES) in July, as well as women’s auxiliaries for the Marines, Coast Guard, and Air Force. Training camps capable of handling hundreds of thousands of young people were in operation by the end of the war.
Willis Read Davis, of Washington, enlisted in the Army Air Corps Nov. 13, 1940. He was a member of the 31st Army Reconnaissance Squadron, March Field, Calif. In the summer of 1941 he was sent to Chanute Field, Rantoul, Ill., for teletype training. Returned to March Field in Sept. 1941, he was transferred to the 307th Materiel Squadron, Ferry Command, Long Beach, Calif. In June 1942 this command was renamed 348th Base Headquarters and Air Base Squadron, 6th Ferrying Group. Attaining the rank of technical sergeant on Sept. 14, 1942, and having just been called for officer’s training, Davis died of nephritis in Santa Barbara, Calif., Oct. 4, 1942. Excerpts from several of his letters follow.
September 21, 1941
March Field, California
Now attached to the Ferry Command to service the planes leaving here for Britain. Field about two miles square. In one corner a new Douglas plant; known as a black-out plant; painted black and there isn’t a window in any of the buildings. We are alongside the Naval Reserve hangars. At present we have only two small hangars.
September 28
Writing this from my own desk, believe it or not. Last Monday told to report to Col. Spake. He asked me what I’d been doing. Told him I was a teletype man so he put me to operating a machine. I explained I hadn’t done any typing since I graduated from high school but that didn’t bother him. Have been sending and receiving messages from all over the country for a week now and doing all right. The hardest job of all is keeping my mouth shut about the confidential messages from Washington.
November 9
Wearing two stripes now and proud of them as an old cat with five kittens.
Will try to tell you a little about the work here. To begin with, this is the newest and largest airport in the United States. There is a large monument erected here to Douglas Corrigan, as this is where he took off from when he made his nonstop flight to New York and thence to Ireland.
The outfit here is known as the “Western Division Air Corps Ferrying Command.” It is from here that all planes take off on cross-country flights to Dorval Airport, Montreal, and then to Britain.
The operations office (in which I work) is the nerve center for the whole works. All the orders that send these ships on their flights are made up here.
At present I am in complete charge of the message center. My job is to send and receive messages and carry on the correspondence over the teletype machines. We have a Western Union and a Postal Telegraph machine for sending and receiving telegrams, a Bell Telephone machine for sending and receiving regular correspondence, also a Civil Aeronautics machine on which we get all weather data from every station west of Kansas City. We also receive all flight plans, notices to airmen, and emergency warnings.
December 8
Well, it looks as though we are going to have a little excitement at last. Second night of black-out. Working day and night as my department is short of personnel. Have had two hours sleep in the last thirty-six hours. Am working extremely hard, but at least my work is being appreciated. As of December 1 and thereafter I will be referred to as Sergeant Davis.
It is 9:30 P.M. and as yet nothing has happened, although we are certainly prepared for anything. The whole state of California is blacked out. All I have to work by is one little lamp. If we are attacked anywhere it should be in this area, as right here in the Los Angeles area is where most of our planes are manufactured. Here at Long Beach are the Signal Hill Oil fields. There are thousands of oil wells adjoining the field. The Douglas plant is also on this field. At present this place is harder for a soldier to get into than the Y.W.C.A. Sunday night I came home in a cab and was stopped and searched five times before I got into the field. They even searched the taxi.
December 11
Downtown last night when a black-out warning came. Sirens started screaming and police and soldiers were ordering lights out and cars parked. Very exciting, but no bombing.
This war has doubled my work but even so, I love it! Don’t believe the West coast will ever be bombed, and if it is don’t think those Japs could hit anything. If at any time there are any raids here, don’t try to phone or wire me. We need to keep the wires open for more important communications. Each day it gets worse every time I try to put messages through. Will keep in close touch with you if anything should happen.
Ernest S. Maye, of Indianapolis, was inducted into the Army July 31, 1942, and was assigned to the 27th Quartermaster Battalion until July, 1944, and then was transferred to the 37th Quartermaster Battalion. Staff Sergeant Maye participated in the Sicilian campaign, and fought up through Italy from Naples to the Po Valley, winning five battle stars. Maye was discharged Nov. 6, 1945, and is a mail carrier in Indianapolis. The letter below was written to the staff of the State Library, where he had been employed.
[1942]
Camp Butner, N. C.
HELLO EVERYBODY:
In every man’s life there comes a time when even his breathing seems to have a restriction on it. That time has come to me. Today has been my freest. I am making the most of it. Tomorrow will be another chapter….
After doing a deal of riding hither and thither we finally found a resting place here. This camp is really full of opportunities for the ambitious. Every man here has an equal chance. Unfortunately there is no such thing as equal ability, therefore some of us go up and some down. I was fortunate. At present I am an acting top-kick; that is, first sergeant. If I make good I will get my stripes. It requires a lot of hard work on duty and off. A potential N.C.O. is required to stay at least a week ahead of his comrades. That means digesting your material ahead, reviewing for the class and instructing if called on to do so. There is no idle moment. I have made a 1,001 mistakes everyday and sometimes I wonder if I will ever get anything right. But I am sticking. The job must be done.
Chow is excellent. Had to loosen my belt today. I am brown from this sun and believe I am gaining weight. Plenty of showers and sleep. When night falls practically every soldier is ready for bed. We do not have to be coaxed. We just fall in.
As to my superiors, they are tough and I mean tough. They have to be or we would run things for them. I hope to never hear a whistle again someday. One day last week I walked in a semiprone condition from—falling in whistle—falling out whistle—chow whistle—this whistle—that whistle and the other whistle. But we are in the army now.
Do you recognize the paper? Yep, it is the paper you gave me. That “housewife” is really a lifesaver. The pencil is in use every hour. The shoe brush every two hours. The comb and mirror six times a day. Everything sure came in handy. It won’t be long until I can tell you in person—I hope. That billfold will be full soon. My first pay. Very shortly. Military secret….
“My Life in the Service” (diary) is coming along splendidly. The first pages are very interesting to me. A lot of things I considered trivial then are important now. I read it as much as I write in it.
Please give my kindest regards to all of my former co-workers. I will write each one personally as soon as time permits. It is now time for chow and I must get this in the box.
“‘All actual heroes are essential men,
And all men possible heroes.’”
—E. B. Browning.
From first page, “My Life in the Service.”
Sincerely,
ERNEST S. MAYE
John Stanley Popp, of Speed, was inducted into the Army Aug. 31, 1942, and was assigned to the air corps. He trained at Clearwater, Fla., and later entered radio school at Sioux Falls, S. D. In March 1943 he was assigned to the 81st Ferrying Squadron, 23d Ferrying Group of the Air Transport Command, Hamilton Field, Calif., as radio operator and mechanic. Discharged March 31, 1943, Pfc. Popp returned to Speed.
Dec. 5, 1942
Sioux Falls, S. D.
DEAR MR. DORSEY AND FRIENDS:
How is everything going back in my little home town? Things here are about the same except it is a lot colder than when I wrote you last. Only wish I could have canned some of that Florida sunshine and turned some of it loose up here. Don’t see the sun very much up in this part of the country. We have had our first blizzard and it was frightening, as the wind blew very hard and the snow was so thick you couldn’t see where you were going. The snow here is very dry and doesn’t stick like it does down there.
Since being in the army I have been thinking of the many reasons for our being in this war. My conclusions are that it isn’t for the times our toes have already been stepped on, but because we don’t want them stepped on in the future and take a chance of losing our heritage. We have fought for our freedom before, but let’s hope the armistice this time is not the first shot of the next war. I find that butchering the Japs and Germans isn’t my real objective. I don’t believe in killing, but there is something greater than the life or death of a freedom-grabber like Hitler and his puppets. I’m in here fighting for the things freedom stands for—our church bell ringing every Sunday, the truth on our radio and in our newspapers, our children going to school and learning something besides military tactics, everyone having the same privilege to get ahead, the gang on the corner doing and saying what they please, the Stars and Stripes waving in the office yard each day, all our competitive sports without worry of doing them Hitler’s way, everyone happy because he is free and doesn’t have to worry because of his race or creed, being able to have a car for cement dust to settle on. I know I could sit here all day and name the numerous freedoms we now have but wouldn’t have should we let the enemy get the best of us. Everyone must do his utmost to assure himself that these little things aren’t taken away from us. After all don’t they all go together to spell freedom? Aren’t they what our forefathers fought for? Does Hitler stand for any of them? I’m sure he doesn’t and he is going to be mighty disappointed when he finds he can’t take even one of them away from us. Also I’m sure any free man would rather die fighting for these things than to live the hell thereafter should we lose. Enough of this sermon.
School gets harder day by day. This only means harder work to assure myself that I will be better than any Jap or Nazi I ever encounter, and I want to always come out on top. I was the first to pass my sixteen words a minute code test in a class of about 200. Bragging a little, but I think you can understand how I feel about it. My theory class is some different; as a mechanic I guess I will make a good dishwasher. It’s hard for me to get so much straight in the little time they give us.
Well, it’s time to bring this to a close as I have some homework to do. I will do so wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas and many Happy New Years.
Sincerely,
STANLEY POPP
Vivian B. Watson, of Waynetown, enlisted in the WAAC Sept. 1, 1942, receiving her basic training at Fort Des Moines, Iowa. She was commissioned a second lieutenant, Mar. 9, 1943. Lt. Watson was platoon commander of the 64th WAC Operations Company at Norfolk, Va., and attended the Basic Supply Officer’s Class at Camp Lee, Va., early in 1944. In Mar. 1944 she became commanding officer of an Overseas Replacement Company, and departed for Africa April 3, 1944. While stationed overseas in Algiers, Italy, and Austria, Lt. Watson served as executive officer of the 6722d WAC Communications Platoon, from June to Aug. 1944; as commanding officer of the forward echelon, 6669th WAC Headquarters Platoon from Aug. 1944 to Aug. 1945, and as assistant secretary of General Staff of U. S. Forces in Austria from Aug. to Sept. 1945. Awarded the Bronze Star, Lt. Watson was discharged Dec. 17, 1945, and is now on the staff of the American Legion headquarters in Indianapolis.
October 17, 1942
Des Moines, Iowa
DEAR JEAN:
It was so nice to get your newsy letter and it’s also nice to know that you miss me. Frankly it seems as if I’ve been away for months; any resemblance between this career and my old one is purely coincidental. I go to bed at 9:30 and fall asleep almost instantly and I hop out at 5:30 A.M. like a jack-in-the-box. Fran can tell you that that is not at all like me. However, this morning I didn’t get up until 7:00 and I felt like a plutocrat. It’s really remarkable how well the women are whipping into shape. A lot of them have had little more experience than sitting at a desk all day, but they’re right there with the best of them, marching three or four hours a day, doing K.P. for 12 hours, etc. We’ve only had two or three out of our company of 150 that couldn’t take it and had to be sent to the hospital.
We finish our basic training next Saturday and will then be classified and assigned to a specific brand of service for further training. It looks as though I might be used to drill new recruits. I acted as platoon leader this week and yelled, “Hut, two, three, four—right face, by the left flank, march” until you could hear my echo all over the fort. I’ll probably come into the library some day and talk in a voice that can be heard all over the building.
We had an interesting experience on Wednesday. We paraded in review before Col. Hobby, Brig. Gen. Jean Knox of the British Women’s Territorial Force, and a Major of the Canadian Women’s Army Corp. Then we heard Gen. Knox speak to a graduating class of officers. She was simply marvelous. She spoke very quietly and directly, no dramatics, etc., but you felt that every word came from her heart. She has directed her women under fire and so spoke from her own experience about the things we may be called on to do. When she had finished speaking I don’t believe there was a girl in the building who wouldn’t have walked into a barrage of machine gun fire if she had asked her to. When one sees a person like Gen. Knox it makes you darned proud to be a woman.
And now for a less serious note—we paraded twice this week for the movies—Joan Crawford and men from the M.G.M. studios were here filming scenes to use in her next picture. However, I’m afraid mine is a face never to be filmed—it seemed to me that every time I got within range the camera stopped turning. But I nearly stepped on a cameraman who was filming our feet—so if in Joan’s next picture you see a pair of bowlegs marching by they are certain to be mine.
Phil Spitalney’s “Hour of Charm” is to be broadcast from Des Moines tonight, the program to be dedicated to WAACs, and we are to be the guests for the broadcast and an additional hour and a half show. Needless to say I plan to be there.
I am at the beauty shop now having a hair cut for the second time and a permanent. They are very strict about one’s hair so I decided to get it darned short. Every Saturday at inspection I fully expect my hair to fall down on my collar as the officer passes by. So far I have gotten by, but I wasn’t going to trust my luck too far. If you are told to get your hair cut and don’t do it an officer will personally take you to the barber shop and you are given a man’s hair cut. None of that for me—I must keep my femininity (if any) at all costs.
I’ve met a lot of grand girls from all over the United States. If I don’t come back with some kind of an accent I’ll be surprised. And you should see how I look. My face is wind and sunburned with many additional freckles. My neck is red from the high shirt collars. My hands look like a scrub woman’s, my nails are as short as I can possibly get them. We seldom have time for makeup except on week ends, so I’m definitely not a thing of beauty. But I really don’t care for I’m thoroughly enjoying every minute, and every day brings new experiences….
Loads of love,
VIV
Edward Fischer, of South Bend, became a volunteer officer candidate in the Army Oct. 5, 1942, and was commissioned a 2d lieutenant of infantry May 26, 1943. He took his basic training at Camp Croft from Oct. 1942 to Feb. 1943. For a year after being commissioned, he wrote training literature for the infantry school. He took an advanced officer’s course and left the U. S. Nov. 10, 1944, serving in India, Burma, China, and Ceylon. He escorted 55 newspapermen on the first convoy across the Ledo-Burma Road (Stilwell Road). Capt. Fischer wrote the combat history of the Burma campaigns, and assisted in writing the history of the India-Burma Theater. Discharged Mar. 16, 1946, Fischer is now assistant professor of journalism at the University of Notre Dame.
Christmas Day, 1942
Camp Croft, S. C.
DEAR PROFESSORS:
A year ago today I little dreamed that I would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day of 1942 in an army guard house. No, I haven’t been misbehaving; my turn at sentry duty happened to come at this time.
From 5 P.M. Christmas Eve until 5 P.M. today we walked two hours and rested four; walked two and rested four. The walking part isn’t too bad; but it is difficult to get any rest because we must keep all our equipment on when we turn in.
You might wonder what sentries thought about as they made their rounds on the darkest Christmas of our generation. Well, they hummed carols to themselves, and dreamed of Christmases past, and prayed that there would be more such Christmases in the years to come. Twenty-four hour guard duty on this day means a twenty-four hour lump in the throat for any soldier, because it gives him too much time for memories.
A fellow doesn’t realize until he is in the army how dependent he is on “beauty.” Here all the clothes are olive drab and all the walls are bare. And he catches himself staring at a Christmas tree just to get a “lift” from the colors of the lights. I didn’t know until last night how rapidly the moon climbs into the sky. I had a big, yellow one for observation. And every time I made the round of my post it gained quite a bit of altitude. Another thing I noticed is that the roosters around here begin to crow at 3:55 A.M.
Even though rain did fall for about two hours, the weather as a whole was nice and balmy. Here’s something you probably didn’t know; when a soldier gets up in the morning he doesn’t squint into the darkness or go outside to see if it is raining. He merely observes how a passing sentry carries his weapon. If the sentry has the rifle on his shoulder, muzzle skyward, it is not raining. But if he has the sling on his shoulder and muzzle pointing to the ground, then it’s a damp day. Yes, you guessed it; he changes the position of his rifle to keep the rain from running down the barrel.
Christmas dinner was super-super. We thought the Thanksgiving meal couldn’t be surpassed, but Christmas hit a new high. There were at least twenty-five things listed on the menu. As a reporter I covered many banquets, some of which cost quite a few dollars per plate. But none of them ever came near the Christmas dinner prepared in an army mess hall.
Last week we finished our work with the mortar. One day we left camp at 8:15; walked seven miles; fired on a deserted house till we blew it to bits, and then walked the seven miles back to camp, all by 1:15. That was a full five hours.
Now we are working on tactics. It entails a lot of field work. Sometimes at night we are given a map and a compass, and are told to locate the enemy and bring back a report of his activities. Of course we are supposed to do all this without being seen.
The “enemy” goes out in advance and begins to do such typical things as string barbed wire, dig trenches, set up machine gun nests, etc. Our job is to crouch in shadows; inch our way across patches of moonlight; slip past the sentries, and return again without being observed. It’s tough, plenty tough.
I learned a valuable lesson one night; that is, never follow the line of least resistance. I spotted a sentry on a bridge which crosses a creek. So I took my squad well downstream to avoid him. But I made the mistake of selecting a spot where rocks jutted from the water and so facilitated the crossing. But the “enemy” knew that there is a human weakness that looks for the “easy way”; so we walked right into a machine gun nest.
Practically all of our work in these last three weeks of basic training will fall under the heading of tactics. After we finish this work, we will bide our time until Camp Croft is asked to fill its quota in an officer candidate school. That request may come in a week or it may take a month. Meanwhile, we will “prep” for the grind that awaits us.
Another physical exam last week saw more volunteer candidates pack their suitcases and return to civilian life. The government can’t afford to put $8,000 into the training of an officer if it isn’t practically certain that he will be able to stand the gaff physically.
More news of army life next week.
Sincerely,
ED FISCHER
Harold Sander, of Indianapolis, was inducted into the Army May 8, 1943, and was sent to Camp Croft, S. C., for basic training until Aug. 1943. Selected for language training, he was sent to Amherst College under the Army Specialized Training Program. Promoted to master sergeant, Sander was sent to England in June 1944 and was attached to headquarters of the 18th Airborne Corps as a photo interpreter for Military Intelligence. Sgt. Sander helped plan the Holland Airborne operation of Sept. 1944, and participated in the Battle of the Bulge, the Rhine Crossing at Wesel, the Ruhr Pocket cleanup, and the Elbe River crossing. Earning five battle stars, Sander was discharged Nov. 12, 1945, and is now a librarian in Indianapolis. The following letter was addressed to his colleagues at the State Library.
June, 1943
Camp Croft, S. C.
DEAR PUBLIC SERVANTS:
Sunday is truly a wonderful day. When the Lord created the earth, etc., in 6 days and rested the 7th He certainly set a precedent which is greatly appreciated by us buck privates. You will note that I have written buck private in small letters. This is proper.
Two weeks of my basic are now over. It has seemed like two months! At this point I can begin to see a few things that I overlooked before. First of all there is a war going on—we are in it and I am being trained to fight. Our training is no summer camp stuff or phys-ed class. It is tough. Of course this is as it must be, although it didn’t sink in before. In two weeks’ time we have covered a lot of ground. We have had everything from close order drill to bayonet practice and “dry shooting” of the M1 rifle. We are being toughened up gradually but steadily. Right now I feel better than I have for a year. Most of the soreness has gone from my aching muscles and I can see the results of our “toughening up” processes.
Last Monday I experienced one of the famous duties of a soldier—K.P. They usually take K.P.’s in alphabetical order and Monday was the day for Saban (I. U. football), Sander, Sanders, Schmidt, Schubert, Savarese, etc. You get up at 4 instead of 5—make your bed—get washed up—report to the kitchen. First we cleaned out the pantry and scrubbed it, then peeled potatoes, then washed the breakfast dishes. There are about 225 men in our company so you can calculate how many plates, cups, etc., there were. Then we had breakfast. After that we G.I.’d the floor. To explain—G.I. in this sense means getting down on your hands and knees with a stiff bristle brush—use G.I. soap, water and elbow grease. Most any floor will shine after being G.I.’d—otherwise you do it over. Then came inspection, of course our hands and nails had to be just so. Our mess sergeant was gigged because the inspecting officer found a speck of dust on a coffee pot that was back in the pantry—it hadn’t been in use for six months! Then we again attacked the potatoes. After so much of that I was put on the can flattening detail. I guess I flattened and removed the paper from 200 tin cans. At this time we had our dinner (15 minutes). Now it was time to wash the dinner dishes plus pots and pans. This is about a two-hour job. Some carrots needed to be cleaned and scraped then. After the carrots came some more potatoes. Then we had supper, then came the supper dishes and a final cleaning up of the kitchen. I got back to the barracks at 8:15 P.M. During the day I had 15 minutes each for breakfast, dinner and supper. I smoked two cigarettes. Was on the go the rest of the time. Then, of course, you have to shine your shoes for the next day. After 16 hours of K.P. you can take my word, a person doesn’t need to be rocked to sleep!
Fortunately, it was a rainy day, and not hot. The army cooks with coal ranges so you can imagine what it is on hot days.
On top of all this, we had to attend two hours of class the next evening to make up some of the work we missed because we were on K.P. the day before.
Usually our day runs from 5 A.M. to about 6 P.M. but frequently we have extra duties or details after supper. So you can see why we can’t write as many letters as we would like. Camp Croft is an enormous place and pretty nice if you have an inclination to appreciate it.
I think I mentioned before that our company has a large contingent of I. U. and some Purdue R.O.T.C. boys. This is fortunate because I have made many fine friends out of this group. They are a high type. On the other hand, it seems to me that they are adjusting the pace and action of our drill to their qualifications. To a greenhorn like me this shows up my ignorance on military matters.
My chances of getting into O. C. S. are none too good now. From what I have learned, the quota of officers is fairly well filled now. However, I shall keep plugging and see what turns up. Anyway, 13 weeks’ basic will take care of me for a long while.
Perhaps the hardest problem of any soldier is to make the social or even the emotional adjustment from civilian to army life. Army life is so much different from anything that a civilian has experienced that this adjustment becomes a problem. All the liberties, rights and freedom of action that the civilian has experienced are waived and the soldier learns to do as he is ordered. The chances are that your corporal, or sergeant, probably has an 8th grade or part of a high school education. Yet he is boss. He must live up to the orders given him by his higher-ups. For example, this is what happens. The other evening we were lined up for retreat and the corporal verbally burned us in hell by his language because one of the fellows had not buttoned his button on his shirt pocket. Yet, here stood the corporal in front of us with his own shirt button open. It’s a job to keep your mouth shut on occasions such as this.
I hope I haven’t sounded too morose in this letter. Really we are all getting along quite well. Of course none of us likes the army—nobody in it does—but we are working like hell to get this job done. I guess it will be finished more quickly if we all do our part. Believe me, it will be a great day in the morning when our job is done.
Since I have been “at attention” too long, I had better “fall out” and “take a break.”
As ever,
PVT. H. S.
John Alexander Griffin, of East Chicago, enlisted in the Army Air Cadet training program from Northwestern University, Dec. 14, 1942, and was called to active duty Feb. 20, 1943. He finished his advanced pilot training at Pecos, Texas, in May 1944. Sent overseas on Nov. 21, 1944, Griffin was killed on his first mission to Kassel, Germany, on Dec. 15, 1944. F/O Griffin was awarded the Purple Heart, a Citation of Honor by Gen. Arnold, and an accolade by President Roosevelt, all posthumously.
January 13, 1944
Cal-Aero Flight Academy
DEAR BOB:
I think I will write this one mainly to Bob in order to get him ready for what he has to face. Yes, it is undoubtedly the hardest part of the training. You may think that you are in good physical shape—and as a civilian you probably are—but you are not toughened for endurance like the army wants you to be. As you go away from the Basic Training Center the courses will actually be harder, the hours longer, and the freedom less. Still, after you have once become used to the army, these different stages of stepping up your activity will be made easily in comparison to this initial change that you are about to make. You and I have gone on long hikes together, for long bike rides, and for other such pleasure trips which required physical endurance. On the first two or three mile hikes it will seem more or less the same to you. It will probably be a pleasure. You will be a soldier for the first time, you will see yourself marching bravely into tough situations of the future; and you will be proud of your new uniform. After waiting in long lines for clothes, roll calls, shots and many other things, you will gladly welcome the activity of a long hike. But remember, when we did these things at home we took perhaps two or three in a summer and when we arrived home, although supper was perhaps cold because of our long delay, still it was waiting. And there was scarcely a time when we were asked to do further work after one of our long escapades to Wicker Park or the airport. In the army, however, you will find it different.
You will remember how you used to enjoy drilling in band during football season, so likewise, you will for a few weeks be eager about your drill. However, I doubt whether this enjoyment will last for so long a time if you are required, as in most basic training camps, to drill from 6:30 A.M. to 11:30 A.M. each day with ten minutes break every hour. Each week the drill in band is varied by new formations and enlivened by music, but in your first training, the drill will always be the same. It is especially true in basic training that the drill instructors are very dull and lacking in initiative so that you scarcely ever get a leader who has new ideas to liven up the task. And you will have student officers, who will be picked from the ranks, who will have trouble enough figuring out the correct foot for the command of execution much less any interesting drill. So you will have many hours of left flank, right flank, and to the rear march. I notice in your letter of today a note of eagerness about physical training. This is all good and well but be careful not to express this sentiment. You will want to march in step, and it will hurt you to be marching on the offbeat of the music. Still you will have to do this without question. At times I have become overly disgusted by this and have sounded off out of turn. On week ends I walked tours. You probably will do the same thing. Remember, you are always wiser than the one who is in front leading the outfit; so laugh at him to yourself while doing as he says, for he has the authority. Then later you will see him washed out with all the rest of his kind.
This idea of eagerness is very good in all things in the army, but as I said before, do not show it. Do as the majority of the fellows do in your actions. Don’t try to be the first one out to formation or the one who marches the straightest, but just be average. In the classroom studies you can excell without prejudice. But do not try to show off your knowledge. Just keep it to yourself and put down the right answers on the final exams. This will be what counts. In school and college the instructor always has quite a bit of personal contact with the students. In the army there is none, which makes you think that your efforts are not being noticed and that others who are not working at all are getting as much credit as you. You will think this more than ever as the dumb ones are always chosen for student officers. But on the contrary all your grades are being kept in an ever-increasing record. And if they are good you will have a better chance of success. Many fellows came to Cal-Aero simply because they had good grades in ground school at Santa Ana. This is really a break, since here there are more instructors than at the army-operated fields. Thus you have a better chance of success if you are sent to a good primary. About half the boys sent to Thunderbird washed out, not because they couldn’t fly so well, but because the instructors cannot handle so many students as are sent to that field. However, do not work too hard. The army will make it rough enough that you won’t have to push yourself in order to keep busy.
Anyway, in basic training you won’t have to worry about this. All you will do there is drill in the morning and physical training and road runs in the afternoon. Sometimes you will get rifle drill, or obstacle course, or gas mask drill, or commando tactics, or lectures on the articles of war and hygiene, or orientation speeches, or sometimes you will wait in line to sign the payroll or get paid. In any case, you will not look forward to this time as an exciting adventure. You will trudge through it hoping for the time to pass swiftly so that you can get to the more interesting things of the future, and when you are long passed it you will look back at it with knowing what it is and will pray never to have to go through such a period again in your life.
At first when you come into the army you will be ignorant of rank to a certain extent. You will not notice much difference in uniforms. Then you will begin to notice the difference in the emblem on the officer’s hat, and you will begin to notice how much better their clothes fit and how much darker their blouse is than yours. In a few months you will know all of the different ranks. You will notice how the G.I., regular soldiers, treat you when they find out you are a cadet. At Sheppard Field the G.I. privates and sergeants and all tried to make us feel that we were the lowest type person in the army. This is purely jealousy. But after two months of this type of treatment, you cannot help but feel that you are a higher type than they. After a time the word G.I. comes to mean a lower type of soldier. The cadets do not wish it this way at first, but it is forced upon them by this time at basic training. I could give you a lot of advice about what to do, but I shall not. I am just trying to present a picture of what might happen to you if the situation is still the same as when I came through.
I cannot picture everything clearly to you for I cannot send you a box of Texas dust to pour liberally over your whole body. I cannot send you a long hot road and a fine set of blisters or a pair of heavy G.I. shoes to be broken in. I cannot send you an overcoat which you will not be allowed to wear at reveille when it is freezing, but which you will be required to wear during the sweltering afternoon. I cannot send you aching muscles or a tired body which falls asleep each time it even gets near a bed. I cannot send you a shrill blasting whistle which will waken you each day at 5:30 A.M., nor the needles to stick yourself with in order to keep from getting some diseases. About half the men who go through basic training find it necessary to go to the hospital for a week or two to recover from the extreme change in life and climate. All of these things you will find out yourself, and you will do all right because I believe you have the spirit that is needed to bring you through a tough assignment. After a time that spirit will probably change to endurance, but nevertheless, you will be all right….
JOHN
Harry B. Noon, of Indianapolis, enlisted in the Air Corps in July, 1942, and was commissioned a 2d lieutenant in Dec. 1943. He was sent to England in May 1944 and assigned to the 334th Fighter Squadron, 4th Fighter Group. On his fourth mission Lt. Noon was killed over France on June 11, 1944.
March 14, 1944
Bartow AAF, Fla.
DEAR FOLKS:
I’m about ready to take a big, long sleep. I’m really tired. Today I tangled with the “Great Iron Bird,” the P-51. I feel I’ve been in a fight with a wildcat and run over by a steam roller at the same time. It scares the h——out of you but handles swell. The first take-off and the first landing are the worst—or at least I hope so. I flew two different periods for a total of three hours, and I can truthfully say it’s a whole week’s work.
They devised a new traffic pattern for us to fly the first three times up—they say for safer and better flying. The army has lost one of the swellest boys it ever had. Rivers spun it on the 450-degree leg of the pattern from one thousand feet. There is no mysterious explanation of it. We all know what happened. Flying so low as to approach a stall, he poured the coal to it. She did a snap roll to the right, a split “S” from a thousand feet surely doesn’t give one a ghost of a chance to recover. It happens too fast.
That’s the way we’d all want it, if our number comes around, so short and sweet that we don’t have time to think about it. It’s hard to realize that the guys you joke with, play volleyball with, or drink a few brews with, could completely vanish from our midst. I know that Rivers wouldn’t want anyone moping around for him. He’d just like you to drink a beer for him, break the glass, then dance on his coffin. I know it’s none too pleasant to talk about, but that’s just the way the boys feel.
It’s a beautiful thought and a consolation we have in the old slogan of “Good pilots never die. They only fly away.” Because I’m sure as the devil that old Rivers will be up there in pilot’s heaven flying formation with Otley, Goodsen, Katy and P. M. Riley. God only knows how long it might be before we’ll all join them. They’re all swell fellows and I can’t think of any better company.
Don’t let my conversation worry you, because we all know how the odds are and what to expect when and if our number is due. I think that fliers are all sentimentalists at heart. We don’t let any morbid thought keep us from what we love. There isn’t one among us that wouldn’t rather go that way than be grounded. We feel that we’re doing something that’s very special and the danger only gives us acceleration toward our great love—flying. You can call it the old theme of perhaps manifest destiny, but I think that it’s only the spirit within a man which makes his body and soul free, when he raises his earthborn self into the blue above. There is something up there which calls you to indulge in endless ecstasy.
Your loving son,
HARRY
Raymond K. Mitchell, of Marion, enlisted in the Marine Air Corps Oct. 8, 1943, and took his boot training at San Diego, Calif., and later was transferred to Miramar, Calif. He was assigned to the aviation technical school at Norman, Okla., and from there was sent to Cherry Point, N. C., then back to Calif. Leaving the U. S. in Feb. 1945 as an aviation machinist, Mitchell saw duty on Hawaii, Eniwetok, Engebi, Guam, Ulithi, Peleliu, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa, receiving the 4th Marine Air Wing for defense of Engebi. Promoted to the rank of corporal, Mitchell was discharged June 6, 1946, and is now employed at the Osborn Paper Co., Marion.
November 24, 1944
Mojave, California
DEAREST FOLKS:
There it goes again. That steady clickety-click, click of the train wheels. Now and then you can hear that lonesome moan of the whistle as we cross another road. Each one putting one more mile of distance between us and home. We are now in some little town in Georgia, approximately one hour out of Augusta. The scenery down here is beautiful but not near as lovely as the corner of 40th and Poplar Streets.
Everybody’s indulging in something or other. Poker games, reading books, writing letters while still others are just thinking. Nobody knows what they are thinking about but 10–1 says it’s that little girl in New York, Chicago, St. Louis or wherever he may be from. That’s usually the thought on a young man’s mind. We all know that what we have to do might not be so pleasant. That’s why we think of the girls. I wonder whom she would marry if something happens to me? That’s the exact words a guy asked me last eve. In my case I have no girl trouble. If I can’t find one when I get back, it’s just too bad.
This train is strictly G.I. No passengers aboard except Marines. We have only one destination, carrier duty in the South Pacific. No letters will be mailed, no telegrams sent or phone calls to be made while en route. Although we are going clear across the United States and passing thousands of towns we are still cut off entirely from civilians. People who haven’t ridden a troop train can’t understand this because it sounds a little, shall we say, fictitious. We have our own G.I. government aboard even though we are continually traveling. We have guards standing at every entrance so as to be sure no one or anything will either board or leave this train. These men are all trained, both for discipline and for their certain job. No chances can be taken. These men are vital and must be transported safely to their destination. We are the first to man a carrier. Sure we’re proud, haven’t we a right to be? We’ve been through many long months of schooling and training and we are very proud to execute our skill toward ridding the world of the enemy. We have everything aboard from truck drivers to the commanding officers. There are ten cars. Yes, ten cars of men who are waiting, impatiently, to do what they can against the enemy. Some with revenge in their eyes, others for the thrill and excitement of warfare and still others because it’s their patriotic duty. It all adds up to one thing, peace and home once again to a peaceful and lasting endurance.
Most of the boys are just coming back from the diner now. I’ve already had chow myself. I was one of the lucky ones to be called first. We ate in Augusta this morning, but we picked up a diner somewhere and from now on we’ll eat on the train. It’s excellent chow, what there is of it. Maybe it won’t be so long between meals now. There was eight hours between breakfast and dinner. Too long for a heavy eating squadron of Marines.
Still in Georgia. Steady rhythm of the wheels is deafening. Car is bouncing so I can hardly write. The men are quiet now. Heavy concentration. Probably thinking of their wives and kids and families. We’ve only been on the go twenty-four hours. A lot of them haven’t ever made this trip before. Wait until the 5th or 6th day, they’ll feel like tearing this train apart. Nothing to do but sit and watch and wait. Three of the hardest things to do when you know every minute you are being taken farther from your loved ones. Yes, we’ll be ready to go aboard that carrier. Ready to settle up with the ones who are making us go through the misery of leaving home. We’re out to get you, Tojo, each of us with our own secret weapon. Sure we’ll tell you what it is; it’s very common, a little thing called pride. We have our share, in fact your share too, because that’s what you lack. We’ve enough pride to keep after you until you’re downed, once and for all. Enough pride that no matter how difficult the problem is, we’ll never turn back, because we are the United States Marines. We aren’t glory boys. I know the papers and magazines state us as such, but we aren’t; we just want to get this over with and get back to our homes. Home, where we can get up when we want to, sleep when we want to, enjoy the comfort and love which we should deserve. Lots of people think we are killers at heart but we aren’t, we are just trained for warfare which is the exact opposite of what we have been brought up to believe. We might have complained a little when we first came in about how rough they treated us. At the time it seemed fantastic and unnecessary, but now we realize it was for our benefit and we are honored to know that we went through the ordeal and proved ourselves worthy of the name of a Marine.
Sunday afternoon and still riding. New Orleans just a couple of hours back. Louisiana is an odd sort of state to me. Marshes and swamplands every place. The climate is much the same as Indiana. The fields and trees remind me of southern Indiana. Passed a lot of different army and naval bases. As we ride determinedly ahead we pass many unusual and interesting sights. The shipyards at New Orleans, for instance. Fields of cotton. Many things which don’t seem of importance to me. To me this is a business trip and I don’t enjoy this scenery because I have no loved ones to share my pleasure. I’ve finally realized what the word love means. The most beautiful creature in the world is homely unless you have the one you love to share your ecstasy.
Expecting to hit California about Wednesday night. We are hoping to at least.
I’m wondering what you folks are doing right now. Sunday afternoon at approximately 2:00 P.M. (I just passed the Cotton Bowl football stadium.) It was beautiful. See if I can guess what you are doing. Maybe Rut and Ed are visiting or vice versa. Mom’s clearing away dinner dishes. Dad’s exercising his roosters. Right?
Just pulled into Baton Rouge. Beautiful city. Wish I could visit. Of course that kind of stuff is out, at least until the war ends. I think I’ll take a little trip after the war, more for spite than pleasure. I want to be able to get off a train at a station and deliberately miss it. Maybe when the next one comes in I’ll miss it too. Just to be able to have the feeling of freedom again. Probably send out a hundred telegrams announcing the time we leave, arrival and what route we are to take. Without worrying about a court martial. What a wonderful dream that is.
It is now about 9:30 A.M. Monday morning. Still clipping off the miles. Just came from breakfast. Had to wait until we picked up a couple of diners. We just passed Camp Hood. Sure is a big place. By the way, we are somewhere in Texas. Rolling plains are the scenery. Ranch houses off in the distance. The sun’s shining bright but it’s just a wee bit chilly. Frost still on the ground from last night. We had to catch a ferry from New Orleans to some little town. Loaded the whole train aboard. When we got on the other side we picked up a different engine and the engineer was one of the boys’ father. What luck! He rode in the engine for two hundred miles with him. He sure was a happy lad.
Yep, it’s still Monday, 5:50 P.M. to be correct. The scenery is changing quite a bit now although we are still in Texas. Pretty thickly wooded through this part. Lots and lots of cactus. Big as our whole house. This is typical western scenery. Looking for Indians to massacre us any moment now. Mountains are becoming more frequent now. Expect to be in New Mexico by midnight. Of course, that is, taken for granted that we don’t have a flat tire. Ha!
You know something? I’ve been thinking things over. I figure it’s going to take me a long time to get used to civilian life again. If and when I get back don’t feel alarmed if I act strangely. Even on those four days I felt out of place. I guess what they say is right. Once a Marine always a Marine. You can’t understand what I’m trying to say, I know, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.
Tuesday morning. Still trucking on down. Left New Mexico about one hour ago. Mountains are everywhere. Just pulled out of Holbrook, Arizona. I’m certainly glad we are getting closer. My back aches, my eyes hurt, I’m a complete physical wreck. I’ve ridden trains so much the last fourteen months I feel I should be drawing interest. New Mexico is 7,200 feet above sea level and even the desert has snow on the ground. Water was coated with ice. What a country! Just stopped at Winslow, Arizona, for chow. Wonderful place. I’ve been looking at the map. Here are the states I’ve seen on this trip—North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California. These are the ones I’ve seen since October, 1943. Colorado, Oklahoma, Kansas, Utah, Missouri, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, Washington, D. C., Pennsylvania and Ohio. By the time I get back I will be able to name over as many islands in the South Pacific. By the way, I can tell you this now. Payday is just around the corner. Of the ten bucks I received from you just before I left I had exactly forty-two cents to make this trip. I had to pay a debt and spent the rest on clothes. I’ll bet that’s a record. Thirty-three hundred miles on forty-two cents. That’s really being thrifty, eh? This trip would cost a civilian at least $300.
Sure am getting anxious to find out more about this carrier duty. Hope it’s the “Shangri La.” Sounds romantic. Have to have some kind of romance, because the real McCoy is going to be few and far between. Just passed over a canyon. Three hundred feet high. Nice place to commit honorable hara-kiri. I’m still on the lookout for Injuns. May be in California a little ahead of time. Made good time through New Mexico. Will send this out as soon as I get there.
Wednesday, November 29, 1944. Arrived in Mojave this morning at approximately 8:30 A.M. (Pacific time). The scenery surrounding us is really one of nature’s loveliest. We are enclosed by snow-peaked mountains forming a half moon. The camp itself is situated right on the Mojave desert. When I get more time I will give the scenery more discussion. Just want you to know I’m positively O. K. and hope everything is the same at home. Little tired from the trip, but outside of that I’m tiptop. Don’t worry about me.
Your son,
RAY
Norma F. Popp (Mrs. Charles Albert), of Speed, enlisted in the WAVES Nov. 16, 1944, and was sent to Hunter College, N. Y., for training. Achieving the rank of yeoman 1/c, Mrs. Albert was discharged July 19, 1946, and is now a medical stenographer at a hospital in Oneonta, N. Y., and resides in Sidney, N. Y.
16 Jan. 1945
Stillwater, Okla.
HELLO MR. DORSEY:
You won’t believe it, but I have finally found time to sit down and write a letter to you. So much has happened that I believe I could write a book on it in order to cover everything. But I’ll try to think of the most interesting points and forget the others.
The Navy doesn’t waste any time in getting the new “boots” in good marching order because, upon arrival at Hunter, we were given these wonderful “G.I. nylon hose” (lisle) and hats and were immediately hupped to the mess hall. It was one sad sight to see everybody trudging along in the rain and at the same time trying to keep in step with the cadence which we had never heard of before. It sounds funny now, but we were in misery at the time.
As luck would have it, Frances and I were assigned the same apartment in which to live—she having the upper bunk, and me the lower. There were nine other girls in this apartment and we got along excellently, even though we would practically knock each other down during the morning rush and before mustering times.
Reveille was at 6 o’clock and we had until 7:30 to get dressed and to clean the apartment. An hour and a half may sound like ample time, but everything had to be in shipshape condition, and when I say shipshape I mean that there can’t be a speck of dust or dirt anywhere nor could anything whatsoever be left lying around. Each thing had a specific place to be put. Each day our Specialist would inspect, and if anything was untidy, demerits were given, which you worked off each Friday night while the other girls had fun. Anyone with less than five demerits was excused and, since I had only three, I didn’t have to work them off. Some of the girls really got their share of them though. Taps were at 9:30 on every night except Saturday when we had until 10:30.
From Saturday noon until Monday morning we had liberty. However, we were compelled to eat meals, and we couldn’t go off the station grounds. Movies and variety shows were arranged for us so we usually went to them. On Sundays we all went to church in a group. Services were held in the auditorium and were very interesting.
Each day during “boot” was a full schedule in itself. Besides drilling, we also went to classes where we learned all about the different uniforms, ranks and ratings of the service. Educational movies and war orientation were given too—all of which was very interesting.
Going through the “Daisy Chain” was quite the stuff—if you know what I mean. We went in company formation and there we were, all 240 of us, waiting in line to be jabbed in the arm. Altogether we had three typhoid shots, one smallpox and a double tetanus shot. Believe you me, you continued with the daily routine too, even if you did feel as though you wanted to cry on mama’s shoulder. You knew that she wasn’t there so you struggled on.
Our mess hall was a half-mile away. It was a nice “little” walk on pretty days, but during the cold, slick weather it wasn’t so good. Christmas at Hunter was as nice as it could be, being away from home. I’m sending a pamphlet which covers everything about Christmas at Hunter.
There were 360 of us who left Hunter on a Tuesday afternoon for Stillwater. On our way here we went through Canada, which was rather exciting. We had a thirty-minute layover in Moberly, Missouri. It was called ahead that we were to stop there, and as we got off the train, the American Legion served coffee, doughnuts and cakes to us. They had already served two troop trains that day, but we were the first group of WAVES they had served.
The WAVES live in one of the dorms here at A. & M. [Oklahoma Agricultural & Mechanical College]. Our barracks are very neat. I am very pleased with my roommates. The three of them are nice girls. The majority of the girls are nice. We are training to become yeomen, and will have a three months’ course during which time we will take up shorthand, typing, history and navy correspondence. We have civilian teachers and they make the classes very interesting.
Well, Mr. Dorsey, I’ve rambled on and on and I had better close for now and do some studying….
Sincerely,
NORMA
Arnold McKee, of Clay City, was inducted into the Navy as an apprentice seaman on Nov. 11, 1943. He was sent to Radar Operator’s School at Virginia Beach, Va., and was rated radarman 3/c. Transferred to the Combat Information Center School at Little Creek, Va., McKee was later assigned to the U.S.S. “Scroggins” (DE 799), spending 19 months aboard this ship. RdM 2/c McKee was discharged Nov. 9, 1945, and is now a retail grocer in Clay City.
April 25, 1945
New York, N. Y.
DEAR HARRY:
As I begin this letter the radio announcer is trying to find new words and phrases to describe the Allied advance on Berlin. If this war lasts much longer the newspapers and radio newsmen are going to be in strait jackets, trying to outdo each other in describing the front line picture.
We came in last Sunday for a few days of recreation. We can really appreciate it, too, after a winter in the North Atlantic. We stumbled on a poor old lonely sub about 400 miles off Cape Cod, and proceeded to sink same. Up around Halifax and Newfoundland all winter, where the subs are supposed to be thick as hell and no luck. They sent us home and on the way in we accidentally found this one—just like rabbit hunting all day without getting any, and then as you cross the back yard one jumps up.
The damn subs had us screwy up north all winter. They would sink a merchant ship, or occasionally, an escort, and by the time we arrived they would be to hell out, or safely bottomed among the wrecks and rocks. The “sound men” went nuts trying to distinguish sub echoes from bottom echoes.
This one by himself really didn’t have much of a chance. The hedgehogs were fired, they exploded, and about one-half minute later there was an underwater explosion that shook the hell out of us, and us on top, by that time 300 or so yards away. There was a lot of oil came to the surface, a lot of papers, plus a lot of other things—many of them with German markings. Most of the officers are under the impression that the navy will give it a Class B rating. For a Class A, I think you have to have the sub’s skipper’s autograph.
I noticed a headline in last night’s paper that the army is to discharge all men over forty-two—so all I have to do is convince the navy to do the same—then serve ten more years and “lo and behold” I’m a civilian again. Simple. The forty-two ruling probably won’t affect anyone from around home, but it is very cheerful news. Anyway, it’s a step in the right direction.
We are tied at the 35th Street Pier, Brooklyn; you probably have a pretty good idea of about where that is. There is a newly commissioned hospital ship tied at the next pier—really a thing of beauty—if I thought I could find my way out of it, I would go over and ask to go aboard.
As always,
ARNOLD
P. S.—Someone just came in and said that a group of DE’s were attacked by seven subs just off Norfolk—so we may see some more action ere long. I don’t believe that the navy has announced this sinking as yet, so perhaps there shouldn’t be too much said about it.
Frank A. Renneisen, of Jasper, was inducted into the Army July 24, 1943, and, qualifying for aviation cadet, was commissioned a 2d lieutenant Nov. 11, 1944. He was first stationed at Jefferson Barracks, then after attending A.A.F. Navigation School, Hondo, Tex., he was transferred to Great Bend A.A.F., Kans. From April to May 1945 Lt. Renneisen was stationed in the West Indies, and from July 1945 to Aug. 1946 he was on Okinawa. Discharged Aug. 31, 1946, Renneisen is an electrician in Lawrence, Kans.
July 17, 1945
Great Bend, Kans.
DEAR MOM:
Well, here I am. I haven’t been particularly busy but was “sweating out” transfer to staging before writing. A watched pot never boils so I decided to write. We are still on the three-day routine which keeps us occupied but is not as bad as continuous flying. Trainers and ground school are routine but a resumé of a flying day might be interesting to a “paddlefoot” like yourself or the “hicks” [two younger brothers].
The day begins with getting up at 3:30 and rushing to the mess hall for quick breakfast and filling your coffee bottle. From here to squadron to pick up pencil clip-board and then to navigation office for logs before getting to briefing room at 0400. General briefing starts here at 0400 with entire crews together. C. O. gives latest info on squadron policy, S-2 reads the latest war news, operations officers go over the route, targets, requirements and formations to be flown, and the weather office gives the weather en route. This normally takes about 35 to 40 minutes.
Then the crews split up for special briefing. Gunners, Gunnery Officer; Radio, Communication Officer; Bombs, Bomb Officer; Navigation, Navigation Officer; Radar Operators attend one or both of the navigators’ and bombardiers’ briefing. At Navigation we get courses, distances, altitude, danger areas, E.T.A.’s (estimated time of arrival), and at Bomb, we get target charts, aerial photos, bomb types, bomb procedure, I.P.’s, etc.
From here we go to Personal Equipment, and get into our flying clothes and pick up Mae Wests, parachutes, harness and lunches, thermos jugs, life rafts, etc. Now it’s about 5:30 and “Stations” is scheduled at 0620.
You carry your equipment out to the plane and begin preflight. For me, it’s check the different radar sets, check the proper reports for signatures and obtain them if missing, assist bombardier in pre-flighting bomb racks and loading bombs, also loading and checking forward turrets, check cameras and camera hatches and leveling of cameras. Also store your equipment aboard.
Now the crews line up for inspection where the A/C checks parachutes, harness fit, Mae Wests and oxygen masks. It’s now 0615, we hope. We take the dorm lock off the landing gear and bomb bay doors and get to our combat stations. Except the bombardier and myself, who ride the rear compartment on the take-off as the ship is nose heavy with a large gasoline load.
We start the engines at 6:25, taxi at 6:30 in the order of formation position. Take off at 0645. Start climbing on course to our first turning point. Now I crawl up through the tunnel to my position and get about my business as a Radar Observer. All this other is just incidental to the trade. From here on I’ll describe a specific mission (our last one).
We leave Great Bend at 3000' flying on a 152° heading till we get to the coast west of New Orleans where we drop down to 500 feet and go on a dogleg over the Gulf to arrive at our first target at the briefed E.T.A. southwest of New Orleans. We come in over our first target, a river, and mine it (five mines per ship), and then start climbing to assemble the formation at 10,000 feet. At Alexandria, La., at 12:29. We’ve been flying as individual ships thus far. At Alexandria we found thunderstorm activity at 10,000 feet, so the leader changed the altitude to 20,000.
We are now about seven hours in the air. From here we go to Houston, Texas, in bomb formation (3 flights in train) on a convoy in the Gulf, 5 bombs per ship. While over the Gulf we practice firing the turrets. Now we reassemble in group formation and return to Great Bend arriving at 1800. The planes peel off at 12 second intervals and land. Now we clear the turrets, take out the guns, clean them, and lug our equipment back to squadron, fill out flight reports, report to Interrogation, get out of our flying clothes and clean up. It’s now 1930. You are now free to take care of your personal affairs, such as feeding your face. You had lunch (I forgot), 2 sandwiches and coffee and, if lucky, an orange or apple, at approximately 1200. The mess hall closed at 1900, so you go to the Snack Bar for a substantial meal of a hamburger and milk shake, or maybe a cheese sandwich. But then you have the next day off, except for trainers.
Here’s the latest, won’t guarantee it. Be leaving here Friday and going to Kearney, Nebraska. There about a week and then to California and out. Going to the 8th Air Force under Gen. Doolittle in Okinawa. Be the first B-29’s to operate off Okinawa. Also first with the new radar. We were originally scheduled to go to the Philippines, but the war changed too quick.
Will send home quite a bit of junk. I’ll write you what to do with it.
Love,
FRANK