Kenneth R. Weaver, 1945

Kenneth R. Weaver

Contributing Writer

I thank Harry Truman for the atom bomb, which saved me from combat. I thank the GI bill for my education. I thank God I’m still alive and can put my Army experiences into words.

My nearly two years of service took me to Texas, Leyte, Guam, and several places in between.  I went in a private and came out a corporal. My pay began at $22 a month and ended at $30.  I was trained as an infantry rifleman, served in antiaircraft battalions, and ended up on a B-29 ground crew.

And it all started with a letter from the South Bend (St. Joseph County), Indiana, draft board. It stated that as of my 18th birthday, September 19, 1944, I must register for the draft.  

I was well aware of that fact long before the letter came. Always interested in history, I had followed closely the war in Europe and developments in our country–including implementation of  the selective service system–through newspaper and radio reports.

The draft notice surprised me with a statement that read something like this:  “Greetings from your friends and neighbors: You have been selected to represent them in the battle for freedom…”

I thought the government had done the choosing.  Anyway, it ordered me to report to Camp Atterbury, south of Indianapolis, for a physical and preliminary processing.

I knew I had passed when the second letter instructed me to report to Camp Atterbury for induction into the Army of the United States on February 20, 1945.

The law at that time required boys turning 18 to graduate within six months after their birthday or they would be drafted without completing high school.  So I attended summer school in 1944 to meet that requirement and graduated on January 22.  Less than a month later I was in the Army.

While waiting for the bus with other inductees on the morning of February 20, I felt tense and gloomy. What was going to happen to me? How would I react to Army life? When would I get home again? Then I happened to look up and saw my brother Rex standing with other onlookers. That he came to see me off perked me up considerably.

Our first stop was in Logansport, where I made my first mistake. I phoned my mother, who reacted with surprise that I was calling so soon.  When I hung up, reality hit me: It would be a long time before I saw family again.  That was the moment homesickness set in. I could hardly hold back the tears.

On Our Way to Somewhere

My first impression of Camp Atterbury was soldiers in olive drab uniforms everywhere. Though I knew it was impossible, I kept expecting to see my brother Bob because that’s the way he was dressed the last time I saw him.  But that was impossible: He was driving trucks carrying equipment to the front lines in New Guinea.

At a swearing-in ceremony, we took one step forward to show acceptance of the oath of allegiance.  Thus, we became members of the Army of the United States and agreed to obey its rules.

We were issued clothing, given instructions, and told to start learning the 12 general orders. We knew we were going somewhere for basic training but we knew not where. All I wanted was to go back home, which of course was impossible.

That evening I had some free time and decided to call home, which proved to be another tearful incident. I knew what was happening but I could not fight the homesickness.

When processing ended, we boarded a troop train.  This journey was a new experience for this 18-year-old as I had never been further from home than Chicago– about 95 miles. Soldiers and duffle bags were everywhere–in the seats, on the floor, in the aisles, in the passageway between cars.  Men were talking, playing cards, shooting craps, staring out the windows.

I got to talking with a couple fellows about where we lived, where we might be going, what Army life would be like. During lulls in the conversation, I killed time by memorizing the general orders.

We knew troop trains traveled devious routes for security reasons. So we watched for city limit signs, vehicle license plates, and other identifying marks to see where we were.

Passing through a large, wooded, swampy area, I thought we must be in Arkansas or Louisiana. Upon reaching Texarkana, we realized we were at the Arkansas-Texas border.

From there, it didn’t take long to reach Dallas, where we stopped for a couple of hours.  This is where someone told us our destination was Camp Wolters, a short distance west of Fort Worth. We were to have infantry training.

Learning the Basics

We reached Camp Wolters on a cold, rainy morning in early March.  It was a beautiful scene, with ice covering power lines and trees; but I thought, “We’re in Texas and having weather like this? It isn’t any different from Indiana!”

A sergeant, Robert Faulds (from Grand Rapids, Michigan, I learned later), marched us to our barracks, which seemed like several miles.  We shivered all the way. We didn’t know it then, but Sgt. Faulds was going to spend a lot of time with us and would earn our respect as a tough but fair leader.

Though we were tired, cold, and muddy, Faulds gave us no time to feel sorry for ourselves.: “First thing I want you to do is police the grounds and GI the barracks.”

Police the grounds? GI the barracks? What did that mean?  We learned in a hurry.  We picked up cigarette butts and other debris in our company area; swept and mopped floors in the barracks; washed windows, inside and out; and cleaned the latrine.

Bull Sessions and Gigs

Many times in those first days we “GI-ed” the place first thing in the morning, last thing at night (regardless how late we returned from training or how tired we were), and sometimes in between.

Sgt. Faulds informed us we would have 12 weeks of basic training, adding that 18-year-olds would have at least six months of training before being shipped overseas.  After basic we would receive a 10-day furlough and then be assigned elsewhere in the States.

Every so often after training started, Faulds gathered us for “bull sessions.”   Several times he remarked that if we goofed up we would receive so many “gigs,” depending on the seriousness of the offense. Wondering what the punishment would be, I asked:

“Sgt. Faulds, just how does this gig system work?” His reply was short and succinct: “I’ll tell you, Weaver, it works pretty damn good.”  That wasn’t the information I wanted, but with everyone having a good laugh at my expense, it shut me up.

To achieve orderliness and see that certain jobs got done, the Army used a volunteer system.  Occasionally it was an arbitrary “you, you, and you”; other times it was the sergeant assigning specific “volunteers” for certain jobs.

When it came to cleaning the latrine in our barracks, I spoke up. Since I had worked at my brother Bill’s gas station throughout high school and had cleaned the restrooms regularly, I offered my services.

My job was to clean the sinks and faucets, urinals, stools, and shower stalls. Some men laughed at the thought that anyone would take this job on his own volition, but eventually many of them helped. Our efforts paid off as our barracks never got any gigs for an unclean latrine.

Looking for a Straw

Every so often we had health checkups.  The doctors grew tired of hearing petty complaints. In one early session, the doc greeted me with
“and how are you this morning?”

Unthinkingly, I replied “Fine”; and he said it was refreshing to hear that kind of response for a change. Unfortunately, a few minutes later I  spoiled that impression. I mentioned that my mother had sugar diabetes and I wondered if I should be tested since diabetes tended to run in families.

I did not want want this disease, but I was looking for any straw that could
be my ticket out of the Army.  Obviously displeased, he said sarcastically to another physician: “He thinks he’s going to get diabetes because his mother has it.” I never mentioned it again.

An avid follower of  news developments, I volunteered to be our company’s public information officer (PIO) when the opportunity arose. When time permitted, I scanned newspapers and other material for items of interest to the troops and posted them on the Orderly Room bulletin board.  Our company commander, a lieutenant, oversaw my work.

Goofing Up

Knowing I was a high school graduate with good grades, the lieutenant urged me to apply for officers candidate school (OCS) at Fort Benning, Georgia.  But I already was indoctrinated with the enlisted men’s bias toward officers and declined.  I did not want to be thought of as “a 90-day wonder.”

I was something of a smart aleck and got in trouble with Sgt. Faulds in those early weeks. It wasn’t long until the bull sessions became gripe sessions. He discussed problems and we complained about him and Army rules.

I was frequently among the complainers but surprised myself and everyone else one day when I defended Faulds.  Trying to be fair, I reasoned that we were just as guilty as he was if not more so.  He appreciated that, but some of the men later razzed me about “brown-nosing.”

Anyway, I got cocky as training proceeded and made the mistake of smart-mouthing him once too often, especially in front of the whole group. Finally, after a particular incident, he ordered me to report to his office the next morning.

All tensed up, I had not slept well and was scared and nervous while waiting for him. I anticipated a royal chewing out but was surprised at how calmly he talked. From my support of him in the bull sessions, he had expected better results from me.

The gist of it was that he was disap pointed, understood how difficult it was for soldiers of my age to accept and adjust to Army life but he “could not and would not” tolerate that kind of conduct.

By this time my emotions boiled over, and tears poured as I apolo-
gized and assured him of my cooperation.  He accepted the apology but sternly emphasized that he still had to punish me.

While everyone else marched off to training assignments that day, I stayed behind–and washed all of the windows in our barracks, inside and out on both floors.

“Wake Up, Tagawa; Wake Up!”

One of the more interesting aspects of basic training involved a Japanese-American boy with a sleeping problem. I believe his name was Tagawa and he went on to join a Nisei (second-generation Japanese-American) military unit after basic training. He was a pleasant fellow but it took a lot of razzing, some of which was racial.

Tagawa couldn’t seem to wake up in the mornings; and, of course, sleeping-in was not allowed. So, every day soldiers with bunks near his tried their hardest to get him up. Even Sgt. Faulds had difficulty.  Nothing worked, not even tipping Tagawa out of his bunk.

In an effort to help, I explained to him one day how important it was for all of us to arise early, even at 4 a.m. when required, follow the rules, and work together. That effort failed, too. To this day I wonder whatever became of Tagawa.

There were other colorful characters in our platoon. Ole “Thump-and-a-half Whitfield,”  from Kentucky, was stereotyped as a “hillbilly” because he walked with a limp. He took it good-naturedly and kidded us accordingly. Limp or no limp, he proved to be an excellent boxer.

I did not like boxing him.  Our instructor said boxing was part of our physical training but admonished us to not try to knock anyone out.  I didn’t know whether Whitfield was trying to do that, but he sure hit hard, leaving me with a sore jaw more than once.

Then there was the soldier named Stroud, who bragged about the lengths of Oklahoma snakes as compared to the copperheads we encountered.  He prided himself on being able to do anything and everything, regardless how zany it might be.

Later, when we were on Leyte, he went swimming in a swamp despite warnings of a potentially fatal disease called Schistosomiasis (pronounced schis-tow-so-my-a-sis).  Sure enough, Stroud had to try it–and did.  He became ill and was hospitalized.  I believe he survived.

Lino Tizziani of Steubenville, Ohio, took a lot of teasing because of his name, his always friendly, jolly good nature, and his physical appeal to  women.

A short time after my discharge, my brother Dick, a buddy and I had a great visit with Tizziani. When we came in at midnight, he got his mother out of bed and she uncomplainingly cooked eggs and bacon for us.

We gave Lawrence Way the moniker Lone Pine because of his fervor in discussing Maine’s majestic pine trees. He always seemed more responsible and sensible than the other fellows. I had the good fortune to visit him in Old Town, Maine, in the early fifties.  He was married and had a baby girl by then; they lived in a small home but invited me to stay overnight. It was a terrific visit.

Marching Along Together

The Texans in our unit, big and tall, took a lot of razzing.  Jokes ran rampant after a couple of them fainted when subjected to routine shots.  Marching was a problem. If they marched at the head of the line, we had to struggle to keep up; if they brought up the rear, we had to march faster to avoid sore heels.

Copperheads were proliferate in the Camp Wolters’ area.  As we marched to and from field assignments, we sometimes encountered them crossing roads and paths and sunning themselves on rocks. More than once, on overnight excursions, a trainee woke up with a snake snuggled up inside his blanket. No one from our platoon got bit, though.

The saddest part of basic training occurred when President Roosevelt died. I was stunned upon seeing a newspaper banner headline reporting his death.  I had followed his career and knew he had had polio but, like everyone else, I was not aware of his declining health.  It was difficult to believe he was dead, and we wondered what effect this might have on the war.

We never cared much about marching in review, but we marched with patriotic fervor in the full memorial review that day.

The happiest news came with Germany’s surrender in May.  We knew we wouldn’t be fighting there, and we hoped that with mounting victories in the Pacific maybe we would escape combat altogether.

When it came to bayonet training, the concept of standing face-to-face with someone and killing him was extremely difficult to accept. The instructor reamed us out when we did not stab the dummy forcefully enough.

“With thrusts like that, you will never last long in hand-to-hand combat,” he yelled.  That evoked reality, and I rammed that bayonet in harder and harder.  Finally, the idea of “kill or be killed” hit home.

“Don’t Throw Until I Tell You”

Probably my  worst-ever SNAFU (situation normal all fouled up–only we didn’t say fouled) occurred in the hand grenade exercises during what we called “hell week,” with live ammunition, in an area of the camp called Hell’s Canyon. The instructor explained that normally we would throw grenades individually, but for training and safety purposes we would work as pairs.

“Whatever you do,” he emphasized, “don’t throw your grenade until you are told to and make damn sure you both throw at the exact same time.”

Along with my partner, I watched closely as other men performed as instructed. Nervously, I kept reminding myself to wait until the order came for both of us to throw.  I don’t think I’ve ever been more tense in my life.

Finally, our turn came and the two of us stood up, held our grenades firmly and looked at the target. We were supposed to, on command, pull the pin and hold the handle tight until the order came to throw.

To this day, the only thing I can think of that prompted me to act as I did had to have been extreme tension.  I pulled the pin, all right–but immediately let go of the handle and heaved the grenade toward the target as hard as I could. Immediately, I knew I had goofed.

“Down!” yelled the sergeant. And we all did–I was probably the first to hit the ground. The grenade exploded where it was supposed to, and fortunately no one got hurt.  I wasn’t the only one who made that mistake that day, but I’m sure I was the first. Me a foul-up? Nobody would have denied it at that moment.

What surprised me, though, was that our lieutenant later that day asked whether I had given any more thought to OCS. I could not believe I still qualified. My answer remained negative.

A terrifying exercise involved crawling under barbed wire with machine gun bullets racing overhead.  We were warned not to stand up suddenly if we encountered a snake.  Supposedly, more than one person had done so and didn’t live to tell about it.

To provide the aura of battle conditions,  field artillery troops fired supposedly live ammunition over our heads as we made our way to Hell’s Canyon for these exercises. I jogged along, fearing that a shell might accidentally fall on us.  Fortunately, nothing happened.

Where’s That Target?

Much of our early training  included calisthenics nearly every day, marches (long and short), running the obstacle course (much  more stringent than the one we had in my senior year of high school), and the use and care of weapons. Our longest hike was 25 miles.

We practiced firing the M-1 rifle, Browning automatic rifle (BAR), 30 caliber carbine, 45 revolver, and 60 caliber machine gun. I liked the BAR real well, but my favorite was the carbine because it was small, lightweight, and easy to handle.

We also learned how to fire mortars, including a newer shoulder-held weapon (I believe it was called the Bazooka), and how to assemble and disassemble booby traps.  In mortar practice I finally managed to control the fear of dropping a shell into the barrel with the possibility of not pulling my hand back before the shell shot out and took my hand with it.

I’ll never forget the day I practiced putting a booby trap together and did something wrong.  One of the parts sprung up and slammed me under the chin.  I had a sore jaw for several days but let no one know what happened.

In rifle practice, I hit stationary targets all right but never hit a bulls eye. Moving targets, however, were something else; they seemed to pop up all over the place. I had trouble pinpointing them, let alone hitting any. With extra practice, I managed to achieve marksmanship with the M-1.

We learned  from the very beginning that our weapon was not a “gun”–it was our “rifle” or our “piece.”  Ask any ex-infantryman what was his rifle and what was his gun and see the reaction you get.

Mexico, You Can Have Her

Rifle inspections were frequent, and often unexpected.  We intensely disliked cleaning our rifles before taking to the field because of the red dirt in the area. That dirt was everywhere, including inside our weapons whether they were stacked or in use.

It was frustrating to clean your rifle first thing in the day, pass inspection, take it to field exercises, come back for lunch–and endure another inspection. Of course, each weapon had to be cleaned again because of the red dirt, inside and out.  Adding insult to injury, that ritual often was repeated following the afternoon assignment.

Those spring and summer months were hot–so hot that along with our dislike of military training, some of us joked that after the war we were going to fight another one with Mexico to make her take Texas back.

Here was another problem: viewing training films in a dark theater, especially when the previous day was long and tedious.  We were warned constantly not to fall asleep.

More than once this soldier felt a sharp rap on the head from the sergeant’s baton. I didn’t want to doze off; but some days there was no stopping it.

One characteristic of Army life left its effect on me. It was hurry up and wait whether going to the mess hall, health center, training assignments, or whatever. I still don’t like waiting in lines.

Humiliation Strikes Again

Toward the end of basic training, we had a field exercise that concluded with a lengthy lecture.  Before the session started, we were told to be sure to use the latrine because there would be no breaks.

That was the wrong thing to tell this soldier.  After a couple of hours or so I knew I had to go.  But I waited. And waited. And waited.  Still the lecture continued.

Believing I couldn’t wait any longer, I told the sergeant my predicament; and he reluctantly granted permission to leave.  Not wanting to be disruptive, I walked off slowly.

Suddenly I heard, “If you have to go so bad, why aren’t you running?” Humiliation had struck again. I began to walk faster, then broke into a run.

Through my working years I often thought of a little ditty soldiers sang when we felt somebody was trying to get in good with his superiors: “He’s got a brown ring around his nose and every day it grows and grows and grows. And it follows him wherever he goes; that dirty brown ring around his nose.”

About midway through our 12-week stint, my mother, sister Inamae and brother Bob–home from New Guinea–came to visit. Was I glad to see them!  They stayed in the camp’s visitors quarters, and I saw them as often as training permitted. USO volunteers provided refreshments, music, and dancing in the clubroom. On the weekend, we took the camp’s Army bus to downtown Mineral Wells.

Tension had been building up due to the rigors of training and my trying to find time to spend with my guests.  As we walked past store buildings, I suddenly leaned my head against a wall and sobbed.  Apparently that was the outlet I needed as the homesickness ended right there.

What surprised me the most was that with the pressures of Army duties and the family visit, I was actually relieved when they left.  Now I was ready to finish training and start planning for that 10-day furlough in June.

Advanced Training

My post-furlough orders were readily accepted, even though I was going back to Texas.  For those six weeks of advanced infantry training I was ordered to report to Camp Maxey, a few miles north of Paris and only 12 miles from the Oklahoma border.

The 10 days at home went fast, but I had a great time visiting relatives and friends and even had my first date. All the while, I wondered how I would react when the time came to leave.

My  nephew, Bob Gene, accompanied me on the train as far as  Chicago, where he lived. As soon as he disembarked, the homesickness started; but this time, I decided to battle it. So, I kept busy and concentrated on the intensive training.  After a couple of days, the homesickness disappeared.

Our company commander, a captain, had seen combat duty in Alaska’s Aleutian Islands. He was extremely stern and very tough on us.  He vowed that we would benefit from what he had learned whether we wanted to or not.

However, his haughtiness made us dubious about how much fighting there had been in the Aleutians and just how much experience he really had.

But like most soldiers, even though we disliked the man, we accepted his leadership and the training. Regardless of the heat, he forced us to stand at attention for long periods of time at morning roll call and especially before lunch and upon our return from afternoon field assignments.

“Last Time I Saw Paris”

One abnormally hot and humid day, after strenuous field exercises, we returned to the company area for lunch.  Though we were tired, hungry,  and thirsty, the captain kept us at strict attention while he talked on and on.

As we looked at him standing there rather cockily, with a  revolver on his hip, we became more and more angry. Remarks like “he better not lead us in combat” were  made, but thankfully not loud enough for the captain to hear.

The thirst that developed before we came in from the field grew ever more intense. I kept wondering when he would dismiss us so we could  get a drink.

But he continued yakking.  When he finally released us, the first thing I did was get a Coke. I do believe that drink was the best I ever had in my whole life.

The town of Paris, a few miles south of Camp Maxey, had a reputation for drive-in watermelon stands.  Supposedly, the Texas watermelons were the best anywhere.  One Sunday we decided to find out. They were good, but I tasted many just as good back home.

Traveling by Train

When the news broke about the atom bomb, our hopes soared that the war would end soon. Maybe we wouldn’t even have to go overseas, but within days we received word that we were shipping out.

We boarded a troop train and headed north into Oklahoma. At one point we figured we were near Ft. Smith, Arkansas. We traveled through Kansas and angled northwest along the North Platte River through  Nebraska.

At Scottsbluff, Nebraska, the train seemed to reverse itself and turn southeast; and we wondered, where were we headed now? Whether it actually changed directions or not, we never knew.

Some time later the train stopped at the edge of a small town, and someone informed us we were in Casper, Wyoming. Soldiers started asking if we could get off and get something to eat as we were tired of the train’s mess car food.  Finally, we were told each car could choose one person to go into town.  I was chosen to get sandwiches for our coach.

“Don’t dally,” we were warned, “because this train will leave when it’s ready whether you are here or not. And if you don’t get back, the Army will consider you absent without leave.”

So I hurried into town, bought sandwiches and rushed back.  I made it all right, but a couple of guys didn’t and were listed as AWOL.  I never found out what became of them.

From Casper, the  train continued northwest through Wyoming and on in to Montana. We knew we were traveling generally north, northwest; and we saw enough to know when the train passed through Billings, Butte, and Great Falls.

The mountains were tall and majestic; some were snowcapped.  I saw several logging camps and thought I would like to come back some day; but definitely not in the winter.

No Combat for Us!

Our next stop, a memorable one, was in the small town of Shelby in far northern Montana. This was on August 14, 1945, and we watched longingly as people drove by honking their horns, cheering, and holding up newspapers with banner headlines: “War Ends!”  “Japs Surrender!”

Oh, how we wanted to rush out and join the crowd! But we dared not.

I decided that day that I would enjoy the rest of my Army service, especially the traveling. My buddies and I knew right then that the atom bomb saved our lives.  Yes, the Army was sending us overseas but there would be no combat.

(After I got home in November, 1946, I learned that my brother Dick, 16 months younger than I, had joined the State Guard and thus did not have to be drafted. As far as I am concerned, the atom bomb also saved him and thousands of others like him from the war.)

From Shelby the troop train took us west through rugged mountain country in Idaho, near Coeur d’Lene, and on to Spokane, Washington. After a brief stop, we traveled southwest to the Columbia River and followed it until crossing over to Portand, Oregon.

A short time later we were surprised when the train stopped at Camp Adair, Oregon.  We disembarked and spent a few days processing for overseas.

I got the shock of my life when women processors (members of the WAC) used the same salty language as the men, including the “f” word. This kind of talk by women was unheard of in my pre-Army world.

Invading Japan?

I don’t know how we managed it, but we received passes to visit Salem.  I still see it as a city of white buildings, mostly houses, and churches.  All I remember is that we stayed overnight in a church, in a room that had been set up for that purpose.

During processing at Camp Adair, someone told us we had been scheduled as reinforcement troops for invasion of the Japanese home islands.  We knew from training and news reports that fighting this enemy on his own land would be horrific.

So I still say, “thank you, President Truman, for sparing us with the A-bombs.”  I have no doubt whatsoever that the devastation and the loss of American and Japanese lives would have been the worst of the war if we  had invaded the home islands.

Some people who did not live during those war years believe we should not have used nuclear bombs.  But that’s easy to say now.  Historians fifty or a hundred years from now may believe it was wrong; but I doubt it.  I am fully convinced that for that time and that situation, using this new weapon to bring the fighting to an end was absolutely correct.

Going Overseas

From Camp Adair, we went to Camp Stoneman in the San Francisco area for final processing and shipping overseas. We left on August 29.

How serious and proud we were as we marched toward the dock with music playing and people watching and waving. I could only imagine what it was like for those who preceded us and those fortunate enough to be welcomed home again.

They put us on the S.S. Cape Henlopen, a former merchant ship and then a hospital ship that had been converted to transport troops. We were sent below to choose our bunks, the hammock type.

There were Negroes (as we called Blacks in those days) boarding, too; and I remember some guys in our group complaining about not wanting to be near them.  That made me mad, so I deliberately chose a bunk as close to them as I could get.  However, we saw very little of them during our voyage.

Notes I wrote at the time show that our ship started moving at 11 a.m. Wednesday, August 29. I was fascinated as we passed  through San Francisco Bay, past Alcatraz, and under the Golden Gate bridge. “Golden Gate in ‘48,” we yelled. I sure hoped it wouldn’t be that long before we got back.

That evening. an announcement over the public address system required  lights ouf for smokers because some Japanese might not be aware that the war had ended.  Even if they did, they might still attack us. So the blackout continued until the official surrender on VJ Day.

Before long, I started getting seasick.  For several days I made the mistake of staying below deck most of the time, primarily reading and sleeping.  My buddies advised me to report to sick bay and get some wine. I did not drink alcoholic beverages at that time and rejected their suggestions.

“Rain Drops Are Falling on My Head”

Staffed by Merchant Marines, the Cape Henlopen reportedly traveled about 12 knots per hour. But we soon learned that our journey would not be a short one.  Time after time the Henlopen stopped and drifted–with boiler problems, we were told–and often averaged only six knots an hour.

Frankly, I wondered what would happen if we got stranded in the middle of the ocean. Would we have enough food and water?  Would we be rescued?  How long would it take? How would they get us off the ship and where would they take us? My imagination ran wild.

Finally, I did venture on deck for several hours at a time and enjoyed watching the ship moving through the water, “flying” fish skipping along just above the water, and occasional rain squalls in the distance. Sometimes the rain caught up with us, sometimes it didn’t.

We had salt water showers below deck, so when rain squalls moved in we were summoned topside and ordered to remove our clothes and let the fresh water rinse off the salt. It was refreshing, I can tell you that.

All soldiers received assignments for KP or guard duty. I loved guard duty, especially when my post was near the galley, as the sailors gave us fresh fruit and baked goods to eat. Our food was good but theirs  was better and more varied.

The ship had a library and we borrowed books and magazines to read.  I spent a lot of time reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace. I decided to read the Bible from beginning to end, but never completed it. I found comfort in the Psalms.

Beautiful Hawaii

On September 2, VJ Day, we stood on deck listening to the Armed Forces Radio broadcast of the surrender ceremony. With the noise of the ship and the radio static, I could not hear much of what was being said.  But it still felt good standing there and realizing that this was a dramatic and historically significant moment.

We were informed via PA announcment that smoking was now permitted at all times and lights would remain on unless we were told otherwise.  The smokers rejoiced.

On the morning of September 5, we arrived at Pearl Harbor. The Army dashed our hopes of going ashore with an announcement that there would be no passes. Still, it was pleasant to watch ships coming and going and to see Diamond Head and Waikiki Beach in the distance.

Three days later, as we prepared to resume our journey, I reported to sick bay to see what could be done about seasickness. The medic gave me a small glass of wine and told me to stay on deck as much as possible. That worked, and after a couple of days I experienced no further difficulty.

We spent most days about the same as we did that first week: Loafing, bird-watching, leaning over the railing to watch “flying” fish, reading, playing cards, shooting dice.  Occasionally, there was a movie to watch; and every so often we received a mimeographed newsletter listing birthdays and reporting pertinent information.

There was a brief on-deck ceremony when we crossed the international dateline and we were given a certificate to that effect. It was strange when Thursday morning, September 13, suddenly became Friday, the 14th.

We Never Had It So Good

Notes that I kept on a writing tablet show that we entered Leyte Gulf in the Philippines on September 26 and went ashore to the 4th Replacement Depot at Tacloban, Leyte, on September 29.

Our first night at the “repo depot,” somebody came around showing off his pet monkey. I boldly walked right up to the little animal and started talking. Big mistake.  The monkey got excited. I got wet.

The next day we received varying assignments.  Mine was to help clean the latrines, wooden structures sitting over large pits. Somebody poured fuel in each hole and ignited it. I was one of the unlucky ones chosen to stir the burning refuse with a long pole. That was a smelly job and I sure was  pleased when we got orders to leave.

Before we left, though, another problem developed.  Coconuts were plentiful and free. I ate too much and, along with many colleagues, all night long made hurried trips to the latrine.

Several of us went to Battery C, 967th AAA Gun Battalion, near Dulag on the eastern shore.  Surprisingly, there was little to do except KP and guard duty–and very little of that.  So we played cards, swam in Leyte Gulf (the beach was within walking distance), explored the area, and generally goofed off. I loved diving into the waves. We were in paradise.

Greetings From P-38s

We were assigned to four-man tents. We had to dig a trench around the tent, except for the entrance, so rain water could run off.  It didn’t take long to realize that rain came at least once or twice each day.

Temperatures stayed around 80 to 83 degrees, and the water dried up quickly; so we hardly ever complained. Leyte (and later, Guam) gave me a lifetime taste for year-around climate.

Most of the combat soldiers in the 967th had gone home by the time we got there, but a few veterans were left to keep us in line. I think the only permanent structures we had were the mess hall and company headquarters.  To wash and shave, we used our helmet liners, as a basin, and cold water.  Makeshift showers also were cold.  We got used to it.

P-38s were still in large use at that time. Every so often one roared in low off the Gulf and streaked across the sky not far above us.  I remember thinking, “Nothing can be faster or noisier than these planes.”  Little did I know what was coming in just a few short years.

Not long after our arrival on Leyte, we were given an opportunity to reenlist for one year with a trip home if we agreed to help round up a few remaining snipers on Mindanao, a large island south of Leyte.  Upon completing the mission, volunteers would receive a 30-day leave and then a Stateside assignment until their discharge date.

Several accepted the offer, but “re-upping” wasn’t for me; I decided to wait and hope for early discharge–and never regretted it.

When we first got to the Dulag post, I was still having the coconut-induced “GIs” and was surprised to see the long line of men waiting to use the latrine.  In the morning I remarked to my buddies that there must have been a lot of people besides me who ate too much coconut.

“Oh, that’s not why they were out there; they were waiting to get to the Gooks behind the latrine” was the response.  “Gooks” and “Flips” were GI slang for the Filipinos.

I knew what they meant. Wherever we went, we almost always heard “Pom pom, Joe? My sister, Joe. My mother, Joe; she very good. Only five pesos, Joe.”

Houses on Stilts

One day some friends talked me into going with them to a house of ill fame.  I don’t remember how many or who went in, but I could not do so. It was not right, and there was the fear of venereal disease.  As they put it, I chickened out.  No regrets.

As the beach was nearby, a couple of buddies and I frequently went swimming in the Gulf, often two or three times a day.  I made a point of swimming on Christmas Day so I could brag about it in a letter home.
Lino Tizziani, Richard Smith (Smitty) and I often hiked around the area just to see what it was like.  Houses sat on stilts in the swamp some distance away from our area, which was not swampy. We often saw water buffalo along with lots of chickens and pigs.

Some days we hiked into Tacloban just to have something to do. Chickens squawked and pigs squealed in the streets, in yards, on and under porches, just about everywhere.  Merchants had meat and fish hanging outside. Flies feasted on them and the odor permeated a large area.

One day when we were goofing around and belittling our situation, two buddies and I composed a song, to the tune of  “Bonnie Banks of Loch Loman”:

Oh you take the high path and I’ll take the low path,
And I’ll be through the swamps before you,
And me and my Flip girl will never walk again,
Through the dirty, smelly streets of Tacloban.

After we had been on Leyte a few weeks, we got surprise orders to prepare for a special assignment.  Army officials wanted to remind the Filipinos that we were still on the island, so they loaded us on trucks and paraded us through the countryside–with our (unloaded) rifles in plain view. Whether or not it served the purpose, I don’t know; but it gave us a chance to see some of the island.  We enjoyed the ride.

On Thanksgiving and Christmas we had a special turkey dinner, with all the trimmings.  On Christmas Day,  Smitty and I hiked to the naval base at Tacloban for a second dinner. Afterwards, we talked about how delicious it was.

“That’s the first time I’ve eaten strawberries since we left the States,” I commented.  “You had strawberries?” Smitty asked. “I had cranberries.”  How quickly one forgets.

Where Were the Packages?

One day we were told that those who wanted to could sign up for a day’s outing in a town called Baybay (pronounced bye-bye) on the other side of the island. A truckload of us made the trip on a winding road through the mountains to this town that had been a beach resort for the Spaniards long before Americans came to the Philippines.

Two buddies and I looked the town over, then spent most of the day in a small refreshment place, drinking Cokes, eating sandwiches, and dancing and joking around with the girls who worked there. In late afternoon our truck came by, picked us up, and took us all back to camp. It was a pleasant outing and a welcome relief from mundane activities.

I don’t know how good the mail delivery was before we got to Leyte, but we sure didn’t get much while we were there.  Letters came through all right but not packages or newspapers.

My mother wrote that she had ordered a subscription to the South Bend Tribune for me.  I never got a copy.  One day, however, as I walked through the day room, I saw a newspaper lying open and walked over to check it out. I recognized it at once as the Tribune; but nobody seemed to know who had received it or when.

I devoured the peacetime news in that paper, my first indication of postwar life at home and around the world.

Mom also wrote that she and other family members had mailed several Christmas boxes. I got one, with cookies and a camera. The cookies I shared with my buddies and the camera I put to use taking pictures of friends and places.

Still on “Vacation”

Shortly after Christmas,  our outfit moved to another location, on a beach along the road to Tacloban. Now we had a sergeant on permanent duty, who turned out to be a pleasant leader, and we all got along well. He had a lively, friendly dog that he named “Shit-head.” That never seemed right to me but we had fun playing with the dog and calling him by name.

At this location there was an abandoned LST, landing ship transport, if I remember right.   Basic training included boarding and disembarking that kind of craft.  I wondered what had happened to this one and why it was still on this beach.  I soon found out the latter–it was another place for visiting prostitutes.  This LST was probably an undeeded craft the military had left behind.  Most excess material was dumped into the Gulf, I was told.

With little work to do, we still felt like we were on vacation and enjoyed ourselves, especially swimming in the Gulf and exploring the general area.  Because of Tacloban’s proximity, we were able to visit there more often.

After a month or two, we moved again–to what had been known as Base K Recreation Area, a place where combat soldiers were sent for rest and relaxation before returning to the front.  It had permanent structures and was being converted into a regular army camp.

Now we were in the 925th AAA (anti-aircaft artillery) Battalion and had to undergo more training classes, which this soldier intensely disliked. I had no interest in learning anything else about warfare and, frankly, paid little attention to the instructors.  I daydreamed about going home.

One smart thing I did, though, was sign up for an English composition correspondence course through the United States Armed Forces Institute (USAFI). I received lessons via mail; completed and returned them; and then received corrections and suggestions.  I wrote essays describing the scenery, people, and activities observed during our area jaunts.

Unfortunately, we left Leyte before I could complete the course and I never requested to resume it. Yet, it inspired me enough to later pursue a writing career.

Asleep on Duty

A creek passed through this camp, and we started hearing rumors of trouble. We pulled guard duty but didn’t take it seriously until one morning the officer of the day (OD) told us natives were crossing the creek during the night and stealing blankets and food–and probably looking for guns.

He cautioned us to be alert, adding that if we saw Filipinos crossing the water we should fire a round of ammunition as a warning. Prior to this incident, I believe, we carried weapons without ammunition.

The OD also warned that if anyone was caught sleeping at his post he would be court-martialed.  A soldier on the same duty shift as mine had once told me that sometimes he found  a “safe” place to stop and sleep  awhile. I cautioned him about that, but to no avail.

As we patrolled our assigned routes, there was a point where we met, acknowledged each other and continued on our way.  One night, I did not see or hear him at all. I didn’t know if he had been jumped and wounded or was just sleeping somewhere.

I debated what to do if the OD showed up and inquired if I had seen the man.  If I told the truth, he would be in trouble; if I lied, I could get punished, especially if there were any foul play.

Sure enough, the OD approached and asked if I had seen the other soldier; and I told him no. He hadn’t either and was concerned about his welfare; he told me to continue my rounds and he would conduct a search.

He found him–asleep at his post–and had him court-martialed. He received six months in the stockade and loss of two-thirds of his pay.  That was the last I heard of him.

(Later, I learned that an incident had happened on Guam’s Harmon Field involving a soldier on guard duty for a general’s plane. The general came back sooner than expected and found the guard asleep. He grabbed the man’s rifle and awakened him by poking the weapon lightly into his abdomen.  This soldier also received six months in the stockade and loss of pay.)

In early February, 1946, rumors started floating that we were about to be shipped out. Sure enough, in March we were on a Liberty ship heading for Guam.

This was a light ship and had very little, if any, cargo and not a full complement of troops. For five days it rocked, seemingly at least, from stern to bow and side to side.  The constant motion made almost everyone seasick during the entire voyage, including a couple of  monkeys someone had brought along.

I pulled KP duty in the galley. Staying below deck didn’t help matters because every time I got a whiff of food, I rushed to the deck and heaved up.
Soldiers, sailors, and a monkey crowded the railings.  Apparently, there wasn’t much the medics could do.

Living on Guam

During the voyage we were given three options for duty at Guam’s Harmon Field.  My first choice was the motor pool (I had worked in my  brother’s gas station throughout high school); second, serving as a clerk, and third, working as ground crew on B-29s.

Of course, I got my third choice:  ground crew, 3rd Photo Reconnaisance Squadron, attached to the 20th Air Force out of Denver, Colorado.

I knew nothing about airplane mechanics, but I had learned something about cars and certainly knew how to use tools to remove and replace parts; and that’s mostly what we did. Fortunately, our crew chief, Ed Pierce, had received aircraft mechanics training in the States.

Basically, we performed maintenance and repairs under his supervision. We removed and replaced small parts like spark plugs and condensers. Pierce tackled all the major tasks, and we assisted as needed by following explicit instructions under his watchful eyes.

With his guidance we managed to do quite well and never had any serious problems. Periodically, we had to remove a large part on one side of the engine–a supercharger, I believe it was called–and install a new one.  When we finished, Pierce double checked to make sure that everything was done right and that no bolts and nuts or tools were left behind.

Our most serious and difficult job was removing an entire engine and installing a new one. That involved taking out all bolts, nuts, clamps, wires, and various parts, putting the new engine in place and connecting everything properly. This job took several weeks to complete, and we rejoiced as tests showed the engine performing as it should.

A Time for Mourning

Our squadron lost two B-29s and their crews while we were there. We attended memorial services in the chapel for each crew.  Nine men were lost on the first flight and probably as many on the other.

In the first incident, the plane took off and disappeared shortly after passing the shoreline.  Nothing was learned about the other one, at least not during the time I was there. This certainly was a sad time for us all and a very serious reminder for everyone to do everything possible to assure
safety.

There was one other tragedy.  We had a small motor pool that was staffed by one person. I never learned what caused it, but a fire destroyed the building and killed him.  He was a pleasant fellow, well liked, and we were saddened at his death. I think everyone in the squadron attended the chapel service.

Procedures required us to preflight our plane before each mission. This amounted to starting the auxiliary motor and completing other tasks to have the ship ready for the pilot and his crew. The auxiliary motor, as I recall, provided power for the plane’s batteries, hydraulic system, generators, lights, and engine startups.

The flight crews, in transition training from smaller planes to B-29s, had their own preflight functions. When they finished, we pulled the chocks from behind the wheels and guided the plane onto the parkway and eventually to the runway area.

It took a long time to get used to making sure we avoided the spinning propellers while adjusting to the wind swirling around us as we ducked under the wings and removed the chocks.

However, I did have one accident.  Working under the plane’s belly, with the Bombay doors opened, I stood up quickly and hit my back on a corner of one door. It made a small but fairly deep cut that bled considerably.

The other crew members thought I should go on sick call and have the cut stitched.  I refused to do so and it never gave me any problems.  But I had a scar on my upper back for several years that proved a constant reminder of my “World War II injury.”

Occasionally our plane crew had to make a Sunday flight. All ground crew members also had to report for duty. However, when the ship returned to Harmon Field, only one person was required to meet it and guide it to our parking location on the tarmac.

Usually the crew chief handled this responsibility; but one Sunday afternoon he was not available, and somehow the task fell to me. I was very tense but, using hand signals, managed to guide the plane without problem from the runway through the various lanes to its parking station. I sighed with relief upon placing the chocks behind the wheels.

A Chicago Gambler

Most days we spent almost the entire time at our plane, fulfilling our assigned tasks when necessary.  If there was no flight or no maintenance jobs to do, we spent the day doing pretty much as we pleased.  We told stories, mostly about ourselves and home; played cards; shot dice; or sat around doing nothing.

Joe Filipiak was older than the rest of us.  He was from Chicago and was more knowledgeable about life.  He also was something of a gambler and loved playing poker.  I had never played but was willing to learn.  However, I did not want to lose what little money I had, so seldom played.

A friendly, congenial person, Joe never took advantage of our inexperience so far as I could tell.

On the no-flight days, two buddies–Richard (Smitty) Smith, George Westerinen–and I often stayed in our barracks,  mostly talking and playing cards, especially pinochle.

In fact, we liked pinochle so much that we frequently played it all weekend, taking time out only to eat and use the latrine. I had never played cards very much, so it took me a while to learn the game, but I eventually won my share.

In the evenings we frequently had movies to see–on an outdoor screen near the squadron’s motor pool. Before and after each show music was piped over loud speakers. If Iremember right., the favorite was  Peggy Lee  singing
“Ooh, Hot Dog”?

I’m goin’ upon the mountain to see that baby mine;
I’m goin’ upon the mountain to see that baby mine;
Somethin’ tells me I ain’t acomin’ back this time.
He’s got a face like a fish,  a shape like a frog
And when he loves me I holler ‘Ooh hot dog.’
Love that man better than I do myself.

One day, Smitty and George talked me into signing out a Jeep so we could do a little exploring.   I was the only one who had a driver’s license. I wanted to go south along the coast to Agana, the capital; they wanted to go north. They won out, but all we saw besides the ocean were sand, fields, and trees.

So we turned around and went to Agana, the capital, where we saw lots of people, houses, other buildings, marinas, and boats.  None of us had much money to do anything, so we just looked around and then drove back to base. But it was a fun day away from camp.

‘Let Me Off, Please’

I had never flown in an airplane, so when I learned that arrangements could be made to accompany one of the crews learning to fly the B-29, I applied and was accepted.

I didn’t know it, but the transition training for these crews involved taking off from Harmon Field, landing at Northwest Field at our end of the island, taking off again and flying back to Harmon.  They did this for four hours at a time.

I sat in the tail section staring down at the ground and the ocean through a window in the floor which replaced the camera that had been used for aerial combat photography.  After a few take-offs and landings, I was so airsick that I asked the pilot to let me off. Thus, my four-hour flight ended in less than 60 minutes at Northwest Field.

Sometimes we visited the Enlisted Men’s Club, called the Foto Cabana, which had a pool table and sold soft drinks and snacks.  There was a large container with a cold drink that I just couldn’t seem to like no matter how thirsty I was.  It always tasted bitter.

I finally learned that it was iced tea–without sugar. I still have not developed a liking for tea, hot or iced, sweetened or not. The club was a good place to hang out, though.

Aerial photographs taken by our squadron hung on the club walls. These scenes showed the effectiveness of American bombing.  I knew that bombing killed civilians, but the reality was almost overwhelming.

Movie Star in USO Show

We didn’t go swimming as often on Guam as we did on Leyte because the fish smell at the beach was almost unbearable.  One advantage we did have, though, was an occasional USO show. We had a former professional tennis player in our outfit who claimed that he sometimes played tennis with movie actor Turhan Bey.

I didn’t believe him until I saw Bey in a couple of Guam USO productions. It was a genuine pleasure to see him in person. I always liked his movies before I entered the Army and made a point of seeing them afterwards.

An observation I made about the USO shows brought in from the States was that the women all seemed to be tall, long-legged, and shapely. And they could act and sing and dance, too. Talk about not having it so good!

I liked the consistently 80-to-85-degree weather.  Rain showers occurred frequently, often around 3 p.m.; but they usually cleared out and the air remained fresh the rest of the day. However, we experienced two typhoons on Guam.

For the first one, we went to the beach and loaded bags with sand, placed them on the wings and fuselage and fastened our ship down with guy wires. There had been talk of placing some soldiers in a “typhoon-proof” hangar when the storm was about to hit; instead, we were stationed in our planes to wait out the storm.

Stormy Weather

At first we were somber and tense while waiting for something to happen but soon relaxed and spent our time playing cards, telling stories, and laughing.

There were strong winds–which rocked our plane–and steady rain for five straight days.  We made the best of the situation and ate the  “C” and “K” rations that were brought to us by truck. These meals came in small wooden boxes.

The second storm, a month or so later, created more excitement. We did not see sunlight until the eighth day. Other than trips to the latrine, we stayed in our barracks the entire time. The wind rattled the doors and shutters, and a tree limb fell across the front of our barracks, but no one was hurt.

Smitty, Westerinen, and I spent most of our time playing pinochle. Another “game” in our barracks was chasing and capturing an occasional mouse.

Food, mostly “K” rations this time, was delivered to our barracks by trucks and handed to us through the front entrance.  We got bored but not hungry.

One day we learned that the roof had been torn off the mess hall. It took several days to re-roof, and temporary arrangements were made to feed us.

I don’t know what happened, but for a long time after that our bread contained worms.  Some guys refused to eat it. Along with a few others, I accepted it and removed as many worms as possible.  I liked bread.

As for that supposedly “typhoon-proof” hangar, it collapsed during the second storm; and the planes and equipment stored there were destroyed or badly damaged. We lost one plane, a twin-engine C-45. Were we ever glad they didn’t put us in that hangar!

We wondered what the Guamanians did during the typhoon and learned afterwards that many of them stayed in caves.

Because of our location, we did not see many Guamanians.  We found the girls prettier than those on Leyte but we had very little contact with them.

After we had been on the island a few months, I was on my way to take a shower one day when I spotted a notice on a bulletin board that we had a new company commander and first sergeant. A day or so later the sergeant gave us a little talk.

There was too much laxity in the squadron, he said.  From now on rules would be obeyed.  One thing he noted in particular was that he had seen men urinating outside the barracks instead of using the latrine.  This practice would not be tolerated, he emphasized.

Caught in the Act

He meant it. A few nights later I woke up from a deep sleep and had to go.  I felt too sleepy to walk to the latrine, some distance from our barracks; so I stepped outside and relieved myself.

Someone came walking toward me, and I thought nothing of it until I suddenly heard a thundering voice: “Soldier, what are you doing? Are you p—ing?”  He ordered me to report to the orderly room first thing in the morning.

“You have a choice,” the sergeant explained. “You can ask for a court-martial or take company punishment.” I chose the latter. He took me to an area near a construction site, got a shovel, and told me to start digging a hole and to keep it up all day.

But I lucked out.  An officer came by and asked why I was digging. I explained the situation, and he said we had Japanese prisoners to do that kind of work. He asked how long I had been digging and when I told him he said that was punishment enough.  He told me to return to our barracks and said he would talk to the first sergeant.

You can be assured, I always used the latrine after that.

Kilroy Was Here
I don’t know where or when I first saw  “Kilroy Was Here” signs. I know I saw them somewhere, maybe even on Guam, and wondered who Kilroy was and what they were all about.  Seeing the signs frequently in war movies after I got home made me more curious.

Research on the Internet shows that the Kilroy signs appeared as graffiti both in the States and abroad wherever GIs were stationed. The saying, along with a cartoon, became recognized as a symbol of Americans’ achievements.

The expression “I give a big rat’s tail”  (only we didn’t say tail) became popular not long before I left Guam.  A few years later my brother Dick, a buddy, and I helped spread it across campus.

Food on Guam was good, but after the second typhoon it was different. One day while eating lunch I remarked to my buddies about how tasty the scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes were and wondered why we didn’t have fried eggs.

They replied that these foods were dehydrated, and that was my introduction to recently developed foods that are now commonplace.

All things considered, I believe the Army expression “you never had it so good” aptly describes our life on Leyte and Guam.

Shortly before leaving Guam, I received a letter from my mother explaining that my sister Esther was complaining about school and wanted to quit. She asked me to write and urge her to continue.

So I sent a letter telling her how important it was to get an education and said she would be glad in later years.  I guess it worked, along with encouragement from other family members, because Esther went on to graduate.

Speaking of letters, among the most welcome were those I received from my brother Dick telling about playing on the Riley High School football team.  I think he even got mentioned in the South Bend Tribune for tackles he had made in key games.  That was great news.

Sentimental Journey

My first real hope of going home came with rumors in August  that we would soon be leaving for the States.  I talked about this in a letter to my mother dated September 15, 1946, which she saved:

“The Cape Mendocino (a troop ship) arrived today. I hear we will leave on it Thursday (Sept. 19). I didn’t think I would be here on my 20th birthday (the 19th), but it looks like I will. Sure hope I leave on or before it now.

“One of my buddies is a ‘big wheel’ over at 20th Hqs. He plays tennis with the officers over there, and he’s been saying for several days now that we would leave on the 19th. Sure hope he’s right.”

The letter continued, “I still might not leave on it, though, as I think it only has space for 1500 troops. And there still are about 3000 troops on Saipan.” A page is missing, so I have nothing to remind me of the other rumors of ships coming and going.

However, the letter does end with these words that reflect my thinking at the time: “I imagine I will be plenty cold when I get to the States…after being in this hot climate for so long. My blood must be plenty thin by now. I’ll probably freeze all winter long. But that’s all right. I just want to get home.”

Believing we would be leaving shortly, I purchased from the PX a new Spartan brand table model radio.  Manufactured in Grand Rapids, Michigan, it had a metal cabinet and had short wave and regular broadcasts.  I believe I paid $25 for it.

I used that radio for many years and let my children experiment with the short wave function.  They picked up broadcasts from other states, South America, and Europe.  Downsizing for retirement and relocation, I gave the radio to one of our sons. I still regard it as a souvenir from  Guam.

Finally, in late September we boarded a ship and were taken to Saipan. I can still see the black-scarred hills and caves as we approached the island. They were grim reminders of flamethrowers and how hard our forces fought there. We stayed on Saipan three or four days for processing.

When we landed on Saipan, processors told us there was a ship–the  Admiral Eberlee–already in the harbor that sailed at 25 knots per hour and they were going to rush us through so we could board it. Our hopes soared: we could be home in three weeks.

It sailed without us.

There was a haughty, intimidating captain on Saipan who wore a pistol on his belt and seemed to enjoy reminding us that we were still in the Army and should conduct ourselves accordingly.  We had to start saying “Sir” again and to salute. All we really cared about was going home.

Stateside, Here We Come

Finally, we boarded the S.S. Buchanan, a slower ship than the Eberle.  Life was pleasant, though, and relaxing. Some of us had guard or KP duty, but other than that we did pretty much as we wished.

Sailing on the Buchanan differed considerably from the Cape Henlopen. There were no breakdowns and we had freshwater showers. And again, the merchant sailors gave us fresh fruit and pastries.  That’s right, we never had it so good.

There were frequent movies, and music was piped over the public address system. Played most frequently was “Sentimental Journey.”  Some GIs complained about the repetition, but not this one. I was sentimental about going home. I memorized that tune and still enjoy hearing it.

When we arrived at Hawaii, everyone who had served guard duty or KP was given a pass to go ashore.

What a thrill! An hour or so of walking took me to downtown Honolulu I thought about hitchhiking along the boulevard-type highway but didn’t know if
that was permissible.  I walked past a pineapple plant that had a fountain as part of its landscaping.  I wondered if it gushed pineapple juice.

Downtown, I found an ice cream shop and ordered my first banana split since leaving the States. Oh, how sweet the taste. Then I walked around, taking in the sights.

A Little Bit of Home

All of a sudden a car parked at the curb caught my eye. It had a bullet-like nose for the front end. Studying the back end, I thought this car looks as though it’s going forward and backward at the same time.

Here I was, thousands of miles from  South Bend, where Studebakers were manufactured and where my dad worked, admiring a 1946 model, the first new cars to appear after the war.

Next, I went to an air-conditioned movie–another first and very enjoyable after all of the outdoor movies, often interrupted or stopped because of rain, on

both Leyte and  Guam.  This soldier loved “Stormy Weather,” starring the beautiful, talented Lena Horne. Both she and the movie remain favorites.

As I emerged from the theater, it was getting dark so I headed for the ship and walked all the way back, thinking how fortunate I was.

The next morning we weighed anchor and left for California, the Buchanan sailing northeast toward San Francisco.  The weather became noticeably cooler. I can’t recall whether it was aboard ship or later during processing, but I was one of the soldiers agreeing to take a flu shot.

This was the first time the shots were offered to us. I don’t know how other men reacted, but I got sick and refused to take another flu shot until just a few years ago. So far, so good.

Stateside at Last

As we neared California, I felt the breezes getting cooler.  A feeling of excitement settled over me as our ship sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge on October 24, 1946. “Golden Gate in ‘48”–still a common phrase for many of us anxious to be Stateside–came a couple of years early, to my great pleasure.

We slowly passed another ship as we docked.  I pointed my camera toward the deck of that ship and caught someone looking up toward the mast. It’s not a good picture, but it does serve as a reminder.

As we prepared to disembark, I received word that my cousin, Clayton Hess, was waiting for me. Clayton, a Red Cross employee, and his family had moved to Oakland from Indiana a few years earlier.

On the way to his house, he said there had been a family emergency and he had tried through the Red Cross to have me flown home.  However, for whatever reason, arrangements could not be made to have me taken off the ship.  I still wonder how that transfer might have been accomplished.

As it turned out, my mother had been hospitalized and had a kidney removed.  She almost died during the surgery but recovered and was home again. When we got to Clayton’s house, he put in a call to South Bend and I got to talk to my mother for the first time since my furlough.

How great it was to hear her voice again. She told me more about her illness, and I told her I still had to go to Camp Beale, near Sacramento, for discharge and would be coming home by train. It wouldn’t be long now.

After lunch and a couple hours of conversation, Clayton took me to the train station for the trip to Camp Beale.  There, it was a matter of filling out forms, undergoing a physical examination, turning in equipment, and drawing pay.

Cross Country Again

One of the processors was a soldier who had signed up on Leyte for the Mindanao sniper hunt. He was happy to be Stateside with only a short time left till discharge, and I was ecstatic to be homeward bound.

From Camp Beale, I returned to Oakland and spent a day visiting my cousins.  They took me across the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge, to Chinatown and other bay area places of interest. That evening, they put me on the train to Chicago.

I had a coach seat, which meant sitting up most of the way. I got up and walked around some, for exercise, and enjoyed the food in the dining car.  Trying to sleep was difficult, especially the first day or two, as there were too many people in the coach to allow stretching out across the  seats.

A couple days later there were fewer passengers so I was able to lie across two seats. Meals in the dining car were expensive, so occasionally I purchased sandwiches and snacks from vendors passing through the cars.

Mostly, I just enjoyed riding on the train and watching the countryside roll by. Traveling through the mountains was the most pleasant, especially along river banks.  Fall colors, with evergreen trees intermingled with others, were gorgeous.

In Chicago,  I called my brother Bert, then took a taxi to the River Grove feed store where he worked. Thus, he was the first sibling I had seen since June of ‘45. He asked me how much the taxi cost and I told him five dollars.

“That’s outrageous,” he said disgustedly; “it should have only been two or three dollars.” He explained that taxi drivers had been getting a lot of bad publicity for overcharging passengers, especially returning servicemen and tourists.

Bert had a Great Dane watchdog at the store that sounded vicious when it barked.  The dog was caged, but Bert said it was gentle and easy to handle. After watching it gobble huge steaks, I knew I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.

A Warm Welcome

Later Bert took me to the South Shore Railroad (electric train) station in downtown Chicago, and I was on the last lap.

From downtown South Bend, I took a cab to our house, 604 E. Keasey Street.  As we drove along, I noticed election signs–it was Tuesday, November 2, 1946. I would become eligible to vote the next September. That neighborhood has since become a park.

As the taxi neared our house, I wondered if anyone besides Mom would be there. There wasn’t.  Everybody else was at work or in school.

Surprisingly, after all of the visits and phone calls,  getting home seemed almost anticlimactic.  I was excited and yet in a way felt as if I had never been gone.

Mom and I greeted each other warmly.  She filled me in on family
news, including her health, and I kept saying how happy I was to be home again.  Over the next several days, I saw the rest of the family and got caught up on changes that had taken place.  Two or three weeks later I went back to work at my brother Bill’s gas station.

My official discharge date was December 13, 1946.

Kenneth R. Weaver, 2009

I was home again.  My sentimental journey had ended.  I wanted out of the Army, but I’ve always been glad and proud that I served. It was a rewarding experience, to say the least.

It took me three years to accept the GI Bill privilege and start my education.  The government paid all except the last quarter, so I borrowed a couple hundred dollars from the college and paid it back with my first newspaper job after graduation.

Now, looking back after all these years, I wonder what those basic training buddies who intensely disliked Texas would think if they knew that here I am, with my wife, Sharon, living in the Lone Star State–close to our daughter and granddaughter.

Life is great.