Army Memoirs of Harold C. Hemond

16 November 1942 – 15 May 1946

February 1990 by Harold C. Hemond

Copyright – world rights (2020)

David Hemond, editor

See also The Life and Times of Harold C. Hemond

 

 

Harold C. Hemond

I BECAME A SOLDIER

Growing up, I never expected to be a soldier. That was emphasized in the seventh grade when the history teacher was telling us about “The Great War” that had ended on November 11, 1918, a holiday that ever after was celebrated as Armistice Day. For the teacher assured us that the war had been fought “to make the world safe for democracy”, and, with that matter settled, there would never again be a cause for war! So there would never be a need for me in the Army. She was wrong, of course, but in 1929 this impressionable lad of twelve did not doubt her.

Even as I joined the Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC) in college in the fall of 1934, the concept of a real Army career never was counted by me as a realistic possibility. ROTC was fun because ours was a Cavalry unit – one of the last in the Army – and we had the chance to ride horses, and if we were skilled enough, we were allowed to take part in the Spring Horse Show. So we liked the Army. True, they had close order drills, and dull classroom lectures about the management of ordnance and such. But that was balanced by the chance to fire target rifles on the indoor firing range. I even made the college rifle team. But that was just playing at Army life, and we never ever expected to be involved in the real thing. Even in 1939 when I was working for my Master’s degree at Massachusetts State, and we were all plotting to save the necessary seventy-five cent fare to see Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh in “Gone With the Wind”, and there was civil war in progress in Spain, and Adolph Hitler had come to power in Germany, the idea of an Army career in my future never seemed to enter my head. True, the public sentiment was still very much isolationist. Most adults, including my parents, were confident that any problem they had “over there” would stay over there. It was none of our business. And President Franklin Roosevelt had said that he and Eleanor hated war. So I concentrated my efforts on getting the degree work done in one year, earning a few dollars by teaching algebra at the Holyoke Evening High School, and having a date with Frances every Saturday evening. There was no possibility of Army service on my horizon.

But leaders of our government saw a different picture. Privately, they foresaw war with Germany as inevitable. Therefore, they foresaw the need for large numbers of men for the Armed Services. So the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940 was proposed, debated, passed by the Congress, and signed into law by President Franklin Roosevelt on September 16 of that year. It was the first universal conscription law ever accepted by the United States in time of peace.

Still – not to worry. There were millions of young men available, and the military facilities could handle only a relative handful of men. So, on October 20, 1940, along with more than sixteen million others, I registered with the local draft board in Holyoke and was assigned a draft order number. The national lottery to determine the sequence of draft order numbers was held in Washington on October 29, 1940. My number (which I have long since forgotten) was among the very early ones drawn! Conscription for Army duty began soon thereafter.

At the start, the local draft board was requisitioned for a certain number of men (on the order of ten or twelve) each month. On the assigned day, the group was bused to the indoctrination center in Springfield, where, upon passing the physical examination, they were sworn in and immediately shipped off to Fort Devens. I was in one of these early groups. But I did not pass the physical examination – my teeth were not perfect – not enough of them touched each other when I bit. The dentist assured me that there was no problem with my teeth – when the need for men rose, the perfect teeth requirement would be waived.  So I went home and on to my job teaching at Wilbraham Academy while more and more of my friends were called up each month.  Soon Ed Banas was inducted and sent to an Army camp in Pennsylvania from which he wrote that training was severely limited by the lack of equipment.  But the country was not at war – and public sentiment was still very much opposed to having the United States get involved.

Then came Pearl Harbor – December 7, 1941 – a day that President Roosevelt said would live in infamy.  By then Frances and I had been dating steadily for some time, and I had saved up enough money (like forty dollars) to buy her a Hope Chest.  On that Sunday afternoon, we were window shopping in front of McLean’s Furniture store on High Street in Holyoke, admiring their chests and trying to select one.  I don’t remember exactly how we heard the Pearl Harbor news, but it spread rapidly – everyone on the street had a reaction.  Mine consisted of great surprise – I wondered what we had ever done to them to stir up such resentment.  I would not have been nearly as shocked by a German attack, since the Germans were still unhappy with their defeat in World War I – but what were the Japanese mad about?  I did not know – and most people did not know.  But no matter – we had been attacked – we had to defend the country – war was now a certainty, and Congress made it official the next day.

Draft calls immediately increased, but so also did the recruitment efforts by the Navy and the Marines. It seemed to me that service in the Navy would be more to my liking since I had always had an interest in the sea. So one day I walked into the Navy recruiter’s office in Springfield to apply for training as a naval officer. I was cordially received and the processing was started. But it ended with the physical examination where it was determined that I was “color blind”, a deficiency that the Navy would not tolerate any more than the Army would tolerate crooked teeth. Actually the deficiency was limited to the red-green portion of the spectrum where my sensitivity to those colors was not zero, but it was not normal either. It never would have hindered efficient service, but I wasn’t as smart about the matter then as I was later.

By the time the school teaching year ended in June of 1942, the draft process was in high gear. I expected to be called any day, so I did not sign on at Wilbraham for the following school year. To stay busy while waiting for a call from the Army, I went to work for the Westinghouse Corporation at their West Springfield plant where they were building radios for the Air Force. My job was to trouble shoot units that failed to pass the routine tests. As I remember, they paid me two dollars per hour; more money than I had ever seen before! I will expand on that Westinghouse experience at another time.

By October the uncertain existence had become unpleasant. Strangers on the street wanted to know how I had dodged the draft! Fact is I did not know what had delayed my call – possibly because I had already been called up once. But at any rate I took action one day, walked into the Draft Office and volunteered for their November quota. That also precipitated action on another front. For Frances and I decided to get married now rather than wait out the war. So on October 31 1942, a Saturday in the midst of the war effort, and Halloween, we were married in Holyoke. But that too is a different story which I will relate at another time.

I joined the U. S. Army on Monday, 16 November 1942. The processing, physical examination, and swearing-in ceremony had been completed on a prior day.  So, on the 16th, I and a group of others, including one of the Apple brothers and Larry Bagg (Dr. Bagg’s son), met a train at the Holyoke station and were carted off to Camp Devens where I became Private Harold C. Hemond with Army Serial Number (ASN) of 31213777.  The record shows that I was then 25 3/12 years old, by occupation a teacher, with blue eyes, brown hair, medium complexion, and 5 feet 11 inches tall.  There is no record of my weight.

At the time, Camp Devens was in full swing funneling hundreds of men into the Army every day. It was a very brusque process, but also efficient if one managed to get into the correct line and follow exactly the curt orders emanating from every direction at once. Somehow I acquired a large barracks bag full to overflowing with army issue clothing, got it to a bunk in one of the barracks, turned myself into a soldier in appearance as well as fact, packed my civilian clothes into my suitcase and mailed same home to Fran at 174 Pearl Street, Holyoke. I probably stood in line for my first army dinner, but I don’t remember what there was to eat.

174 Pearl St. Holyoke

The next day our big interest was the specific army outfit to which we would be assigned. But a new army private gets no information briefings. So there was no way of finding out one’s destination. From time to time, names were called out, and that group would be marched off. Finally my name was bellowed out by some sergeant and I found myself in a large group marching to a waiting line of railroad cars which we boarded. The cars were all day coaches. We thought that was a good sign since obviously we were not going very far on day coaches. Our speculation included training posts in New York or New Jersey. The train got underway – slowly.

The railroad coaches were a very old style fitted with a row of benches on each side of the center aisle. Each bench, sized for two passengers, was covered both on the seat and on the back with rattan which made them feel like sitting on a board. The backs could be swung to either side of the seat so that the passenger could be looking forward no matter which direction the car moved. The army arrangement was to alternate the back positions so that every two benches had the look of a compartment. In that space they placed three of us guys along with each person’s barrack bag. The result was that there was little space for anyone. But again – not to worry – obviously we would not be in this car very long.

It was time for an evening meal and we found out how meals were served army troop train style. There was a freight car in the middle of the train. That was the mess hall. On order from the sergeant, one assembled his mess kit and stood in line. On signal the line began to move through adjacent cars to the mess car. There one held out his kit while it was filled with food, and then he followed the line back to his assigned car seat. Then one ate. The food was ample. It was hot. The art of mess kit eating was clearly one of the army’s first lessons. Except there were no instructors. Everyone was on his own, and there were many slow learners as became evident when the car made a sudden jolt causing many a meal to be deposited on a lap or a seat or even the deck. I survived the meal. Then it was time to wash the mess kits. This involved another treck to the mess car where there were three thirty gallon buckets, one with boiling soapy water, and two with boiling rinse water. One dumped any waste food in a separate garbage bucket and then dipped the mess kit in turn in each of the three water buckets. Then with scalding mess kits dangling, one went back to his assigned seat.

About then, the sergeant started through the car directing how to arrange things for sleeping.  The three barrack bags were to be used to fill in the space between the two benches. That would make a surface more or less flat involving the two bench seats and the intervening barrack bags. Upon that surface the three occupants of the cubicle were to find a way to lie down and sleep. There were many private mutterings about the sergeant’s sanity as well as his heritage, but no overt mutiny. Plainly we were going to be on that day coach throughout the night so we might as well figure out how to get some sleep. Probably we would arrive at our destination during the night and could expect a hot breakfast at an army post in the morning.

In the morning, we were aroused early – not that anyone needed much arousing – there had been little sleeping done – and went through the feeding ritual again. I don’t remember exactly what they gave us, but it likely was bacon, scrambled eggs, an orange, toast, and coffee. I should report that I usually found the army food to be reasonably tasty, very hot when it was supposed to be hot, and always available in greater quantity than I could manage.

Now it was morning and the train was still poking along. Several guys had made attempts to pry destination information out of the sergeant, but he either did not know, or he was under orders not to tell. At any rate, we were still staring out the dirty car windows at the passing landscape looking for hints as to where we were. But nobody could figure it out. Gradually, based upon frequent stops and starts of the cars, as well as our failure to observe train stations, we concluded that the train was not following conventional passenger routes but was using freight lines. Consequently, it was not likely that we could figure out our whereabouts.

We could not figure out where we were. We only knew that we were not there yet. The day went by. The only organized routine was the meal procedure. Between meals we were on our own, except that there was no place to go nor anything to do. I took time to shave and wash using the overcrowded and thoroughly inadequate car toilet room, and got kidded for my effort. But it was something to do and filled in some of the time gaps.

Another awkward and nearly sleepless night dragged by, followed by a second long day in those increasingly foul cars, while the train plodded slowly westward, its destination still a mystery. We could scarcely believe that the army would transport us for this amount of time in such miserable equipment. But our patience was to be further tried by yet another long night and a third endless day.

On the morning of the next day, the train came to a halt and we were directed to prepare to leave the cars. Out the window we could see only an endless vista of flat snow covered land. After hurried preparations sorting out each others stuff and repacking the barracks bags, we sat down and waited for the next order. It was our first taste of the army’s famous policy, “Hurry up and wait”. Eventually we were ordered out of the cars and into a column formation. The approved way to carry  the heavy barrack bag was over one’s right shoulder. Tender muscles got a workout that way. The sergeant called for order and saluted a Captain who had appeared. The Captain called out “Welcome to Camp Funston, Home of the 9th Armored Division.”

Eventually we learned that Camp Funston was a wartime adjunct of Fort Riley, Kansas, traditional home of the famed army horse cavalry where horses had now been replaced by armored vehicles.  Riley was located on the outskirts of Junction City, Kansas, west of Manhattan, Kansas, at approximately the geographic center of the United States. The army task at Camp Funston was to activate and train another armored division. We recruits were all part of the buildup of the 9th Armored Division.

 

THE 9th ARMORED DIVISION

Life at Camp Funston quickly settled into an exhausting routine of training, eating, and sleeping. Training should be read essentially as physical conditioning involving group exercises, close order drill, and cross country marches often at double time. Eating should be read as standing in line in the cold winter winds waiting to have a turn getting into the mess hall to gulp down a meal in the allotted time before the next drill call. Sleeping should be read as trying to get some rest on a sagging army cot in a setting of some fifty such cots all with snoring occupants.

The barracks were barren two story wooden structures – nothing but vast halls lined with bunks. Heating was by means of a large pot bellied iron stove set near the middle of the place and fueled with soft coal that had to be fed by hand shovel. The fuel was stored in a bunker outside one end of the building. Duty to fuel the stove fell by lot to occupants of the barrack. A combination gang wash room, shower room, and toilet was located at one end of the first floor. It was so crowded and overworked that I found it useful to be the first there in the morning – not hard to do – most of the gang needed prodding by reveille and the foul curses of the barrack sergeant before they started their day. They called us Privates – but there was nothing whatsoever that was private about the way we lived.

I soon learned the names and other details about many of my associates, but practically all of that has now slipped from memory. However, I remember Jack Wilson who came from West Hartford and had been teaching at Cheshire Academy – our common teaching background made us kindred spirits. And then there was Ralph Bettencourt from Billerica – Ralph was a great talker with graphic opinions on army ways, a characteristic that sometimes got him in trouble with the sergeant. There was a fellow from Brooklyn who had never been outside the city – he had never seen a cow! There were several boys from Vermont who were offended when breakfast consisted of pancakes and syrup and the syrup turned out not to be from real Vermont maple trees. And there was Smokey Butler. I’ve forgotten his origin, but he had a habit upon waking in the morning of shouting “Dubgie-Dubgie” – what it meant he never said. And there was a fellow from Gloucester who had been a fisherman – he was unhappy with the lack of fish at army meals.

Ralph Bettencourt

There must have been a Thanksgiving that year – but I don’t remember it at all. No doubt it was a depressing day that I was glad to see go by. We probably had little in the way of army drill that day – officers and non-coms alike probably were away on passes.

On something like the third Saturday afternoon that I was at Funston, I experienced my first tornado. I did not know then that it was a tornado. And given my situation of being still restricted to barracks, I had no way of even being aware of an approaching storm. About the middle of the afternoon, an unusual darkness fell. I went out on the barracks balcony to see what was happening. I got there in time to see an approaching black funnel that went up from the ground to a black cloud formation. The funnel was moving in my direction at a rapid pace.  As I watched, the funnel struck on end of the barrack across the street, cutting the structure neatly in half.  The struck portion was completely leveled.  I was surprised beyond words, and too ignorant of the phenomenon to realize my own danger.  By the time I appreciated that I had been in peril, the thing had gone by.  Some twenty recruits had been killed.  They said that this kind of storm was not unusual in Kansas.  So I knew that there were hazards greater than being in the army.

After about a month, we began to get instruction in the weapons that are found in the armored divisions. First was the rifle – we had to learn the nomenclature of its parts, and be able to take it apart and reassemble it blindfolded – literally blindfolded. The claim was that on some dark and stormy night the weapon would be inoperative and require repair – and there would be no light – nor any alternate weapon – yours had to be fixed in the dark. I found that was easy – but dumb. Then we gave similar attention to the carbine, then to the automatic handgun, then to the machine gun, and finally to the 30 mm tank cannon. After that we went to the firing range to learn how to shoot each of these guns.

One winter morning, with ice and snow all over the place, and with a storm in progress that was dumping a mixture of sleet and cold rain, we were marched out to the firing range. We were scheduled to shoot the carbine that day. Upon arriving, I found myself in charge of a detail of six men charged with the job of building a fire so that the gang could have some warmth. We had to find the material, get it in place near the firing line, and make it burn in spite of the weather conditions. Fortunately we found nearby some piles of used construction lumber which we appropriated. The Captain’s jeep had a spare five gallon can of gasoline – which we also appropriated. Together they made a great fire and the Captain was pleased.

But in the process I lost my turn at firing. So, as the others ate lunch, I had my turn. The course consisted of five rounds each at 200 yards firing first in the prone position, then sitting, then kneeling, and then standing. That was done twice over – forty rounds all together – scoring gave five points for a bullseye. My first shot was a four – then I started a string of fives – I finished the first course of twenty rounds with 19 bullseyes. By then I was the focus of all attention on the range. The Captain came to be my coach – then came the Major – then came the Lt-Col. I started the second course with another bullseye – and continued to rack up more. All shots were fives until the very last one which was a four. I suppose I was tired by then. I never got any official recognition for that feat, which probably was just as well – the army might have got the notion to make me into a sniper.

By now there must have been a pay day. Pay day has its own unique army customs. The company commander sits at a desk or table in some large room, and the men file by one at a time, saluting and reporting for pay. Each in turn is handed a small manila packet in which appears his pay in cash, minus any allotments or other authorized deductions. As a Private, I was eligible – as stated so well in a popular song of the time – for forty one dollars a day once a month. Some of my monthly allotment, I sent home to Frances who saved it for post war use, accumulating about three thousand dollars in that fashion during the wartime period. Immediately following the pay formation, the crap games got underway, usually in some place out of sight of the officers who were supposed to break them up. But the games always went on. It was a given that most of those who played were soon wiped out and became charity cases for the next month. I regularly avoided the games which made me fair game for helping some guy out when he needed toothpaste or something at the post exchange (PX).

Christmas was a thoroughly miserable day. By then the effect of the cold wet weather had brought on a severe sore throat – I could scarcely talk or eat – that didn’t much matter to the medic – I was never excused from training. But I was not in the Christmas mood. To make things more awkward, my mother’s Christmas package arrived. It was a large box filled with food and presents – but the box had suffered considerable damage in transit and food and presents were in an assorted mess. Had there been no damage, I could not have handled the package – we had literally no place to put anything! And there would have been little help in consuming the food – most fellows had similar gifts from home. My only recourse was to consign the package to the trash barrel – which I did – and then wrote a nice Thank You note to my mom.

An armored division coordinates its activities in the field largely through the use of radios installed in each major vehicle.  Consequently many radio operators have to be trained.  As basic training ended, many of us were singled out to become operators.  Including me.

Operator training consisted largely of learning the Morse Code. There was some discussion of radio theory, but mostly the army wanted operators. Radio operation was principally done by using AM radio equipment operated in the CW mode where the transmissions involved coded groups of five characters which could be letters or numbers in any sequence. 

Perfect accuracy by the operators, both sending and copying the code groups was essential. So we were taught the Morse code, daily, all day long as we sat with headsets over our ears, pencil in hand, writing down the characters as the sounds were heard. In about two weeks, most of us could operate at five words per minute without error for unlimited periods of time. Then the instructor began to speed things up – to seven words per minute – to ten words – and then to thirteen words. At each stage, certain fellows could not operate satisfactorily and were dropped out of the program. But a large number of the guys, including me, completed the course and were certified as army radio operators.

The Armored Division organization contains two separate Command Groups, each headed by a Brigadier General and his necessary staff. Troops were then allocated to the Command by Division Headquarters as necessary for the particular assigned mission. I, along with about a dozen of the new radio operators were attached to Combat Command “B” which was under Brig-Gen Hoag, a long time army veteran who had just returned from commanding the construction forces that had built the Alaskan Highway. We radio operators joined the Signal section which was under Captain Christie, a very likeable chap from Shaker Heights, Ohio. Our top kick, Master Sergeant Florschutz, was also a very competent veteran. The section had a vacancy for a corporal-technician and for reasons unknown to me, the Captain gave me the rating. So within about ten weeks of joining the army, I had become a Corporal. It meant more pay, but I forget how much more.

Soon our daily training mode was to set up and operate a radio network using the radio equipment in the division’s vehicles. I was the operator in the General’s armored scout car, so I was often the net control station, which meant I really had to pay close attention and allocate radio time to the stations in the net. It was sometimes fun, but it was often boring. There was one operator, fellow named Reichert, who was very difficult to work with because his Morse code sending style was not clear. One day the gang made up a coded message as follows: R E I C H E R T S T I N K S. We sent it off to Reichert’s vehicle. Soon Captain Christie drove up in his jeep – he was in high dudgeon – he had copied the message – there followed a lecture about sending unauthorized messages. We were properly subdued – but a few days later Reichert was reassigned to other duties.

Army boys always look forward to a time when they can merit a PASS! That there may be an authorized leave from duty in one’s future is a great morale booster. On my first week-end pass, Jack Wilson and I took the train to Topeka, got a room at the YMCA, had some good meals, and explored the city. Topeka is the Capitol city of Kansas, so we went to visit the Statehouse. It is a handsome domed structure. On Sunday there were few visitors, so the caretaker was very generous with his time and showed us the entire building. Finally he asked if we would like to go out on the observation deck on top of the dome – of course we did. To get there we had to traverse a catwalk suspended between the outer dome structure and the fancy false ceiling seen from the inside of the dome. It was a scary shaky walk – but we made it to the top and outside just below a huge statue. The view was fabulous! All of the city lay before us – and beyond was the endless prairie.

One Sunday I got a pass to go to Manhattan. There I started out to look for Kansas State University which I knew to be located in that city. I stopped a kindly looking gentleman to ask the way. He said he was going there himself and volunteered to show me around. Turned out he was a professor at the college. As we talked further, it also turned out that he was a good friend of Professor Frank Waugh of Mass State with whom I had had a course in Art Appreciation (two of Frank Waugh’s etchings hang in our breakfast room).

Pvt Hemond, Manhattan, Kansas

One day I learned that I was eligible for a three day Memorial Day week-end pass – it was a golden opportunity to see Frances – that is if we both could get to Chicago. I think I must have called her – we agreed to meet in the Chicago railroad station at the information booth. What we did not know was that there were many railroad stations in Chicago – each line had its own terminal. But luck was with us – without coaching, we both took trains that went to the same station – and our meeting plan worked perfectly. We even found a hotel room at the Mark Twain Hotel that we could afford. It was a great time – we explored the city via public transportation – saw the Science Museum – sampled the eateries – and generally got reacquainted.

Mark Twain Hotel, Chicago

Mark Twain Hotel

Fran was determined to come to Kansas on her midwinter vacation. She did, staying at the guest house for a short time until we found a room in a house on Colorado Street in Manhattan. Master Sergeant Florshutz was an immense help allowing a pass every night – and the Sergeant in charge of the mess hall provided transportation – he lived in town and had his own car. So we managed to stay close. Fran kept herself busy during the week taking a typing course at the high school.

Fran and HC, Library, Kansas State

But the war was raging in the desert in Africa, and so the 9th Armored was scheduled for desert training. That meant transfer of the division to the desert training area in lower California. So Fran went home for a time.

Movement of the division to the desert was by troop trains. But the experience was considerably better than the ride from Devens to Funston – this time we had parlor cars! Furthermore, Florshutz had a private room, and he invited me to share it with him. Thereupon, he put me in charge of the TRAIN-PX, the stock for which was also stored in the Sergeant’s room. So twice a day I traversed the train selling candy bars and cigarettes. But whenever I had a chance I watched in wonder the spectacular Western scenery as we rolled slowly through Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle, New Mexico, and Arizona to Camp Ibis in the California desert, which is just north of the sunbaked town of Needles.

Some other outfit must have just moved out, because we found Camp Ibis to be a vast ready-made tent city. The typical army square 8-man tent was everywhere in neat rows so that companies could be billeted together. The facilities were already in place too, so we were spared the task of digging latrines. Drinking water was available in large canvas bags that decorated the company streets. Showers were turned on every day at four o’clock for one hour – conservation of water was one of our first desert lessons.

It was hot! And dry! Guys were constantly thirsty. When word came that the PX had a supply of ice cold beer, there was a stampede to get a place in line to buy one. The army medics were worried about guys losing too much salt in the hot sun – so salt pills were prescribed for everyone – entrance to the mess tent for the evening meal was gained only by swallowing two salt tablets first. A typical day saw the sun temperature rising to about 120 degrees by noon and falling off to about 80 degrees during the night. Curiously that made the nights seem cold – we slept under blankets! And the days were so hot that the many division armored vehicles became too hot to touch with the bare hand. We wore gloves when we were in vehicles!

Training continued with weapons and vehicles, but there was the added flavor of drills on water conservation.  Survival may depend on how well one husbands the meager supply.  A typical training scenario involved going three days at a stretch with one canteen (about a quart) per day per man, with the additional requirements that one shave each morning and wash a pair of socks each day – the rest of the water one could use as he pleased. I managed this drill quite well. Years later, when I was in the submarine engineering business, I was able to tell the Navy about ways of conserving their water resources (the Navy wasn’t interested of course).

On our first weekend pass, we headed for Las Vegas. There were buses for transportation. I went with Smokey Butler. We must have looked like hicks from the country as we stared and gaped at the wonders of the gaming rooms in that wild town. Smokey was hooked – they let him win at the start – and he had a reasonable pile of chips – but as they knew he would, he got greedy and kept on playing. By Sunday afternoon when we had to catch the bus back to camp, Smokey was nearly broke, but he still wouldn’t quit – he was going to play until he won! So he missed the bus and became AWOL and was busted back to private.

Letters from home were highly prized – so the daily mail call was always well attended. Usually I was rewarded with a letter from Frances. It was one of these, coming in late June, that advised me that she and Irv Wessman’s wife were planning to drive across country to Needles. That was great news, although neither Irv nor I had any reasonable idea as to what then – accommodations were just not available!

But the girls came – and that is a separate story that Fran can best relate. So one day we got word that we should meet them at the USO in Needles. Cooperative Sergeant Florschutz provided the necessary passes. We bummed a ride to town and met the girls. They had each driven a car forming a mini caravan – Fran had Matilda, our 1937 Plymouth coupe that needed a quart of engine oil every 50 miles. After a short reunion, we decided to head toward Las Vegas to try our luck at finding a place to stay. We lucked out in the little mining town of Whitney just south of Las Vegas where we found some wayside cabins. The girls made that spot their headquarters where they waited out each week waiting for us boys to get there on the weekends.

Meanwhile training continued and we got familiar with the desert territory as we practiced maneuvers against imagined enemies. On occasion, Captain Christie had an urge to explore the region, and then he usually requisitioned me as his jeep driver. One day we drove to the abandoned town of Searchlight in the mountainous area along the California – Nevada border. It was a scene from the Old West, dirt streets, the bar and the hitching posts. Then we explored on foot the abandoned silver mines in the area – we would have been thrilled to have found some silver – but we didn’t. We drove along the Colorado River which, in that area is running through a gorge. We came upon a long-defunct facility for transporting stage coaches across the river. It was a trolley with cables strung from towers on each side of the river. Suspended from trolley wheels that rode the cables was a large flat-bed platform where the passengers and their vehicles (and horses probably) would ride.

On 9 August 43, I had a welcome surprise as the Headquarters, 9th Armored Division, issued Special Order No 202, wherein it was recorded that T/5 Harold C. Hemond, 31213777, was promoted to Staff Sergeant. Later I learned that Captain Christie had been the prime mover behind this action. My duty was to be in charge of the enlisted men in the Signal Section of Combat Command “B”.

It had become my desire to have a chance to attend the Signal Officer Candidate School at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. But, in private discussions with Captain Christie, I learned that an Armored Division seldom had a chance to offer attendance at a Signal Corps facility. So I set that desire on the back burner.

But Christie did the next best thing – he arranged to get me out of the Armored Division. So on 13 August 43, in Special Order No 206, S/Sgt Harold C. Hemond, 31213777, was ordered to proceed “from Needles, Calif. to Ontario, Calif.” reporting on 18 Aug 43 to the Comdt of students at Chaffey Junior College in the Army Special Training Program.

So in the still of the night, Irv Wessman drove me to Whitney where I broke the news to Frances. We packed all our possessions into the huge trunk of Matilda, and made a big batch of brownies. Then we drove back to Camp Ibis and roused our 9th Armored friends to share a midnight party in the desert.

Jim Nordahl from Oregon

Fred Hollowell from Mass

Earl Hartman from Houston, Texas

HCH

Ira Weil, Montgomery

Capt Byrnes, Phil Ryan “the happy one”

Jack Wilson from West Hartford

Johnny Baker on baracks rail

Ralph Bettencourt, HC, Jack Wilson, City Park, Manhattan, KS, March ’43

Ralph on the Merry-Go-Round

 

ASTP

It must have been about two o’clock in the morning when we finally left Camp Ibis and the 9th Armored Division, setting out on a new chapter in our Army experience. We headed Matilda south to Needles, then west toward Ontario. Towards morning when it seemed that we were closing on our destination, we gave in to weariness, pulled Matilda over to the shoulder of the road, and sacked out. It was a bright sunny morning when we woke up. We approached Ontario in the time honored tradition of the cavalry – we drove right into the downtown area and on through town – Chaffee Junior College turned up on our left, and we cased the place as we drove by – it seemed like the place to which we had been ordered to report.

So we turned our attention to getting some breakfast and finding a place for Fran to stay for the expected short time we would be at Chaffee. Turned out there was a modestly priced hotel ($2 a night) in the center of town and we managed to engage a room. We estimated that our funds could survive about ten days. We paid an extra 25 cents rent any night I stayed at the hotel. In theory, as a Staff Sergeant with a dependent, we were making a living wage. I forget how much that was – but the real problem was that my detached duty assignment cut me loose from such amenities as a paymaster and I was not certain when I would be able to collect my pay. My orders required that I report to Chaffee on the 18th – and I had four more days free. However, by reporting I could eat at the Army mess and conserve our food budget. So I checked in at the school.

Some years previous, in one of the school journals, I had made a case for New England adopting the California system of Junior Colleges. That piece had been written without any personal experience with this type of school – but I had promoted its advantages anyhow. Now I was pleasantly surprised to observe that all the good things I had said in that article were true. Chaffee had a beautiful campus featuring modern classroom buildings, a well appointed dining hall, and a large gymnasium. There were no dormitories since a Junior College functions as a day school. The army students were quartered in the gymnasium where a cot was provided for each man.

Chaffee served as a staging area for those personnel who were entering the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP). Apparently, the purpose of the ASTP was to keep college level institutions functioning by providing them some of the students who had been drained off by the war effort, as well as to keep a segment of the college age population in a learning situation.

So we just marked time at Chaffee. As possible I got a pass to be off-campus, and we used the time to explore the Los Angeles area. It was a delightful area – not yet big-time. Although there was no mass transport system, we had enough gasoline to explore. The smog problem had not yet developed. Orange groves were common. Fig trees were used as shade trees and when the fruit was ripe, one could help himself as he walked down a fig shaded street. In our sight seeing, we toured the Hollywood movie area, drove by the Rose Bowl, visited friends from the East, and toured downtown Los Angeles where it was no problem to find a parking spot at the street curb near one’s destination. After about ten days of this pleasant respite from Army discipline, I received orders to proceed to the University of Santa Clara, at Santa Clara, California.

Santa Clara is located in the southern end of the San Francisco Bay area, near San Jose, or about 500 miles north of Ontario. We loaded up Matilda (it was early on a Sunday morning as I remember), checked the engine oil level, and drove north along the coastal highway.

This was a time long before the Interstate Highway system. Intercity roads, while generally well constructed, were not designed for speeds over forty mph. Nor was Matilda capable of long runs at high speed. She was likely to heat up at little provocation. So our goal was to average forty miles per hour so that we could get to Santa Clara in less than thirteen hours. The drive was spectacular, constantly challenging our time schedule with temptations to explore the coastal vistas. Occasionally the temptation won, and we skipped lunch to catch up on the schedule. By evening we were driving through the Santa Margarita mountains tired and hungry, and looking in vain for some sign of a restaurant. It was getting dark, as we approached King City. A light gleamed in a store window and we saw many happy folks dining inside. We parked and hustled to the door. It would not open, and a big sign said. “Closed at Eight”. It was five past. We drove into the city proper and stopped at a restaurant – the only one we had seen. When we tried to enter we found the door locked – the sign said they closed at eight. The folks inside grinned. Only we cared.

Many miles later we reached Salinas, a town that lives happily in our memory. For Salinas had a reasonable motel, with the best sandwich dispenser and most comfortable bed in our memory; and a spot for breakfast the next morning.

The next morning, in much better humor, we completed the trip to Santa Clara. Again, we located and checked out the campus prior to doing anything else. Santa Clara was partially known to me through its reputation as a football power house in the tradition of other Jesuit schools as Holy Cross and Notre Dame. So I had been expecting to see a major campus. But not so. The entire collection of University buildings occupied only one city block. But a handsome block it was. The dominant building in the center of the campus was the old mission church with its bell tower. It was built of adobe blocks in the Spanish style, common among the churches on the California mission trail. Clustered nearby were the University buildings. We noted the location of the Administration building, and then briefly checked out the others. Interestingly, the classrooms were located on the first floor of the dormitory buildings which seemed like an arrangement that could well be copied by schools in more rugged climates like New England.

HC, Santa Clara

We needed an off campus place for Fran. We must have sought out help – but I don’t recall where. In any case, by evening we had located a bedroom with kitchen privileges in the home of Mrs. Tower, a widow living just adjacent to the campus on Washington Street. Mrs. Tower was most helpful in getting us organized, and we maintained mail contact with her and members of her family for many years thereafter. It seems to me that she was even understanding when one night the bed collapsed.

Fran in front of Tower house at 100 Washington St., Santa Clara, CA

The next day I reported in to the Army unit at Santa Clara. I was early – the summer semester was into final exam week – my classes would not be ready to start until the next week. But the Colonel was glad to see me particularly because of the S/Sgt stripes on my sleeve – most of his students were Privates with only a sprinkling of non-commissioned officers. As a matter of fact, as I later learned, I was the ranking enlisted man while I was there. This translated into a few more perks as well as a few more chores. The Colonel immediately assigned me to proctor a final examination that afternoon. But he was also quite understanding about having a wife with one – he needed no persuasion to allow me to be with Fran on every weekend as well as one other night in the week. And when I mentioned that I had missed some paydays, he arranged that the local Red Cross Chapter loan us money interest free until we did have a payday. We were impressed, and grateful.

When I was assigned a dormitory room, I began to feel more like a college kid rather than a soldier. Other members of the class were arriving daily, and soon I had a roommate. Benny Rosenburg, a short dark haired Jewish chap hailing from Brewster, New York. Benny was a character, and we became close friends. It turned out that Benny had a grudge against the Army. Seems that he had just managed to get set up in Brewster with his own Card and Candy Shop which was beginning to make some money, when Benny was drafted and he had to liquidate his store. He wasn’t happy about that and figured he had some getting even to do. So he applied for special training schools – stayed in them until near the end of the course – and then goofed off so that he was thrown out of the class. He had worked this process twice and intended to do the same with the ASTP. In the meantime, Benny was fun to be with – a very bright guy – always ready with a joke or snappy line. A typical entrepreneur too – it became his practice to copy my home assignment and then to peddle the work to others in the class for a cash fee. Benny was a superb pool player and I learned that game from him.

There were lots of other talented and likeable fellows in the group. John Powers from Poland, Ohio was there. He also had his wife, Emily, along. And there was a chap by name of Thomas who also had his wife with him. So soon Fran had some company when the girls were able to get together. Our friendship with Emily and John has lasted to this day.

John Powers with HC

 

Fran with Emily Powers

Soon we learned that we had been entered in the Electrical Engineering School. Courses were to include Calculus, Differential Equations, Strength of Materials, DC Machinery, AC Machinery, as well as close order drills and lots of physical education. On top of that there was the morning formation, the noon formation, and the retreat formations when the Army officers took attendance. That made us look like a service academy.

Having already earned both a B.Sc. and a M.Sc., the course was not as challenging for me as it was for most of the guys who were generally younger and had been drafted out of college. I was busy tutoring and keeping Benny supplied with enough completed homework to keep him in business.

After a few weeks, Fran found a vacant apartment on the ground floor in the rear of a tenement house near the University. It had a combination living room bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom. Such luxury while serving in the army! Then Fran got a job in the millinery department of Hale’s Department store San Jose. Twenty-one dollars a week she made. She didn’t know how to cook, hated lighting a gas stove, tried to feed two on ration stamps of one, but with two incomes, we could buy food to practice with. The first meal featured macaroni and cheese prepared step by step according to Mr. Kraft’s direction and acorn squash which never did finish baking in the gas oven. Halloween came around, marking our first wedding anniversary, and we doubtless ate out that night at the Round Table.

By the middle of November, I thought about winterizing Matilda. Permanent anti-freeze in an automobile engine’s radiator was a future convenience. When we tried to buy alcohol at the local service station, the attendant scoffed at our ignorance. He assured us that in Santa Clara, the temperature never dropped below freezing. Indeed, in due time, I noticed guys cutting their lawns on Christmas day.

Thanksgiving was marked by a special turkey dinner with the traditional fixings set in the University dining hall and families were invited. As ranking student, I was invited to sit at the Colonel’s table. Fran sat next to the Colonel, and when he inquired as to how things were going, she responded with enthusiasm, telling how much she had enjoyed a movie I had recently taken her to see. Problem was, my pass from the University dorm did not cover running around town. But the accommodating Colonel did not take notice.

We had our first Christmas together in the little Santa Clara apartment. We bought a Christmas tree – for 75 cents – about two feet tall complete with a stand – Charlie Brown never did any better. Money and decorations were scarce, but we found a box of a dozen small red glass bulbs. They hung with elegance on the little tree in the window of the rear apartment. Seven of the ornament have survived cats and kids and have decorated more than forty Christmas trees.

There was ample opportunity for Fran and me to explore the San Francisco, Oakland and Santa Cruz area. A favorite trip involved driving to the San Jose train station, taking the local to Oakland, walking to the ferry terminal and taking the Bay ferry to San Francisco. Delightful on a moonlit night. In Frisco, we would ride the trolley down Market street, then take the turntable cable car to the top of California Street and the Mark Hopkins Hotel. The lounge at “The Top of the Mark” was a landmark. The view was spectacular; the rum cokes didn’t have to be. Later from the Frisco train station we could catch the late local for San Jose.

On other occasions we explored the Stanford University campus in nearby Palo Alto. We took pictures of the handsome stained glass windows in the chapel, (Fran feeling guilty) listened to the Hoover Memorial Bell Tower, and roamed through the library and museum.

Golden Gate Park in San Francisco is remembered for its lovely Oriental gardens, with delicate design and atmosphere of another culture. In the nearby Pacific, Seal Rocks was the playground of sea lions and California gulls and sea birds too far distant for a neophyte to identify.  Several times we went to Kezar Stadium to see football.

Kezar Stadium

The East vs. West game on New Year’s Day was a memorable one. It was sponsored by the Shriner’s for their program to aid children, and they entertained at half-time with a couple of events. First the “largest American flag in the world” was carried on the field by an army of Shriners, and spread for the admiration of the spectators. And the heavens opened and baptized the spectators and the flag and the Shriners beneath, with its blessing. Undaunted, a group of mounted Shriners, complete with red uniforms and fezes, continued the program. Their horses were handsome Arabians, some white and some black. And the riders presented their drill with disregard of the driving rain. One beautiful black stallion, carrying a large Shriner not of his liking, found the exhibition distasteful. The patterned choreography skillfully followed by the disciplined group, was livened up as Black danced and pranced to a different drummer, and the large Shriner clung and tugged to no avail. It must have been fairly warm; we remember laughing hilariously under a poncho we had brought, oblivious to the distress of the flag people who thought the flag was ruined and the discomfiture of the unfortunate Shriner. Some all-stars of the day played in that game, but they are overshadowed by the side show. And as we settled down to the serious purpose of our presence, a friend came to share our poncho. Jim Duckworth, Fran’s cousin from back home, spotted us from high in the stands, and joined us. He was serving in the Navy, but we had no idea he was stationed nearby at Treasure Island. And he did not know we were in California at all. Three wet people celebrated the New Year 1944 with an unbelievable afternoon at Kezar Stadium, dinner and a movie in San Francisco. Jim joined us many weekends after our fortuitous meeting, and slept on our sofa bed in the kitchen.

Fran and Jim Duckworth, Stanford

Fran’s mother came out for a visit. When we met her at the Oakland Station she was escorted by two handsome young navy officers, who assured us that they had taken good care of her on the transcontinental trip. During the weeks she was with us we showed her the area attractions including a visit to the Top of the Mark. We went to see the Winchester House – the place with a hundred or so rooms – Mrs. Winchester’s phobia drove her to keep adding rooms and other spaces to her house.

Jim, Renie Field, Harold

 

Fran’s brother Ken Field, in Seabees, also visited

All good things must end, as did our Santa Clara interlude. In the spring of 1944 after the final exams the whole contingent was sent to the Signal Corps at Camp Kohler in Sacramento. We loaded up trusty Matilda with all our possessions, and on a Saturday, in company with the Powers and the Thomas couples, set out to drive to Sacramento. We arrived late in the afternoon, needing a place to stay. Undaunted, we drove into downtown Sacramento and stopped at a mid-town hotel. They must have had cancellations because amazingly, they could accommodate us. We discovered the Hotel Cluny had mince pie with hot raisin sauce that was unforgettable.

But we needed a permanent place, and early on Sunday morning before breakfast, Fran and I set out to find an apartment. We drove first down “L” street, one of the town’s main thoroughfares. In the 1900 block, we spied a lady on her front lawn hammering in an “Apartment For Rent” sign. We stopped the car and ran over – just ahead of another couple on the same mission. We rented that place. It consisted of a bedroom living room plus a kitchen plus a shared bathroom with an older couple. We soon realized that our new home was adjacent to the railroad line. The apartment shook when the Feather River Express tooted by and checking the trains became part of our routine.

Van Zile Hall, Kansas State, Manhattan

Memorial Statium, Kansas State

 

Stanford University Chapel

Fran and HC in Tower yard at Santa Clara

Snow in June, Lake Tahoe

SIGNAL CORPS

On Monday morning, I reported to the Signal Corps Headquarters at Camp Kohler, a large permanent Army facility on the outskirts of Sacramento. I was assigned to the casual company, a way the Army has of taking care of strays until a real assignment comes along. The company was already large and the additional contingent from Santa Clara was a strain. I found myself assigned quarters in the Sergeant’s barrack – along with about two dozen other men of equal or higher rank – so many that we had to take turns filling the roles of company sergeants. So I had a light work schedule – on occasion I was responsible for running the close order drill – on other days, I ran the gas mask drill – and sometimes, I ran the cross country march. But rarely was a day filled with activity.

However, there was an unwritten rule among the sergeants that we should not ever appear to be unoccupied – the Army wouldn’t approve. So, even when there was no routine task for me, I left the barracks with a purposeful stride toward some destination – any destination would do. Sometimes I went for a hike over the countryside – other times, I found a large shady tree in a field and stretched out under it for a nap. But finding “work” was boring. One day, as I walked around the camp, I came upon the radio operator school. I went in, and after chatting with the officer in charge, I learned that I was at liberty to copy code whenever I wanted to do so. Thereafter, I added a code copying session to my daily round of duty.

Soon I got permission to live off the post; so I commuted from 1900 “L” Street. Matilda, though a coupe with comfortable seating for the driver and two others, had a large trunk which, when the lid was up, could take another three or four persons who crouched awkwardly and hoped the trip would soon end. Many times the trunk was filled with guys.

Fran, house on “L” Street, Sacramento

In the meantime Fran was hired by the Sacramento branch of Hale’s and once again sold millinery and other ladies things. Life in Sacramento was similar to life at Santa Clara. There were new sights to see and more of the Old West to discover.

The Governor’s mansion was on “L” street – about 19 blocks away – but still we considered the governor a neighbor. The governor at the time was Earl Warren, later to be Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. The Capitol building was nearby, and we toured it and its lovely grounds a number of times. The big attraction was Capitol Park. Here kangaroos bounded around with abandon, and Fran was most interested in the little guy who insisted on riding in his mother’s fine carriage long after she thought him too big.

One weekend, in the wee hours of the morning, I had a severe attack of appendicitis. We had no idea of the cause of the problem, but I was obviously in trouble and could barely walk. Fran managed to get me down the stairs and into Matilda and out to the base hospital. At this point I was little help in directing her to anywhere. Once on the base, she found the hospital and banged on a door. It was a ward, and several patients, in various hospital attire, appeared, all anxious to have her bring me in through their quarters. They produced a wheel chair, and broke up their boredom by wheeling me through countless corridors to the admitting office. A sleepy Captain appeared in grey underwear, somewhat perturbed at the unusual entry we had made. But our benefactors had evaporated and there was no one to question. The doctor thought I would live until morning, and I was trundled off to the isolation ward. The first army diagnosis seemed to be too much to drink, but he wouldn’t take any chances. 

Fran drove around the base looking for the guest house until a soldier on guard duty stopped her; he guided her there, and she slept on the couch in the living room until the ungodly hour when the army awakes. She went back to the hospital to see if I was still among the living. No, the isolation ward did not permit visitors. She would have to wait until I was discharged. The hospital had a lot of purposeful people walking around, so Fran looked purposeful, found the isolation ward, and stationed outside the door. A common sense Captain came by, and sent me out to the corridor to reassure her. By then I was in fairly good shape. Now we were afraid I would catch some exotic illness in the ward and getting out became top priority. Fran went back to the guest house and the soldier on guard duty had sent his wife, who worked in the chaplain’s office to help her out. By the next day I was discharged and back to routine. It was ten years before my appendix came out.

Among the historic places that we visited was Sutter’s Fort, where news of the discovery of gold in 1849 populated the West. The atmosphere is there: a typical Western fort with dirt roads and soldiers barracks, and an intangible something conjured up by the association, GOLD. So we must drive through the Mother Lode country, by the old mining towns, and the cable bridges, that had returned to nature after a spate of hope and violence.

Lake Tahoe, with its reputation as a top vacation resort, was nearby; one hot summer weekend we drove up there to check it out. I had cajoled Fran’s boss into letting her take the Saturday off, although Saturday was probably the only day they really needed her. We drove along the Truckee River in the Mother Lode country, where a hundred years before the cry of “Gold!” had sent adventurers into the mountains. We shivered as we went by Hangtown. But as we stopped to unsuccessfully “frying pan” for gold in the Truckee Canyon, an imperious buck, with his doe and fawn, watched our intrusion with majesty, then melted into the woods. At Tahoe the snow had not yet disappeared and we had a snowball fight. We rode around the sapphire lake and saw breath-taking scenes of snow in the mountains and ice falls that would become waterfalls soon. Especially impressive was the bend around Emerald Bay, where the glorious green water far below the curving road, is an awesome sight. To an Easterner the West offers expansive scenery that only our ocean views can approximate. A car came along and stopped. Their Massachusetts license plate identified a fellow New Englander and for moment they joined our adulation of this wondrous place. In a more mundane mood we found a vacant cottage on the shore with a dock and a rowboat that we could rent for the weekend. I had my replaced my “army bathing suit”( made from a laundry bag so that I could join some of the Ninth Armored boys in a dip in Lake Mead) with conventional swim attire. With my army shoes it was quite an outfit, suitable for a row on the lake. It was June and the water was too cold to swim. The next day we rented some golf clubs and hacked around a stony course. Because it was too early in the season for many vacationers, we were not inhibited by our novice golf.

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe

 

Golf!

Then “D” day occurred, and it seemed as if the war were entering its most crucial stage.

I had made it known that I wanted to go to the Signal Corps Officer Candidate School (OCS), and, although I was not given any great encouragement, I was also not turned down. So I kept up my daily routine, increasing my attention to the code practise sessions. One day, the officer-in-charge tapped me on the shoulder and said he wanted to speak to me outside the room. He advised me that he had orders to select the best operator for a special mission – but he also knew I wished to go to OCS – so would I please make a few mistakes so that he wouldn’t have to select me. That wasn’t hard to do since I was up to the 25 words per minute level – I thereafter found that my copy was full of errors.

In those days, a routine movie show meant a cartoon (Popeye, the Sailor Man was my favorite), plus a Pathe Newsreel, plus two full length movies, one of which was billed as the feature attraction. Sometimes a promotion involved adding a bingo game between the two movies. And all this was for a modest price which was reduced for servicemen. We went to the movies with some regularity – one cold and rainy Sunday, we even went to two movie houses for about nine hours of the stuff! Our favorite show place was the Alhambra, named for its architecture which imitated the original Alhambra, a palace of the Moorish monarchs of Granada in southern Spain. The name in Arabic means “the red”, and probably refers to the color of the gravel and clay bricks used to construct the outer walls.

Nearby, in the town of Davis, the University of California operated a branch college. Some of the college facilities were leased to the Signal Corps for instruction in communication services which included radio operation. One day, the Signal Corps master mind decided that I should report to the Davis facility every day. There I copied code and soon reached the twenty five word per minute level which is the cutoff point for copying by hand – most people can’t print any faster than that. Then one switches to typing. But I did not know how to type. No matter, one learns touch typing while listening to code groups at five words per minute. As one’s typing becomes more proficient, the speed of the operation is increased. In a relatively few weeks I passed the twenty five word level again, this time, typing. When I left Davis shortly after that, I had passed the forty word test; I could copy forty words per minute for five minutes without error. Most amateurs can’t do that well – I can’t any more either. Interesting; whereas I could touch type listening to code, I was not able to transfer the touch type skill to other inputs – I could not write a letter by touch typing – nor could I look at a text and type it out using the touch system.

The townspeople in Davis were most hospitable. On the Fourth of July the town put on a barbecue on the green for servicemen and their families. The social was arranged in true Western style, and Davis will remain a favorite town to all of us who enjoyed a fabulous meal.

Among our sightseeing trips was one to Sutter’s Fort and the State Museum of History. We gaped at the relics of the original gold rush days, scanned the historical exhibits, and enjoyed the antics of the antelopes at a nearby zoo. On other days, we hiked in William Land Park, and one day I even tried out their golf course. I played until I had lost all three golf balls that I owned, which might have been by the seventh hole.

At long last, I received orders to proceed to the Signal Corps Officer Candidate School at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, subject to first passing the standard OCS physical examination. I reported to the Camp Kohler Base Hospital expecting this to be just a pro forma exercise. It seemed to go that way until I got to the dentist – a Captain – who said there was no way he could approve my teeth since a molar needed extraction and two other teeth needed filling. “But you are a dentist – and you do this kind of work – why don’t you fix me up,” I challenged.

“You’re on,” he said, and he proceeded to do the required work. While he was waiting for a filling to harden, he glanced over the rest of the physical form sheet.

“Hey”, he shouted. “This says you are color blind – they’ll never take anyone who is color blind.”

“I have a red-green deficiency,” I agreed “but it has never given me any trouble – I have a driver’s license.”

He thought about that for a few minutes, then said, ” I’m not going to let all that fine work I just did go to waste. Open your mouth!”

He packed my mouth so full of cotton wads that I couldn’t speak a word. Then he directed me to follow him. We marched down the corridor to the room in which the color test had been given. A Tech Segeant was in charge. The Captain immediately challenged him.

“Say Serg, this man is not color blind – just look here”

He upended the jar of various colored yarn balls. He grabbed one – held it up to me and said. “That’s green, isn’t it?”

I made the only noise I could which was a grunt.

“See that, Serg – now let’s try the red ball.” He held another ball up to me. “That’s red, isn’t it?”

Again I grunted.

“See there. This man’s O.K. for OCS. Fix up that form.” The Captain stood over the Sergeant while he made the necessary alteration in the record.

“Good,” said the Captain. And he strode out and down the corridor with me tailing.

So I passed the physical and received my orders to OCS.

But there was another problem. OCS started in ten days. The Army standard was that a man driving his own vehicle could only go two hundred miles per day – and Fort Monmouth was three thousand miles away. The Army insisted that I go by train and furnished me with the necessary tickets. Fran would have to drive the car back across the country alone.

But I never used the tickets. (I still have them.) I picked up Fran at her job at Hale’s. My face was swollen and my mouth was packed with cotton to inhibit the bleeding from the extraction. She had reservations about my condition for the trip. But we piled all our possessions in Matilda’s spacious trunk, counted out our carefully hoarded gas coupons and thought we could get home. That evening we set out for New England, and landlady Alice could put her For Rent sign on the tree in the morning. It was Friday, 21 July 1944 – I had reached my 27th birthday the day before.

The road east out of Sacramento was U.S.Highway 40 – today it is an Interstate – but then it was an average two lane intercity road. We could average forty miles in an hour. The mountains to the east of Sacramento are grand and lofty Sierra Nevadas. We crossed through the Donner Pass; and gave Matilda a rest to prevent “vapor lock” which, we had been told, was a car problem at this altitude.

Here is a twenty-two foot monument, bronze figures of the Donner family on a stone pedestal, erected on the site of their ordeal in the winter of 1846.  They had taken a short cut to California over the Sierra Nevadas and were caught in a blizzard in late October.  They were snowbound in forty foot drifts; rescue parties did not reach them until February. Almost half of the eighty-seven had died and the survivors had resorted to cannibalism.  The twenty two feet of the monument marks the depth of the snow that winter. It was a sobering sight and Fran still remembers the steep incline, the poignant statue.

Donner Pass

Beyond the Pass, we descended into the Truckee Gorge carved out by the rushing Truckee River – we stopped to look across the river at a family of deer that seemed to be just as curious about us. Late that evening, we reached Reno, Nevada. We found a room in a hotel over Harold’s Club. It had been a long day; the sophistication and elegance of the club made little impression. The bed was very comfortable.

Early the next day, we took a picture to record our presence; Fran is crossing the street under the sign: The Biggest Little City in the World. Then we set out to reach Salt Lake City by evening. The road led us through Winnemucca, on past Battle Mountain, and into Elko where we found some lunch. Then we pushed on to Wendover on the Nevada-Utah border. Whenever we passed a state line, we took a picture. Wendover was on the western edge of the Great Salt Desert, and we were now faced with crossing a hundred miles of flat white crystalline sand. Fortunately, it was late in the day and the intense heat was subsiding. The road was straight and flat. We didn’t know it, but we were passing the Bonneville Track where daredevils set automobile speed records. It was dark by the time we reached Salt Lake City. We needed food, gasoline, and sleep. We stopped at a gas station, asked for assistance in all categories, and the Mormon station attendant most courteously serviced our car, located an open restaurant, and found a comfortable room in one of the new fangled motels that were prevalent in the West but had not yet replaced cabins in New England.

“Tax Free” Nevada

Fran in Reno

On leaving Salt Lake City, on local advice, we switched to U.S. Highway 30 which went through southern Wyoming. It was not in as good condition as Highway 40. Wyoming did not attempt to repair frost heaves. However, their highway department spent considerable money on warning flags. The local folks said they were too far away from the capitol to get much attention. The road went through the Flaming Gorge National Recreation area, on past Rock Springs, and on to the Continental Divide. Passing the Divide seemed like a milestone and we took a picture. We drove through Rawlins and Laramie, and stopped at Cheyenne for the night. It was Frontier Days in Cheyenne – but we couldn’t take time for the rodeo.

Continental Divide

It took the next day to drive through Nebraska. Until that day, I had never appreciated how gigantic this country really is. We drove and drove and drove – mostly by a flat never-ending corn field. About noon we had lunch at North Platte. We didn’t know it, but North Platte is the site of the Buffalo Bill Historic Park. We did realize that the Platte River in July is a broad expanse of mud with rivulets running here and there. Too we realized that July heat on the Plains was adding problems. I was wearing my army uniform complete with GI boots. I gradually became aware of itching around the toes of my right foot and took off the shoe. Athlete’s foot had invaded, and despite going barefoot and drenching it with stuff from the drug store, it plagued me all the way home. That night we finally ran out of Nebraska; we crossed the Missouri River and stopped in Council Bluffs, Iowa. I remember a delicious steak dinner – at 66 cents each.

We were getting punchy from the grind – but we were determined to get home for a few days before reporting to OCS. So the next morning we drove an hour before stopping for breakfast. I remember dimly that we continued on Highway 30 to Cedar Rapids, and then to Clinton where we crossed the Mississippi River. That was a significant milestone – we were in the East! We drove across Illinois, touched Aurora, skirted the south side of Chicago, and finally stopped for the night in Hammond, Indiana.

We changed to U.S. Highway 20 out of Hammond, and crossed northern Indiana. The largest community was South Bend, and we tipped our hat to Notre Dame. By noon we were passing south of Toledo, and followed the Lake Erie shore towards Cleveland. Our view of the countryside was limited to oil stops for Matilda. At Ashtabula our destination seemed in sight. We sent a telegram home; we would be in Holyoke the next day. Then we drove on to Buffalo, New York, where we stayed that night.

New York is big state – but we were on the home stretch. It was a countdown: Rochester, Syracuse, Utica, Albany. And Massachusetts. Route 20 to Pittsfield and Westfield. In our absence, the route at Westfield had been changed – but we knew better – we knew the correct road. But we found out that the old road was a dead end. By following route numbers we finally arrived in Holyoke late in the afternoon. We were home. We had made it across the country in less than six days, and still had three days of leave before I had to report at Fort Monmouth. We got into Holyoke late in the afternoon, and had a joyous reunion with all the family.

Matilda, ’37 Plymouth Coupe, home to Holyoke from California, Summer j’44 – Then off to OCS

HC, Matilda, Holyoke

Holyoke on leave

OFFICER CANDIDATE SCHOOL

Leave went by much too fast, and then I had to take the train for Fort Monmouth – alone – OCS was no place for a wife. Our concept of OCS was limited by the saying “He’s a ninety day wonder”. We didn’t know that a 30 day field exercise had been tacked on to the 90 days schooling. Commission as lieutenant was given the survivors of 120 days training. Round trip train tickets were good for 90 days, and in my optimism and ignorance, I bought a round trip ticket to save money. Actually, it was a good buy for I was commissioned early, prior to the field exercise, in 88 days. But that is getting ahead of the story.

My Army life to this time had been a lark compared to the intensity of OCS. Within minutes after checking in to the Headquarters at venerable old Fort Monmouth I had been assigned to a Drill Officer. “Mister, you have no rank here! Remove those Sergeant stripes immediately! Then get over to the barbershop and get a proper army haircut – on the double!,” he roared.

The day was filled with activity from dawn to well after dark, with never adequate time for anything. Before breakfast, we were called out to the company street in underwear and shoes for a half hour of close order calisthenics. Then dress for breakfast – there was a check off – so one could not skip breakfast. Then tidy up the barracks, according to OCS meticulous. There was one way to make a bed – and the top blanket had to be so taut that a quarter would bounce. Spare shoes, shining like a beacon, had to be precisely under the head of the bed on the right side, with toes out (never in). Spare clothes had to be in order on the clothes rack with all buttons buttoned. When not part of the days uniform, the gas mask had to be displayed in approved fashion at the end of the clothes rack. Failure to observe any of these details would earn one a demerit, which was a partial ticket to dismissal – one demerit a week was the tolerable limit!

The group consisted of about thirty men. We went to all assignments together – in formation – at double time. Classes, conducted by officers, covered all the areas of interest to the Signal Corps, usually from the perspective of the ways an officer would teach raw recruits. My teaching background was handy.

The morning was filled with classes. Then came lunch, followed by a check off to prevent guys from by-passing the meal. Attendance at mail call was not obligatory; however, an automatic demerit was given the man who did not pick up his mail. A daring few sent word to their folks not to send letters.

A spic and span well-pressed uniform was demanded at all times in class. We had been issued only three full sets of uniform. To meet the standard, I put one uniform in the cleaners each noon, and picked up the clean one at that time. This volunteer activity was part of my noon routine.

The afternoon program started out with a class or two. Then back to the barracks to change into fatigues, and then the dread maneuver of the obstacle course which was followed by a cross country run. The obstacle course required great agility and strength. I was usually among the last of the group to struggle past the last wall, or water crossing, or whatever. But then the cross country run started. Fortunately for me, most of the guys used the wooded sections of the run to rest, and I, the tortoise, overtook them. It was a rare day when I was not among the first to finish the run. And that is what counted.

Then we went directly back to the barracks to change into dress uniform in preparation for close order drills and the day’s parade. I noted that, if I dashed into the barracks, and then into the shower, I would be revived sufficiently for the drills. I was joined by others, and it became shower scramble in our barracks.

The evening meal, another check-off function, followed with a slightly longer time allotment. Then back to the classroom for evening study hours which lasted until nine thirty. All of the instructors had assigned homework, so there was always too much to do. From nine thirty until ten o’clock, our time was completely free. Lights out and bed check came at ten o’clock. The thirty minutes sailed by.

The first Saturday morning, the Drill Officer called us outside and announced that we were going to clean the barracks. He said he wanted the floors scrubbed on hands and knees, and he would give a weekend pass to the first six volunteers to do the floor washing chore. Lots of guys leaped at the chance for a pass and volunteered. The officer selected six of them and told them to get to work. The rest of us would help by moving the beds and other obstructions out of the way. The scrub job got underway, but almost immediately, the Drill Officer was bellowing, “You are not following my orders! You are directed to wash the floor on your hands and knees. Toes are not to touch! Now proceeded as directed!”

All of us had been taken in by the Drill Officer – but particularly the poor guys selected to do the washing. They had to keep their toes from touching the floor as they went, and it was an exhausting process. But they stuck with their bargain – it would have meant a pile of demerits otherwise. But, when they finished, none were in shape to take the offer of a weekend pass.

The War in Italy had resulted in the taking of many Italian soldiers as prisoners.  Fort Monmouth was one of the places to which these prisoners were sent. But they were not considered dangerous and were used for many labor intensive chores. One of these was the preparation of meals for the OCS. The kitchen help was entirely Italian, so none of us ever had to do KP. And the Italians seemed to be quite satisfied with their treatment – they certainly prepared excellent meals.

The prisoners also had the job of keeping the fires going in the many pot bellied stoves that kept the classrooms and barracks warm. One day, in one of our classes, an Italian prisoner came in carrying a coal bucket. He stopped next to the stove and watched what was going on in the classroom. Seeing this, and guessing that the guy didn’t know what to do next, the Instructor inquired if anybody in the class could speak Italian. One lad raised his hand, whereupon the Instructor directed him to tell the Italian to dump the coal into the furnace. The student stood up, and, in English, shouted “Dump the coal into the furnace.” And the prisoner did.

I thrived on the rigor and routine, but not everybody did. Already, in the first two weeks, a few guys had so many demerits that they were dropped from the course. A few others voluntarily withdrew. One fellow, a Southerner, had to share a double bunk with a black candidate, and when he had refused to do so, he was dropped. Another guy, a veteran from the Pacific jungles, had applied for OCS as a ploy to get back to the States – he let it be known to us guys that he had no intention of being commissioned and running the risk of getting sent back to the Pacific – he intended to accumulate enough demerits to get himself thrown out of the course at his own time.

Near the end of the first month, there was an unusual chore, which we were to have to do twice more in the weeks to come. Each candidate had to write a confidential letter to the Commandant in which he assessed which five of the group would make the best officers along with reasons. And then he had to list the five worst candidates along with reasons. It was made plain that our choices would be compared with the choices made by the Drill Officers and our judgment so evaluated. I found it a tough chore – not so much picking the best, because the place was full of good officer material – but citing the worst was onerous.

Finally I had a weekend pass. I telephoned Frances with the good news and we arranged to meet in New York City in the lobby of the Hotel Pennsylvania. Somehow she had reserved a room. I took the bus into the City and found Fran at our planned rendevous. We had a splendid time in the big city. After about six weeks, enough guys had been dismissed from the program that the administration decided to consolidate the remainder and eliminate need for one of the barracks. I, and several of the group, moved in with another group in another barracks. Shortly thereafter there was a formal barracks inspection with all hands standing at attention while the Drill Officers prowled around. The Drill Officer shouted at me. “Mister, come here. Look at your gas mask. Tell me what’s wrong with the way it’s hanging.”

I did as directed, and after looking carefully, said, “There’s nothing wrong, Sir – that is the prescribed way to display the mask.”

He stuck is nose next to mine and shouted, “Mister, if you can find another mask in this barracks displayed like yours, show me.”

“Yes, Sir!”

I stepped to the guy on my right to check his mask display. It was exactly like mine. “Here, Sir,” I shouted, “here’s another mask displayed like mine.”

The Drill Officer came and looked, saw I was correct, and immediately turned on the barracks sergeant who was standing nearby and blasted him for the non-uniformity of gas mask display. None of the candidates drew demerits. Afterwards, the guy next to me came and whispered, “You know, I didn’t know how the damn mask should be hung up so I just copied yours.”

One of the classes was Driver Education. It included a session in which we paired off to administer to each other the usual battery of driver readiness tests, one of which was for color-blindness. My partner pulled me to one side and whispered, ” Give me a break – I’m color blind – but please don’t give me away.” Never letting on that I also had a red-green weakness, I whispered back, “Don’t worry; I understand.” We both passed Driver Ed with flying colors.

The pedagogy used in the classes was elemental. The instructors had standard lesson plans that were usually followed without deviation. The plan involved distribution of yesterday’s quiz with some minimal discussion of the correct responses, then a lecture on something new, and then a quiz on the material of yesterday’s lecture and homework. There was one instuctor who, as he was passing back the corrected quizzes, delighted in repeating over and over “Winners laugh and tell jokes; losers weep and moan.”

Close order drill, held late in the afternoon, exercised one’s skill at directing marching men. The entire school was turned out on the quadrangle. Although it was a large area, with many squads marching about simultaneously, each under command of a student, two or more often collided. The chagrin of the student leaders was great; the sarcasm of the Drill Officers, devastating. The quadrangle was rimmed by barracks, and occasionally a confused leader’s commands ordered his squad into the side of a building. One mischievous Drill Officer directed me to halt my group facing him and centered on him. As I maneuvered the group into position, he took two steps to the side. I marched the group again into position, and he turned around to face in the opposite direction. The S/Sgt job of drilling men at Camp Kohler came to the rescue. I ordered my men to fall out and reassemble faced on me. I took the position needed to conform to the Drill Officer’s directive, and the guys ran to the new position before the Drill Officer got any other ideas.

One day, a few of us decided to break the daily routine by taking in a movie show during the evening free half hour. So at nine-thirty we dashed out of the study hall to the post theater, paid our admission and dashed inside. I don’t remember the film, but we weren’t concentrating on the show anyhow. It had taken three minutes to get into the movie from the study hall, but we were not sure how long it would take to get to the barracks for bed check. We kept one eye on the movie, and the other on a watch. The least daring of the group, I started back first and was in bed in plenty of time. The others stayed too long at the movie, were late for bed check and caught demerits.

Meanwhile the war raged in Europe. We were so busy that we could not follow its progress. I did hear that brother Robert’s outfit had moved from England to France, but only after the war did I really know where he had been.  Sometimes I wondered what had happened to my buddies in the 9th Armored Division, but again I learned little until the war had ended.

Near the end of September, I qualified for another weekend pass. So again I telephoned Fran, and we arranged to meet in New York City. I don’t remember the hotel, but it was one near the Pennsylvania Station, and Fran had been able to reserve a room. We probably did some sight seeing, maybe took in a movie, and certainly had some meals.

About three weeks into October, I was summoned to the Commandant’s office. It was unexpected. How had I goofed up enough to get thrown out? But good fortune was with me. The Commandant congratulated me on a fine performance at OCS; the Drill Officers had concurred that I should be commissioned early. I need not attend the thirty days of field maneuvers. October 24 would be my last day as an enlisted man. On 25 October 1944 I would be commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant in the U.S. Signal Corps!

There were half dozen of us who were to be commissioned early. I felt lucky to be included in the group. Now we had a new problem – we had to outfit ourselves with officer’s uniforms in very limited time. Fortunately, one of the guys had a wealthy father who had influence in the clothing world. He sent a salesman and tailor to visit us, take measurements, and advise on clothing needs. Interestingly, the Army takes the view that Officers buy their own attire. However, a clothing allotment covered the whole bill. Our uniforms arrived, beautifully packed, and elegantly tailored, on the day before they were needed.

On the Saturday evening before our commissioning, the wealthy father invited the group of early officers and their wives to dinner at the 21 Club in New York. Fran had come down for the commissioning ceremony and was staying at the Molly Pitcher Hotel near the Fort, and she joined the affair. Wearing her lavender print she was a bright spot among the black cocktail dresses and dark suits of a sophisticated New York evening. We were suitably impressed when the Maitre D’ greeted our party as we arrived and led us by a long line of waiting patrons to our table. The detail of the evening has been forgotten, but the New York gentleman who played host to his son’s army friends is a pleasant memory.

The commissioning evoked mixed feelings. There was the satisfaction of having slogged through the rigors of OCS. But I was turning a corner. My career to this point had had many interesting episodes. As a staff sergeant I had the privileges that go with that relatively high enlisted rank. I was exchanging this for the officer’s world where I would be the lowest man on the totem pole. It was not at all clear that I had done a wise thing in going through OCS – but it was too late now. I fell back on my philosophy that I don’t purposely make bad decisions. Fran had no reservations about the commissioning. An officer’s pay was definitely better. And occasionally she had lived on short rations as she followed me around the country.

The morning of 25 October 1944 was certainly different. The day started at the same time, but I wasn’t expected out for calistenics. I was self-conscious as I put on the officer’s uniform without the 2nd Lt gold bars. (I wasn’t commissioned yet.) I walked to the mess hall alone; my buddies were struggling to get dressed after their workout. Along the way, several misguided fellows saluted – even though I wasn’t an officer yet. I returned all the salutes anyhow. The Italians working breakfast in the mess hall seemed to know what was up, and they smiled. Although I couldn’t understand them, I think they offered best wishes.  Or maybe something else!

The only formation I remember was one for taking pictures.  Then the graduates were marched to the auditorium.  After some General gave a speech, we were sworn in as officers, handed certifcates of completion of OCS, and awarded our commissions.  I was 2nd Lieutenant Harold C. Hemond. 01 650 573.

OCS Candidates – HC is back row, 3rd from left

 

 

Officers – HC 3rd row back, 3rd from right

Enlisted record

Enlisted discharge

Completion OCS

Commission, 2d Lt

With the commission came a ten day leave. As soon as possible I gathered Fran and my uniforms and  caught the train for home. I was free of the Army until 4 November and we spent our second wedding anniversary on 31 October 1944 in Holyoke. We stayed at 174 Pearl Street where Fran was living with her folks when she was not following me around the country. We visited with my folks at Fairfield Avenue. And we wondered what the next move would be.

RADIO SCHOOL

Upon closer reading of Special Order 291, I realized that, after my ten day leave, I was to report to the Officer School at the Eastern Signal Corps Training Center at Fort Monmouth “for the purpose of pursuing the Radio (Sec 453) Course thereat.” I had no idea as to the content or length of the course, but it did appear that I would be at Fort Monmouth for a time. So we decided that we would both go to New Jersey.

We set out in Matilda a day early, mindful that we must find lodging. On arriving we went to the United Service Organization (USO) housing desk for information on rentals. The service representative told us of a furnished apartment at 100 Poole Street in Long Branch. I hunted it up, and checked it out. It was on the second floor above a garage, and was reached by a stairwell that led into a large kitchen. Off the kitchen were two bedrooms with a bath between. A dining room, and a living room completed the apartment. The furnishings were attractive for a rental. But the rent, $100 per month, was twice as much as our budget would allow.

But there were two good-sized bedrooms. Obviously, the thing to do was get someone to share the place with us and pay half the rent. I went back to the USO housing desk. A series of coincidences awaited.

An attractive young lady was inquiring about a rental apartment. The representative was discussing the scarcity of housing. So I interrupted and said, “I need someone to share a place. Why don’t you come and live with me?”

She was speechless; so I hastened to clarify my offer. As we discussed an arrangement, we discovered that her husband had just been commissioned, and now was returning to attend the Radio School at Monmouth. Claudine and I decided that we should meet at Poole street with Fran and Virgil and propose an apartment sharing to them.

They were quiet and congenial folks. We had much in common and it was certainly the best housing we could find. Too, we solved their transportation problem. Matilda would take the boys to the Fort each day.

In the days that followed, we became good friends. Virgil and I had the same schedule of classes – and with the Army’s fixation on alphabetic arrangements, Hemond and Hinshaw always sat together. Because Virgil had been the licensed engineer at a radio station, he was familiar with everything we studied. This was a big help to me and the others in the class. Claudine and Frances lugged groceries from the shopping center a half a mile away, and did a lot of laughing when the wartime paper bags split on the way home. They shared ideas on meals and ways of feeding two people on one ration book. Because both couples were making the most of the short time until the boys were sent overseas, we had dinners separately. Fran and I ate at the kitchen table, Virgil and Claudine used the dining room. On special occasions, we had dessert together. Eventually they bought a later model Matilda, and the girls no longer giggled their way home from the grocery.

Virgil and Claudine Hinshaw

 

At school we were learning to construct and operate fixed radio stations and radio teletype. This type station furnished the backbone of the Army’s long distance communication network. The principal courses were:

Communication Receivers

Standard Test Equipment

Medium and High Power Transmitters

Diversity Receivers

Single Side Band Receivers

Principles of Wire and Radio Teletype

Antenna Design and Construction

Frequency Prediction Techniques

The instructors were generally competent and helpful. But there was one exception – the guy who had the communication receivers course. He was arrogant and sarcastic to anyone who was slow to absorb the material. He took particular pleasure in the trouble shooting lab work where he would disable a receiver and then assign someone to find the trouble in a limited time – with a running commentary of nasty comments. I was glad to finish his course. But, as I guess happens in the Army, I wasn’t completely finished with him – later, in Manila, after the war ended and we were waiting our turn to come home, a contingent of replacement (read low point total) officers appeared. The instructor was in the group. He was much more friendly.

We had survived New Jersey’s hot summer with its vicious mosquitoes; now we were dealing with New Jersey’s bone-chilling winter. Mostly we managed O.K., but there were times in the field when I could have believed we were in Alaska. One of the worst days was when the schedule called for us to erect a fixed station rhombic antenna. That is a major enterprise even when the weather cooperates, because it involves setting four 75 foot poles, one each at the corners of a diamond shape, and then stringing wires to form the diamond. But the day we did this was below freezing with a brisk wind. We were thoroughly chilled just marching out to the antenna practice field. The work starts with the erection of a large “A” frame from which is hung a block and tackle which enables grappling the long pole. But one also has to dig a deep hole in the frozen ground. And the guy wire anchors must be set suitably deep in the frozen ground. By the time we were ready to set the first of the required four poles, most of us were so frozen that efficient work was impossible. Fortunately, the instructor was similarly frozen. He shortened the assignment to a simple discussion of what had to be done to complete the antenna – then we packed up and went back to a warm classroom.

As was our custom in new places, we explored the Fort Monmouth area on weekends. Because gasoline was in short supply and rationed, most of our wandering was done via local bus or train. Still we saw most of Red Bank, and Asbury Park and its famous ocean shore.

I don’t remember having time off at Thanksgiving. As Christmas fell on a Monday for a long weekend, we went home. Took the Jersey Central line with its old fashioned smoke belching steam engines to New York, transferred to a subway to get across town to the Pennsylvania Station, and then hopped the Montrealer to Springfield. I suppose Connie or Laurence got us home from there. The return journey after a holiday must have been hectic – the trains in those days were full to overflowing. Seats were at a premium. But I do remember playing chess with our travel chess set, and a kibitzing audience helping out.

We grew up going to parties on New Year’s Eve. A staple of such parties was listening on radio to the music of Guy Lombardo as the final hours of the old year went by, and then hearing the description of the antics of the New Year’s crowd in Times Square as the New Year arrived. Since we were fairly near Times Square, we decided that this was our chance to attend in person. We would go to New York on New Year’s Eve. But then the icy rains came – the weather was miserable – wet, cold, treacherous. We actually set out from Poole Street intent on going to New York, but as the reality of the weather sunk in, we thought better of it. We and the Hinshaws listened to the celebration on radio as 1945 arrived. We could hope, but did not know, that this would be the final year of World War II.

The school program concluded at the end of January. On 4 Feb 45, I received a copy of War Department Movement Order, Shipment OM-042-UU(a), which said, “Each of the following named officers is relieved from assignment and duty as indicated, and is assigned to permanent station outside the continental limits of the United States, tropical climate, Shipment OM-042-UU(a). He will proceed from his present station to Camp Beale, California, and report not later than 15 February 1945, to the Commanding Officer, ASF Personnel Replacement Depot, to await call of the Port Commander. Upon arrival at final destination, he will report to the Commanding General for duty.”

Many names are listed, but included are four Fixed Station Radio Officers:

2d Lt Harris A. Childs

2d Lt Phillip Ryan

2d Lt Frederick E. Hollowell

2d Lt Harold C. Hemond

plus an officer qualified in Single Side Band:

2d Lt James D. Nordahl

LT Hemond, Signal Corp

LT Nordahl

LT Hollowell

Plainly our New Jersey sojourn was over and Frances and I loaded up Matilda once again to drive back to Holyoke. Virgil did not have orders, but he was expecting some soon. The Hinshaws remained at Poole Street until his assignment. So we took leave of our good companions. We hoped to maintain our ties and for several years exchanged Christmas notes with our Quaker friends from Kansas.

 

TO THE PHILIPPINES

Like all leaves, this one, filled with visits to family and friends, seemed over almost before it had started. My orders were to report for duty back in California at Camp Beale.

My assignment was outside the continental United States in a tropical climate. It was not hard to hypothesize that I would be joining the forces in the Southwest Pacific. With that prospect, it did not seem wise for Fran to go west with me. So with great reluctance, we parted for what would turn out to be fifteen months. Nearly every day of that time is chronicled in a series of 417 letters that I wrote to Fran and are now filed in separate notebooks.

The train ride west was long and tedious, and I don’t remember much else about it.

Camp Beale is a well established post in Marysville, California, a small town about 30 miles due north of Sacramento. Beale’s main function is to process men and or units for shipment overseas. I was assigned to a barracks full of junior officers all waiting for shipment. Processing consisted of checking out a trunk locker and supplies that the army thought a man should have, as well as getting shots and inspections that the army medics deemed essential. This was quickly accomplished. Having hurried up, we now waited – for days and days.

Here I became well acquainted with Fred Hollowell, a fellow Fixed Station Officer, recently commissioned, who hailed from Acton, Massachusetts. Our friendship continued for many years.

Beale, being old army, had a lush Officer’s Club, with a bar, dining hall, reading rooms, and game rooms with pool and ping-pong tables. Whiling away time there was no hardship. The nearby town of Marysville offered little to interest servicemen. However, on the outskirts of town a two mile walking path circumscribed a foliage-bordered pond. A pleasant pastime was to walk to town, walk around the pond, and then stroll back to camp.

The war in the South West Pacific had entered its Philippine stage – General MacArthur had waded ashore at Tacloban on the island of Leyte, with the famous pronouncement, “I have returned”. His assurance was contagious and in the States no one doubted that Japan was on the run. Recently, the campaign had begun to retake the island of Luzon with its capital city Manila. MacArthur had landed troops at Lingayan Gulf north of Manila and was moving south toward the city. Fred and I and the other Fixed Station Officers speculated that we had been called up to assist in the building and operating the GHQ radio communications hub at Manila. But, of course, our orders said nothing of the sort. So we continued to wait, for days and days.

One morning at muster we were told to be ready to board a troop train within the hour. Of course it was longer than that, but we finally moved out – again, destination unknown. We had been summoned to the Port of Embarkation at the town of Pittsburg on the Sacramento River up the bay northeast of San Francisco. There we once again found a well established army facility where our group occupied an entire barracks. We were told that our stay would not be long – but no one said how long.

The next morning, a number of us were selected to join an officer group that was to meet a shipment of men returning from the Pacific area. We went over to the dock area where we waited inside a large covered terminal. Many canvas covered troop carriers were lined up ready to take the men through town to the camp. Soon the ferry boat arrived – no one was visible on deck. The men disembarked through a covered gangway, after which I had my first view of them. I was shocked at their appearance; they looked like a rag tag army – most of their clothes were worn out – often in tatters. Small wonder that the army did not want this group to be seen in public!

My job was to supervise a half dozen junior officers, each of whom had the responsibility of taking command of about 50 men, getting them to an assigned barracks, and seeing that each was re-outfitted as necessary. Most of the officers were up to the task. But there was one unfortunate 2nd Lt who was confused as to where his barracks was located, and he kept marching his men in close order up and down the company streets as he searched for the building. I stopped him and learned his problem. Then I relieved him, shouted to the men, “Follow me!” and headed for their barracks. The men, not yet ready for stateside methods, cheered. Inside the barracks, the men made out requisitions for an entire new set of clothes and equipment. The army was sending home well attired heroes. The next day, a band led the parade through town, as, flags flying, they went to board trains for home.

There was a theater on the post. The next morning a sign appeared indicating “Show Tonight”. Of course we went. The show was the USO version of the recent Broadway block-buster “Oklahoma” by Rodgers and Hammerstein. We would have appreciated anything – but we were delighted with this extraordinary treat. Small wonder that “Oklahoma” had captured the approval of Broadway. The music was outstanding, the story line entertaining, and in our version certainly, the actors talented. It was a marvelous evening – the first of many with “Oklahoma” – for this cast went overseas on the same ship as we, and they entertained us nightly.

On the morning of 12 March 1945, we left the Pittsburg camp. Our movement was shrouded in secrecy – at least we went in covered carriers to the dock – boarded the ferry via a covered gangway, and were forbidden to appear on deck. The ferry took its time going down the river, out into San Francisco Bay, and across the Bay to a ship terminal in the vicinity of Fisherman’s Wharf. On the way, we had box lunches.

We debarked the ferry, loaded down with all our gear, onto a covered terminal. We crossed the terminal, and, via a covered gangway boarded a troop ship. We learned that this was the General Blatchford operated by the Army Transport Command. It was a ship especially designed for the transportation of troops. There were three thousand of us aboard, mostly enlisted men. About thirty of us officers were assigned bunks in what was usually the hospital ward – so we traveled in relative comfort. The bunks were three high – mine was the lowest. But there were sheets on the bed – even bunk lights. And there was a wash room and toilet facility for our own use. We also had a wardroom table where the card game soon began and held forth continuously.

Apparently, we officers had been the last passengers to board, for shortly the ship cast off. Again, no one was permitted on deck. It was late in the day, and the Bay must have been dark.

We were called to supper, which was served in a well appointed wardroom, and most welcome; we were all hungry.  I don’t remember the menu, but we ate well – not yet having felt the insidious effects of a ceaselessly rolling deck.

When the ship had cleared the Bay, we were allowed the freedom of the ship. I went top side. The city could still be seen in the dim light off to our rear. It was a forlorn group that stood around and watched the States disappear from view. Nor was our mood improved when the loud speakers sprang to life. “Now hear this! Tokyo Rose has been picked up by the radio operator.” Then came those dulcet tones of the famed Japanese broadcaster. “Welcome to the men on the General Blatchford which has just left San Francisco Harbor. Our boys are waiting for you.” So much for our secret shipment!

By the next morning, everyone was sea sick. As a consequence, the ship was filthy. By experiment, I found that the deleterious effects could be lessened by breathing fresh cool air out of doors. So I spent most of the next day on the top deck curled up on top of a lifebelt locker.

After a few days, the sickness was past, the ship was clean, and the passage settled into a routine that was dominated by eating and sleeping except for the boys who frequented the card game around the ward room table where I was an occasional onlooker. Large sums of money changed hands from one to another to another.

All the officers were subject to a four hour watch once a day in one of the enlisted men’s areas. The principal duties were to assure order (fights were hypothesized as the cruise got on people’s nerves), and to break up the card games. I never understood why the army opposed the card games. They certainly kept guys occupied. They were impossible to break up anyhow. My policy was to let the guys know that my orders required me to break up any card game that I saw. They said to stay out of the washroom. I never saw a card game among the enlisted men.

One day when I was on duty making my rounds, I got talking to one fellow who seemed unusually happy. Seems he had made it big in one of the card games – couple of thousand dollars. To protect his money, someone had suggested he buy a money order, which he had done at the ship’s office. I told him that was a fine idea, but to be sure to protect his voucher. Perhaps he should send it home via registered mail. He looked blank. “What voucher?” “The voucher they gave you when you bought the money order.” Another blank look. “Gee, that must be what I tore up and threw away.”

The cast of “Oklahoma” practiced every night on the top deck. Usually they concentrated on one or two of the musical numbers in the show, going over them a number of times after coaching by the director. Of course we all gathered around and were enchanted by the great melodies. Before the cruise was over, we all could sing “People Will Say We’re in Love”, and “Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin'”, and “The Surrey With the Fringe On Top”, and “Everything’s Up To Date In Kansas City”, and of course “Oklahoma”.

One morning after breakfast I sat around in the Officer’s lounge watching a chess match. It was interesting primarily because it was no contest; one of the players was clearly dominant. After a while the loser got discouraged and left. I volunteered to play. That’s when I met Sammy Hines, a former State champion of California. He was extremely talented, and I was no match for him. But he was still willing to play. So thereafter we went ten or twelve matches every day – Sammy winning them all. One day Sammy offered to change pieces in the middle of the game – whenever I felt my cause was lost, I could ask to swap – he would play game, and I, his.  We did that several times, and Sammy still won even when I had left him in what seemed like a hopeless mess.  Near the end of the cruise, after I must have been beaten a couple hundred times, I finally won a game.  It seemed like a great accomplishment.

One gorgeous sunny day, as I was lounging on the top deck and contemplating the vast sparkling expanse of ocean, the public address system came to life. “Now hear this. The ship has just crossed the equator. All hands who are crossing the equator for the first time are now qualified to become members of the Ancient Order of Polywogs.”

No effort was made to advise us as to either our location or our destination. However, plainly we had been on a generally south or southwest course with few course adjustments. Now the ship began to effect a zig-zag course. We assumed that the purpose was elude any potential Jap submarine action. Soon we picked up an escort vessel – a destroyer escort type ran along several miles away. The escort had gun drill every afternoon which livened our day. We wondered if it was just a drill or if he had a real target out there.

On still another day we were told that we had just crossed the International Date Line, and an entire day dropped out of sight (not to be regained until the trip home).

One afternoon, as I was lounging on deck, there was a noticeable stir among the fellows around me. Their attention had been drawn to the sight of land off the starboard bow – the first land we had seen in days. Soon the ship’s announcer advised us that we were passing south of the island of Guadalcanal, and we were not stopping there. He did not say where we were stopping. Lying there in the afternoon haze, the island looked beautiful and peaceful; our view was not at all compatible with the battle reports that we had read.

It was a beautiful sunshiny day in April when the ship put in at Finschaven, a small town with a handsome harbor on the north coast of New Guinea. For a time we wondered if this was where we would debark – but having been given no word about packing, we just stood about on deck and admired the lush tropical jungle. After a while, personnel boats appeared, and the USO troop was loaded aboard. “Oklahoma” went ashore to entertain the boys in the jungle. However, we ran into the same troop later when their rounds took them to Manila.

Our journey resumed immediately. The ship proceeded up the coast, and late in the evening arrived at the port of Hollandia. After having viewed the black out condition of San Francisco Harbor, Hollandia, in a blaze of high power lights that made the night into day, was a shock. It was explained to us that the high power lights were a protection against night bombing since the enemy pilots could not see from above looking down into the bright lights. Of course, one could well ask why the same problem called for one strategy in San Francisco and an altogether different one in Hollandia.

Hollandia was major supply port for the island hopping campaign that was in full swing. Many ships transporting men and supplies were at anchor in the harbor, and we were fascinated by the activity. After a while at anchor, our ship nudged up to a wharf and much material was off loaded – but no personnel left the ship. Finally, attention centered on the mail. Countless mail bags were thrown from the hold into a large basket suspended from the dock crane. Then the bag was swung ashore and dumped into a waiting truck.  One could easily imagine that poorly packed brownies for some fellow would arrive as mush.  Several bags never made that shore.  They fell into the drink on the way.

We hung around Hollandia for the better part of a day. Speculation as to the future was the primary occupation. All kinds of scenarios were invented by the guys and freely passed around. Most of them involved some kind of action in the Philippines since fighting was heavy in Leyte and Luzon. But, as the ship got underway, there was no authoritative word. Our untutored concept of troop movement procedure required us to be in a protected convoy out of Hollandia if we were heading deeper into the war zone. Because there was no convoy – not even a destroyer escort – the Philippine rumors were put down – for a time.

Early on the morning of 12 April 1945, those of us on deck could see that we were approaching another landfall. Within minutes, the public announcer was heard. “Now hear this. We are about to pass Corregidor at the entrance to Manila Bay. All personnel shall be ready to debark the ship in two hours.”

The word was received with cheers for the thirty days aboard had taxed most guys’ patience. The deck was soon crowded with GIs, for everyone was curious to see the famous landmark. The inward passage found Corregidor on the port side scarcely a mile distant. The towering cliffs were studded with coast artillery, now silent, thanks to the recent retaking of the island by MacArthur’s forces. One could easily imagine that passage by ship would be impossible if those manning the shore batteries didn’t want it. As we passed Corregidor, Fort Drum came into view and we were advised to go below. Fort Drum was still held by a Jap force. So we went to our quarters to begin to collect our gear.

It was a lot more than two hours before we left the ship. As we waited on the main deck, in full combat regalia, luggage at hand, ready to climb down the rope ladders to the Landing Craft along side, the announcer came on again. “Now hear this. We have just been advised of the death today of our President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. The Vice-President, Mr. Harry S. Truman, has been sworn in to the office of President.”

A hush fell over the ship. For the moment, all activity stopped. People stared at each other in disbelief. The popular hero was gone. What would that do to our war effort? An untried rookie in most people’s estimation was now in charge. What would that do to our war effort? When the debarkation began, I was glad to have something specific to do.

I had never left a ship by going over the side on a rope network, nor had we ever had any instruction in the best procedure. This was a one time only, learn as you go, deal. It was a scary sight from the deck. About thirty feet below those little boats bobbed precariously on the water. And not just hundreds of guys, but rather hundreds of guys each with about sixty pounds of equipment on his back would clamber down to an uncertain landing. It took all my strength, concerned as I was not to tread on the guy below me, and more concerned not to be stepped on from above, but somehow I got down to one of the boats which had magically increased in size as we approached. It was an LCM (Landing Craft Men), a big iron tub with five foot high sides that one could barely see over. The engine and pilot were in the rear and the landing ramp in the bow opened on hitting a beach. There must have been forty or fifty of us aboard when she took off for shore.

Manila Bay is a huge circle, about a thirty mile diameter. It is not very deep – someone said thirty feet maximum. This noon it was sparkling blue in the hot sun. Ahead lay the beach, stretching a brilliant white line as far in each direction as one could see. Behind the beach were low buildings, their features not yet discernible. And between here and there were sunken Jap ships. Many of them were sitting on the bottom, usually, but not always, with the main deck awash. They were forlorn relics of an invasion force.

Soon our vessel hit the beach – the bow ramp dropped down – and we were ordered out onto the beach. Unlike General MacArthur’s famous landing at Leyte that required he wade through the water, ours was dry since the boat ramp reached right to the sand. We were ashore in the Philippine Islands.

 

IN THE PHILIPPINES

Although our mission was anything but recreational, my first impressions as I stood among the confused crowd, related to the beach. What a place for a beach party! The gorgeous fine white sand strip, probably two hundred yards deep, extended as far as we could see. Every beach in my experience was trivial by comparison. I dug my hand into the sand, let the hot grains sift through my fingers, and thought how the family would have reveled in a beach like this at Indiantown, thousands of miles away on the Connecticut shore.

But we were here on business. “Here” seemed to be on the southern part of the city. Ahead was a road where army trucks were gathering in great number. Army doctrine specifies a Beachmaster in this situation, one whose orders are to be followed. But there was no sign of a Beachmaster – although he may have been swallowed up in the crowd.

The gang began to move toward the trucks, and Fred Hollowell and I trudged along. Someone said that the trucks would take us to the Replacement Depot, and since that seemed like a reasonable destination, Fred and I climbed aboard one of the vehicles. About four or five other officers joined us, and the driver started off.

We went south along the road that hugs the beach. We later learned that this was Taft Boulevard, so named to honor the memory of William Howard Taft who served as Governor of the Philippines for four years around 1900. I looked for evidence of the destruction of war – but there was little immediately evident. I later learned that the heavy action had been around the Old Walled City and north of the Pasig River that cuts Manila approximately in two. As we rolled along, we passed a number of large beautifully kept estates. The predominant architecture was Spanish. Spain had governed the Philippines for some three hundred years prior to losing the Islands to the U.S. in the Spanish-American War.

After a while, it was clear that we had left the Manila suburbs. The road gradually became narrower and eventually there was no pavement. We went through a small barrio and the people came running to the side of the road to cheer and wave small American flags. Gradually we realized that our truck was alone. There was no vehicle either in front or in the rear. Our driver must know a short cut.

We continued beyond the town.  The way was now clearly through tropical undergrowth, and the road, full of pot holes and bumps, had become most uncomfortable. Soon we came to a small stream. The driver stopped with a jolt. The bridge had been blown apart and the remnants collapsed in the middle of the stream. A Filipino jumped from underbrush. He gestured wildly across the stream. “Jops! Jops! Jops!” he was hollering.

But we were on our way to the Replacement Depot. We had full field packs, and carbines, and looked like fighting men. But, we had no ammunition. It was obvious that our driver was lost, and the prudent course was to withdraw from the area. What was a Filipino civilian doing on the front line. He must have wondered the same about us.

We turned around and started back along the same road. We were jogging over the rugged terrain and our progress was blocked again. A squad of American soldiers with mine detectors was gingerly sapping along the road, testing for mines and booby traps. We assured them that we had already checked the road up to the bridge.

The driver recovered his bearings and delivered us to the 5th Replacement Depot, a huge encampment in South Manila. It was a typical army tent city, and after we checked in at Headquarters and been given a tent assignment, we were on our own. A permanent assignment could be expected in a few days we were told. Fred Hollowell, Harris Childs, and I shared a tent and began another interval of “wait”.

Since we had no assignment, and nothing whatsoever was expected of us, we decided to learn what we could about the area. The next day we bummed a ride on an army truck into Downtown Manila. Because Manila was said to be secure, we left our weapons in our tent (we didn’t have any ammunition, anyhow). But the truck driver said the Japs still held the Old Walled City and advised us to avoid that area. However, we didn’t know our way around, and we were likely to stumble into most anything.

The driver left us on Rizal boulevard in the heart of Downtown Manila. Destruction was at every hand. It was apparent that this was the site of fierce fighting. The Japanese resistance had been stubborn. Downtown Manila had been recaptured building by building. Point blank range field artillery had reduced the buildings to rubble. We came upon the Old Walled City and were amazed to see its ancient ten foot thick wall that had stood firm for centuries now breached by artillery fire. An MP was on duty near the breach advising us not to enter; “Lots of Japs still in there,” he said. So we hiked the other way down a side street largely blocked by collapsed buildings. Amazingly, there we ran into a Red Cross Station. It wasn’t much – just one worker, with a table on which there was a large vacuum bottle of ice water. We were offered an icy drink; it was sheer delight.

More exploration and we came upon a building that seemed relatively whole. It had a Signal Corp flag posted at the front door. “Ha,” I said, “These must be friends of ours. Maybe they will know something about our assignment. Let’s go in.” And we did. The reception was most cordial, but we didn’t know anybody because these fellows were all telephone men – there wasn’t a radio guy around. But they broke out some cold beer for us and we had a gab fest.

After a couple of empty days had gone by, we accepted the reality that the army was in no hurry to put us to work. So we concentrated on making our situation as comfortable as possible. The tent was large and airy, but extremely hot during the day. We speculated unsuccessfully on ways to fabricate a refrigerator.

However, it cooled off at night. This aspect of the climate was not unlike the cool nights I had experienced in the Mojave desert during the 9th Armored maneuvers. Somehow the strange climates never oppressed me. Some men did not adapt at all. Because mosquitoes were a problem at all times, especially when one tried to sleep, we rigged netting over and around our bunks. The Depot had a PX, and we recharged our supplies of toiletries, writing paper and such. Once a week, the PX had a sale of rationed products, i.e. beer (one six pack per man) and cigarettes (one carton per man). I didn’t use either; however, I always bought the allotment because they were good trading items with the natives. The natives were constantly in evidence, ready to barter fruit for cigarettes. The melons were delicious. They were something like cantaloupe. I would break open the melon and eat it – but some fellows allowed them to ferment into a powerful alcoholic beverage. Our foot lockers had arrived; miraculously, we thought. They had gone their own way from San Francisco – and were at the supply tent ready to be claimed. Mine contained lots of cold weather clothing – useless to me in the tropics. So after their long arduous trip overseas, several wool shirts and pants were packed up and sent back across the ocean to Massachusetts.

We were starved for mail, having had none since we had left San Francisco. But one morning, we hit the jack pot. Accumulated mail arrived all at once and I spent the morning catching up on the news from Fran and others on the home front. One of the letters contained word about the capture of the Ramagan Bridge across the Rhine River by the 9th Armored Division and its preservation from German destruction. This action provided a bridgehead for the thrust into Germany that led to the Allied victory. I was glad that the Division’s intensive training had paid off. Later I learned that it was my old buddies from Combat Command “B” that were responsible for the breakthrough – and that several of my friends had not survived.

One day, Harris Childs and I decided to see some of the native countryside. We bummed a ride to the small town, a barrio, just south of the camp and walked around. Dominating the town was a huge white-walled Catholic Church, with immaculate grounds surrounded by a high ornate iron fence. In stark contrast, the native housing outside of the church grounds consisted mostly of small square bamboo huts. Typically the structure consisted of a raised bamboo platform that had a thatched roof. Family members, often a new child through an old grandparent, lived on the platform, while the live stock, usually many chickens, scratched around in the space beneath. Sanitary facilities were crude. I will not describe the typical odor of the area.

The main road in the town ran by the church and along it were a number of small shops. We checked their wares in hopes of finding suitable souvenirs. I purchased a fine linen table runner for a few pesos (a peso was worth fifty American cents). Later we came upon a family run shoe factory where the product was wooden shoes. They were fashioned out of wood, the sole an elaborately carved block painted in bright colors, the tops heavy magenta felt embroidered with flowers. I bought a pair for Fran.

Language was no problem; practically every Filipino could speak English in at least a fragmentary manner. Their native language, which they used among themselves, was Tagalog, a dialect that seemed to have developed from Spanish. I thought it a good idea to try to learn some elementary Tagalog, so I bought a text-book intending to teach myself. But the next day, upon closer study of the text, I concluded that learning Tagalog was far beyond my ability. I did salvage a brief sentence, “Ao ko ng saging” which translates into “I don’t want any bananas” which came in handy helping to fend off persistent peddlers.

One of Fran’s letters had suggested the Frank McTigue, one of Fran’s high school gang and a Naval Officer doing weather forecasting work, was now located in Manila. Fred Hollowell and I decided to see if we could locate Frank. We got a ride into Manila and started out to locate some Naval HQ that might be a source of information. As we were searching, I noticed a Navy jeep coming along that was flying a weather forecast flag. We waved the jeep to a halt and inquired if anyone knew Frank McTigue. “Sure do. He’s in our office on the aircraft tender out in the bay.”

“Fine. Any way we can get to see him?”

“Certainly. Go down to the wharf and wait for the bay taxi – it’s a PT boat that circulates around the harbor – just get on and tell the skipper where you want to go.”

Fred and I followed directions. Sure enough there was a PT boat available and willing to take us to the aircraft tender. That was some ride. PT boats are fast – forty knots or so. But the bay is large, so even at that speed, we were probably a half an hour in transit. The PT boat pulled along side the ship’s landing ladder. We climbed aboard to be met by the officer of the deck. “Permission to come aboard to see Lieutenant Frank McTigue,” I said in what I hoped was an official sounding tone.

“Yes Sir!” Turning to a sailor standing nearby, he said, “Escort these officers to Mr McTigue’s quarters.” We followed through the labyrinth of the tender’s interior, coming at last to a door showing Frank’s name. We knocked; the door opened, and there was Frank! It was a delightful reunion – we talked and talked exchanging what news about the folks back home. Frank took us to lunch in the officer’s wardroom, and for the first time in months we had a meal at a table that had a tablecloth and fancy heavy silver knives and forks. We, in our dull army field uniform and gross army boots, seemed quite out of place in such elegant surroundings. It was plain that the Navy did things differently than the Army.

We gradually became aware of the Australian influence on the war effort. The blankets provided in our tents were Australian in origin. They were woven from gorgeous grey wool; they were large and handsome. Beside them the standard U. S. Army issue looked drab and brown and coarse. One morning, Fred and I visited an Aussie unit nearby at breakfast time, and were cordially treated to their standard steak and eggs breakfast – “stoik un eyegs” was the way they put it. We learned that Australia was supplying all the Army meat in the Southwest Pacific area. The Aussie uniform intrigued me. Rank designation was by buttons on the shoulder; but the buttons looked much like the American General’s star. So for a time I was confused – several times I talked with one of their Captains (two buttons) thinking he must be a Major General (two stars).

The airfield south of Manila had been used by the Japs, and many of their planes had been destroyed on the ground during the latest offensive. These had been bull-dozed aside into a mound of junk when the Americans began using the field. But that mound was a great place to get Jap souvenirs. I salvaged some clear plastic that I fashioned into a bracelet for Fran. Another time I took a piece of aluminum strip that I was able to make into a strap for my wrist watch. We had lots of time on our hands as we did our “waiting”.

It was May, and the rainy season began in earnest.  Rain could be expected at any time. It would last for anywhere from ten minutes to many hours, but always was followed by rapid clearing and bright sunshine. We got used to being wet – either it was raining and one was getting soaked, or it was hot sunshine and one was sweating profusely. One night the rain came in torrents. Ryan’s bunk was in a low spot and the water gathered there. Soon he had about eight inches worth under his bunk and his helmet and shoes were floating away. We abandoned the tent for higher ground. But the next day the sun had dried up all the rain and the ground seemed parched again. On Tuesday, 8 May 1945, early, before breakfast, the orderly came by to notify us that orders had been cut for the six of us. Hollowell, Nordahl, Tyler, Childs, Ryan, and Hemond had all been assigned to the 997th Signal Service Battalion stationed on Leyte. We would be moving out about ten o’clock. So we had breakfast and then packed our portable gear; our foot-lockers would be held in storage until specific addresses were available. About ten, there was a truck waiting. We got a ride to the airport where a C-47 transport plane was waiting. We clambered aboard. This was to be my first plane ride and it was an exciting time. Soon we took off and flew at about 5000 feet south towards Leyte. It was a glorious sun filled day, and the island scenery was breathtaking. From this perspective one couldn’t imagine that a war was in progress beneath us. As we flew along, our reverie was startled by the pilot’s announcement: “Now here this. I have just received word that Germany has capitulated! The war in Europe is over!” Back home the crowds celebrated V-E Day!

The plane landed at the airstrip in Tacloban just a stone’s throw from the site of General MacArthur’s triumphant return to the Philippines. We debarked, amid the euphoria of the day’s great news, anxious to report to the 997th Signal Service Battalion. But at the airport HQ, no one had heard of the 997th. Go over to the Casual Camp was their best advice. Apparently, we were still lost!

We settled in at the Casual Camp, annoyed, but determined to comb the island the next day and find the 997th. The next day, we made up three teams of two guys each, and agreed on the areas each team would search.. Fred and I set out along the southeastern shore. Our first stop was a Signal HQ about five miles down the road. They had never heard of the 997th, but they knew of a radio site further down the road on the beach. We pressed on, soon reaching the radio site. It was a repeater station commanded by a Lt Colonel, a very affable officer. No, he had never heard of the 997th, but why worry – let them find you – take the time to enjoy life – go down to our beach and have a good swim. We took his advice. For that day, we had done all the searching we cared for. After a swim in water that had a bath-like temperature and finding it debilitating, we made our way back to the Casual Camp to discover that no one else had had any success at locating the 997th. We resigned ourselves to more waiting.

Chess again occupied lots of our time. One evening, near sun-down, two Filipino gentlemen came into the camp. They had been hiding from the Japs in the hills. One of them, who turned out to be a member of the pre-war Senate, said that he was starved for a game of chess – was there anybody around he could play? My reputation as a chess freak was sufficient so that HQ sent him to see me. We set up the game on a spare bunk and began to spar. He was a skilled player, but rusty from too long a layoff. But as the night wore on, he got better. We played all night long, and as the sun was rising, he sat back and made a surprising comment. “Boys,” he said, “This war is nearly over and you are going to win.” This was enough to cause us to notice, because the favorite saying around camp had been “Golden Gate by ’48.”

But the gentleman hadn’t finished. He continued, “Then you’re going to make the biggest mistake of your lives.”

“We are? What would that be?”

“You’re going to go home.”

“You’re darn right we are – that’s what we live for, going home. Why is that a mistake?”

“Because that will be the only time ever that the United States will be able to defeat the Russians and restore total peace to the entire world. But you won’t do it. You will all go home. And pretty soon, you and the Russians will be at each other’s throats, and maybe there will be a fight that nobody can win. Right now, you can win. But you won’t fight them, and that is a big mistake!”

Many times in the last forty-five years, I have wondered about this Senator’s wisdom, and what might have happened had the U.S. taken his advice.

But our situation continued to be unsettled. The camp commander came by one day to tell us he was shipping us back to Hollandia. We balked. He did not have formal orders for us, so we wouldn’t move. After all our orders were very specific.

Plane traffic between Leyte and Luzon was fairly heavy. So one day we decided that we should manage regular trips back to Luzon to check on our foot-lockers, gather mail, and check HQ to see if there was any progress on our assignments. Jim Nordahl and I went on one of these sorties. We bummed a ride with an Air Force pilot who had to ferry a damaged Mitchell Bomber to Clark Field for repair. The plane flew O.K., but the rear windows had been shot out. Riding in the rear, we were close to the open window space. No one told us to block our ears. When we deplaned at Clark, neither of us could hear! It was about two days before our hearing returned to normal. Along the way, the pilot took liberties over Manila. He buzzed the nurses compound. We were not ready for that maneuver and had to hang on tight to prevent being dumped out the empty window space.

Finally on 28 May, Harris Childs came back from Manila with the cheering word that new orders had been cut for all of us. Nordahl, Hallowell, and Hemond were going to a Signal Battalion in Manila, while the other guys were going to other island installations. We had the choice of waiting for the Air Transport people to list us on some scheduled flight, or we could bum our way there. We figured we would get there quicker on our own. So, on the 29th, early – we missed breakfast – we went over to the air strip and negotiated a ride. It wasn’t until near noon that we got in the air. We missed out on lunch – but we figured it was all worth while. We were getting to our jobs in Manila.

But, once again, upon arriving and consulting the official island directory, there was no record of the outfit cited in our orders. Exhausted, hungry, and frustrated, we went to the nearest camp – an Air Corp outfit at the end of the runway – and begged some food and shelter. They were most accommodating. The cook fixed us a big supper, and then they found us bunks. We went right to bed and slept soundly until early in the morning when air activity began. Here at the end of the runway, it sounded as though the planes would plow right through our quarters. We got up and out early.

Quite indignant, we made our way to the General Headquarters building in the heart of Manila and stormed into the Signal Corps Office where we found an attentive ear on a WAC Major. She went to the heart of the problem immediately as she looked at our orders. “That outfit doesn’t exist. It is a device only used for shipping people over here from the States.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I’ll issue new orders. What are your specialties?”

“We are radio officers, and we have a hunch that we are needed in the fixed station site here in Manila.”

The lady listened; then she consulted the office files. “You are right. We have a requisition from the Radio Receiver Site. I’ll make up orders for you right away.” She assigned us to the GHQ Radio Receiver Station, WTA Manila. It was now nearly four full months since that day at Fort Monmouth when we had been told we were being shipped overseas. – So much for Army efficiency.

The Radio Receiver station was still in its initial phase. It was operating out of a commandeered home in the south of Manila. The antenna field was very small. It could support only a few di-poles. The permanent situation was planned further out of town where there was room for rhombic antennas. We knew about that site. We had looked it over back when we were at the Replacement Depot, speculating then that this must be the reason the Army had called us overseas.

The station complement included plenty of enlisted men. They really did all the work. But it was deficient in officers. The Commander, temporarily Lt Griggs, was very happy to have the additional help. Nordahl was put on the Single Sideband circuit, while I was given chores on the fixed station radio teletype circuits. Fred was made power officer at the signal center, and was disappointed having hoped for a radio job.

Lt Wendal Griggs of Iowa

I was surprised how quickly a routine was established. Officers worked eight hour shifts per day supervising the circuits. The station operated continuously around the clock; so, once a week there was a shift rotation. Thus, in a three week stretch, everyone had a week of day duty, a week of evening duty and one of night duty. Off time could be used in any fashion one was inclined; mine was dominated by eating, sleeping, writing letters, playing chess, and attending a movie when one was available. However, there were variations.

Being more or less permanently assigned, I tried to get in touch with Frank McTigue at the Navy Weather Station. In the process, I learned that the Station had been moved from the aircraft tender to a shore site at the Cavite Naval Base. So, one day I borrowed a jeep and went over to Cavite. Historically, traffic in the Philippines had driven on the left side of the road. But on 1 June 1945, the Army had decreed that vehicles would drive on the right. The change was intended for the benefit of the Americans who had a hard time with the left hand rule. But officialdom had not considered how hard it would be for the Filipinos to make this change. So driving to Cavite was a constant challenge. At any moment a Filipino cart might appear, heading straight toward me on the right hand side. But I got to Cavite – a most impressive permanent Navy Base – and found Frank. He was up to the minute on news from home. But he was in need of sun-tan trousers. Seems the Navy supply had run out – and the Army supply depot wouldn’t sell to the Navy. I delivered a pair a few days later.

One night, the enlisted men put on a dance. They decorated the center of the transmitter hall, recruited a dance band from somewhere, and invited all the native girls. Officers were also welcome, so Lt Griggs and I paid a visit and got a taste of local custom. The scene was not unlike a typical high school dance back in the States. The girls were decked out in handsome party dresses – and they even had on shoes. But their fathers were present too. And the custom is that father asks a boy to dance with his daughter – no other procedure is permitted. No one told me this. I found out when a father came over and asked me to dance with his daughter. It hadn’t been my intention; but what could I do. She was a little thing, and a good dancer. The problem was that she fixed her hair with some kind of smelly grease – it had a horrible odor and made the dance most disagreeable. When that dance was over, I was beseiged by other fathers with similar requests. I tried to accommodate them, but after a few such episodes, I was pretty well gassed out, and I escaped to the receiver building for safety.

Duty as a radio officer was no problem, for I had been well trained in the business. Our problems usually rose as part of our collateral duty. The most distasteful of these was being a censor of the enlisted men’s mail. Rules were that all outgoing mail had to be read by an officer who had to certify that the censorship rules had been followed. Basically the rules involved not divulging one’s location or his specific activity or anything that could be presumed of interest to the enemy. Thus letters were reduced to very personal matters. It was no fun to read that stuff – one always had the feeling that he was intruding into affairs that were none of his business – some of the notes containing extravagant terms of endearment were an embarrassment to review. And it all seemed so unnecessary – I don’t recall ever cutting up a guy’s letter because the fellows followed the rules.

Equally frustrating was one’s turn as mess officer. In theory the mess officer is in charge of feeding the outfit; but the reality was that the mess sergeant was the boss. He made out the menus; he picked up the food allotment from the central depot, he made his personal deals with other mess sergeants in the process; he bossed the cooks; he requisitioned and assigned the guys needed for KP duty. So he was in charge. But the mess officer got all the complaints, and there was no end to them even though the meals were uniformly excellent.

The new receiver site in the outskirts was very nearly ready to take over the entire function, in fact for several days now we had been in the process of turning circuits over to them. On 20 June, it was decided that the need for some of us was greater at the new site than in town. So Taylor, Nordahl and I moved to the outskirts. It was to be our Philippine home for a while.

Mail was addressed to: Det 1, 4025th Sig Srv Gp,

4th Platoon HQ,

APO 75

%PM, San Francisco, California

It was an impressive place. Three main buildings housed the receiving equipment. Two of these were large quonset huts. The third, which contained an office for the station commanding officer, was an oversize quonset made by putting three conventional huts together in a “T” shape. These buildings, rather spread out, for there was lots of room, occupied three corners of an immense square area.  The fourth corner had a cluster of three small buildings that housed three 100 Kw diesel generators which furnished electric power for the station as well as our living quarters.  In the center of all this was a swimming pool!

Main receiver station

 

Looking across pool toward Intercept building

Aerial view

The antenna patch panel

Single side band receiver

Receiver hall

Al Barancik monitoring circuit using Super Pro recivers

Control panel

Power station

Power plant

Mess Hall

HC

Fred and HC

The pool had been built by the Japs as a communal bath tub and had been captured undamaged. They had provided a well with a good supply of water as well as a chlorination facility. All we had to do was get it running. The depth was essentially uniform – about five feet – awkward for a fellow who did not know how to swim, but quite adequate for the swimmers. It was rather larger than the conventional 75 foot pool. I used it as often as my schedule permitted, doing about 100 lengths each time, which I estimated was about one mile.

 

The antenna field lay all about the buildings. There were 52 rhombic antennas evenly spaced in a full circle. A rhombic antenna is shaped like a four sided diamond. Each rhombic was supported by four 75 foot high metal frame towers so arranged that the rhombic’s long axis pointing away from the station was 600 feet long, and the other axis at right angles to the first was 200 feet long.

Rhombics have the merit of being very high gain antennas, hence were desireable when our objective was round the clock operation when some signals at some times of the day are very weak. The disadvantage of a rhombic is that it is highly directional, tending to receive signals only along the direction of its long axis. Our system overcame this disadvantage by having rhombics facing all around the compass.

Our principal receivers were known as diversity units; that is they consisted of two receivers interlocked through their automatic volume controls. Thus when one receiver had a strong signal, it would shut down the other. Having antennas around the compass enabled us to feed one receiver from an antenna on one side of the circle and the other one from the other side of the circle thus avoiding the problem of local fading of signals.

Living arrangements were quite adequate considering that we were in the middle of what once had been a rice paddy. The tents were the conventional Army pyramidal shape mounted on a bamboo platform that was raised a few steps above the ground (real mud in wet weather). The officers were separated from the enlisted men in our own compound with separate toilet and shower facilities. We new officers were assigned a separate tent, and we immediately arranged it as comfortably as possible.

Wash stand behind our tent

The receiver site had its own motor pool, as well as its own kitchen and mess hall which was divided into enlisted men’s area and officer’s country. My reputation as mess officer at the other place had preceded me, and shortly I was notified that my collateral duty was again as mess officer.

Motor pool

The station was in charge of Lt. Polston, about whom I remember very little since he wasn’t there very long. His assistant, who succeeded him, was a blond, blue-eyed, enthusiastic officer from Texas by the name of Earl Hartman. We became good friends – and our friendship lasted the rest of our lives. Earl had been a graduate of Texas A & M University, predominantly an R.O.T.C. school, where he had been the Cadet Colonel in his senior year. He had gone directly from school into the service, and was now a 1st Lt. But he retained his school boy looks and his boundless energy.

Earl Hartman

We new fellows fit immediately into the routine of standing regular shifts as duty officer. It was not hard work since there were talented sergeants who actually assigned and directed the men on shift. The officer merely supervised the entire operation.

My principal station interest, which soon became my assignment, was to determine what frequencies were needed to keep each circuit in service for the greatest amount of time every day. It turned out that frequency allocation was done on a theater wide basis. We, as the General Headquarters station, had some priority; however, we still had to petition for frequencies and couldn’t use one until it was authorized. Even then, we could have no more than four frequencies for each circuit.

The circuits went to many places. I don’t remember them all, but principal places included San Francisco, Honolulu, Brisbane, and Karachi. There were perhaps twenty other places where we had regular business. The San Francisco circuit was the most troublesome not only because it had the most business (all Washington messages went through there), but also because at certain times of every day no signal at any frequency could get through.

So I was constantly logging circuits, keeping book on what frequencies worked best to what places, for how long, and at what times of the day. This information was the basis for my monthly requests for radio frequencies. By the time I went home, I had become quite skillful at this business. In fact, by then, our San Francisco circuit was consistently in service several hours a day more than the commercial facility run by RCA.

Not long after we arrived at the new station, it was beer ration day. The beer ration had lately been increased to a case per man per week, which I thought was a lot. But I was told that it all came from the plant north of Manila which the GIs had liberated from the Japs undamaged and was now back in production. It was suggested that we buy our full ration so that production and distribution which furnished employment for a lot of Filipinos could be kept at a high level. So I bought my allotment, borrowed a jeep, and took it into Fred’s place in town. Fred would use all the beer he could get. He, along with several other officers, had lately rented a private home. After Fred repaired their refrigerator, there was ample room to store and cool the beer. Fred was glad to get it. He had other problems, however. A couple of nights before, a uniform containing his wallet and other valuables had been stolen. He had left it on a chair near an open window and guessed that someone – probably a Filipino – had fished it out the window when he was sleeping. There was merit to our living in the boondocks in a rice paddy.

Now that I was more or less settled, I thought that I should let Frank McTigue know about the set-up. About a week later, I borrowed a jeep, picked up Fred, and we drove out to Cavite. We found Frank in a euphoric state. He had just received word that he had been selected for an advance course in weather forecasting to be given in San Francisco. In a few days he would be flying home on one of the China Clippers (a large flying boat that had lately entered trans-Pacific service), and in the process he could expect 15 days leave back to Massachusetts. After that he thought he would be sent back to Manila. We cheered for him while we envied him.

Our Manila experience was uniquely influenced by two other “M’s”, mud and mosquitoes, to both of which we gradually became accustomed.

The mud was apt to be found anywhere. Particularly, out in the rice paddy where we lived and worked, one expected to have to pick his way through the thick goo going to and from the station, or even going to the mess hall. So we always wore our combat boots which were well matched to mud walking. What we did not like was tracking mud into the tent. For a time we tried rigging shoe scrap bars, but they broke, or if they didn’t break, they were soon clogged and unuseable. So we made a rule: Take off your shoes before entering this tent. The good result pleased us, and our visitors acquiesced, more or less graciously.

Mosquitoes were a constant menace. They bred in quantity in the brackish water that surrounded the rice fields. Not only were their bites painful, but they resulted in malaria and yellow fever. The Army supplied repellents, but no self respecting mosquito was turned away by the stuff. And the medics supplied Attabrine tablets. Their consumption was a required ticket to dinner in the mess hall. These were said to protect one from malaria in particular, and maybe they did, although several of the boys got the disease and were sent home. The tablets were not popular because, after a week or so of taking them, the consumer’s skin developed a yellowish hue. The most effective mosquito barrier was the netting that we draped around our bunks; then, at least, we could sleep without being bothered by the bugs.

“Wash Room”

One night late in June, Jim Nordahl who was our Special Service Officer, turned up with twenty free tickets to the Manila Symphony. I was shocked that none of the men cared to go. However, our Filipino house boy wanted to go. So he, Jim and I dashed into town to attend. The concert was held in a dingy, small, hot theater, one of the few buildings not blown apart in the fighting. The orchestra had eighty-five members, and they barely were able to crowd onto the stage. But, oh how they played. Their rendition of Brahms Symphony #1 in C Minor was professionally and gloriously done. Beethoven Concerto for Violin and Orchestra was highlighted with a violin soloist whose technique was impeccable. This beautiful music was an anomaly in yesterday’s war zone.

Jim Nordahl

It was apparent that, even at this station with a full time permanent assignment, there was going to be lots of free time. To put it to good use, I signed up with the Armed Forces Institute for some correspondence courses. For $11.50, I bought the Introduction to Astronomy given by the University of California; and, for $15.50, I bought Photography from the University of Michigan. Courses materials were promised in two to three weeks.

Read up!

There was a Finance Department at the Replacement Depot which was nearby making it relatively easy to get paid. The pay problem was expedited further when I got the department’s radio repaired for them in our shop. This record is my Second Lieutenant’s pay voucher:

Base Pay $150.00

Overseas 15.00

Quarters 60.00

Rations 42.00

Total 267.00

Deductions

 

Allotment $150.00

Insurance 6.75

85 meals 21.25

Total 178.00

NET 89.00 or 178.00 pesos

Money accumulated, and frequently I made transfers to Fran.

I was happy to find that this new station was not excessively GI; no one tried to have reveille or other formations that had no purpose. I recall back in the city at the temporary receivers, Lt Hunan, about whom I remember very little, unfortunately decided that the whole platoon should stand a reveille formation at 6:45 each morning. He posted such an order to commence the following morning. Stupid as the formation order was, I was present – so was Lt Hunan – but nobody else! Hunan blew his stack. We went the round of the quarters ordering every body out. About a half hour later every body was there. Hunan was angry, frustrated, and baffled. But he couldn’t decide what he should do about the mutiny. Fortunately, he smartened up and forgot the whole episode. When guys are working shifts around the clock, the reveille formation makes no sense.

 

Cot and Reading Lamp!

 

It was Sunday, 1 July, when we learned about another local Filipino custom. On that day the church celebrates St. Jean de Baptiste Day. The locals carry around bottles of water so that they can throw some at persons they meet. Our houseboy tried it on us – once. But the Engineers, whose camp was down the road, got into the spirit of the day. They hitched a 1000 gallon water tank trailer with a pump and hose to a jeep and rode around the area spraying everyone they saw.

I noted on the officer’s duty bulletin board that I had been appointed in charge of Plans and Training. I wasn’t sure what was intended, so I made some discreet inquiries, and was told that I was responsible to see that every man got three hours of training every week. I was rather certain that this could get me in trouble with the men if it was handled wrong. Then I got an idea. Since the evening movie always captured practically every one off duty, and since it already contained a news reel and an occasional Army informational film, and since it normally lasted over three hours, I would simply certify that the minimum training was already being carried out. Nobody ever took exception.

The war was ever on our minds. Everyone was anticipating the big push, the invasion of Japan. When the conversation turned serious, someone usually remarked on the activity in Manila Bay. And every day, countless cargo ships could be seen at anchor with lighters running never-ending shuttles to the beach loaded with crates. The crates were off loaded by shore crews and placed in piles on the broad beach. Already the accumulation of stuff extended for several miles along the shore, and the pile was still growing. We were getting ready for something big.

One day when I was visiting Fred, we decided to drop in at the Officer’s Club. There, on a table, was a saxophone. There was no sign of an owner, but the instrument looked as if it could play. So I idly picked it up and ran my fingers over the keys – it seemed in good condition. I decided to toodle a bit. It must have been three years since I had played a sax, but even so, when I tried, “Stardust” came out rather respectably.  Fred was amazed.  He had no idea that I could play because I had made a point of not letting anybody, including the Army, know about this skill.  I had no desire to be stuck into an Army band.  But now the cat was out of the bag.  Fred knew.  I stopped playing and put the instrument back on the table.

Some days later, on a Friday evening, I got a telephone call from Fred. Seems there was a dance scheduled at the Club, and the orchestra was minus a sax player – would I come to town and play. I was scheduled on duty for the evening shift and declined. Later, Lt. Polston came to see me. Seems he had a call from the Colonel directing him to relieve me, and to take me to the party where I was to play the sax. So be it. Polston, Hartman, and I took a jeep and rode to the Officer’s Club. I was met at the door by a Brigadier-General who had a drink in one hand and the sax in the other. He held both out to me. “Here, let’s get started.” I played for an hour or so when an officer came over and asked if he could have a turn on the sax. Gladly I surrendered the sax and went back to camp. The party was at such state that no one would notice my absence.

The Army began to publicize the policy it would use after the war when the time came to bring men home. They would use a system of points, with those having the highest number of points going home first. Points were to be scored as follows: one for each month of service in the Continental U.S.; two for each month of service overseas; and five for each combat star earned. Everyone carefully counted his point total. As of July, my account was, 27 for stateside service, 6 for overseas service, 5 for Luzon, and 5 for Leyte, making a total of 43. But many men had numbers in the 70s, 80s, and 90s. It was plain that I wouldn’t qualify for a trip home soon.

Our rhombic antennas were all complete, but the ultimate antenna system still needed lots of work. The lead-in wires all terminated in the large “T” shaped building. But we also wanted every antenna to be available to each of the other two buildings. This required a set of isolation transformers, one for each rhombic, a panel where it would be possible to hitch the line from any receiver to any antenna, and a series of co-axial antenna cables running from the “T” building to each of the other two. I had been put in charge of this work, and by the end of July it was nearly done and ready for testing. The system worked beautifully. It was entirely flexible: any receiver on the site could be fed from any antenna.

In July, the Radio Intercept Platoon arrived on site. They would set up shop in the building on the other side of the pool. Their job consisted of using Super-Pro Receivers to monitor continuously all signals originating in Japan or with the Japanese forces. They also had a few other routine tasks like continuously copying the U.S.Navy “Fox” broadcast, which was a transmission in Morse Code at about sixty words per minute relating news of the day. So the fellows in Intercept were remarkably talented at copying Morse Code. Some of them were so good that they could copy the “Fox” signals while carrying on a conversation and not miss a beat of either theme.

The third building was rented by the RCA Corporation for the Manila terminal of their world-wide communications network. The man in charge was named Mathews, and we became good friends. RCA used Collins receivers, which most of the radio men envied. It might have been a matter of it being greener in the other man’s pasture, for we had outstanding equipment built by Federal. In any event we often admired as Mattie tuned his equipment.

“Mattie” Matthews

 

Mattie was a big help one day. Our Single Sideband receiver had taken to drifting off frequency, not badly nor rapidly, but enough to garble some words in the received message. The signal center down town was getting irritated at us for not fixing the problem. But Schmalback, Nordahl and I had been trying to do that with no success at all. It occurred to me that Mattie could help and I went to see him. “I don’t know that equipment,” he said, “but I know a guy at our Frisco station who does. I’ll give him a shout.” Soon he had the guy over the private RCA telephone line and the matter was under discussion. The guy recognized the problem immediately. Seemed that a certain condenser was vulnerable to high humidity, and we should replace it with a sealed type of comparable value. We followed directions and the problem vanished.

On 20 July 1945, my twenty-eighth birthday came and went, swallowed up by one more day of Army routine.

One day, as the camp’s Mess Officer, I had an unfortunate confrontation with 1st Lt Keller, our Power Officer. Seems that the diesel generator supplying electric power to the kitchen failed just about the time the cooks were ready to prepare breakfast – so the breakfast was substandard – there was nothing hot – no coffee. And Lt Keller was unhappy about this and bawled out the mess sergeant and his help including the Filipinos. I was on duty at the station at the time. When I learned what had happened, it was nearly time for lunch and the kitchen help was on the verge of a slow down strike. I prevailed on them to feed the men and they did, and then I went to see Keller. He was his usual obnoxious self and I got no satisfaction. So I went to see the Administrative Officer, 2nd Lt Barksdale, and demanded that the kitchen be placed off limits for Keller. Barksdale didn’t want to do that, so I quit as Mess Officer (even though one can’t quit in the Army). Barksdale made Lt Griggs the new Mess Officer, and I was appointed Information and Education Officer. It took Griggs about two weeks, but he got the kitchen placed off limits to all persons; but the Mess Sergeant always gave me credit for getting Keller out of his hair.

My letter #143, dated 21 July 1945, reads as follows:

Was driving down the highway this afternoon, when we came upon a Lt. hitching a ride – picked him up. “You look rather familiar, Lt.,” he said. “By any chance were you ever at Mass. State?”

“Why, yes, Class of 1938”

“I thought so – you are the fellow who married Frannie Field!”

Well, of course I was amazed that a stranger – a picked up hitch hiking Lt – way out here in the Philippines should know my wife! I did not recognize him and he introduced himself as Jim Kline, Class of 1941, from Boston, Massachusetts, – wanted to know the news on Doris and Rose Elaine as well – so we had quite an old reunion.

One Sunday afternoon there was a football game at Rizal Stadium and Jim Nordahl and I went to see it. We were amazed at the sight, because at least 50,000 other GIs were there too. The Air Transport Command was playing the Port Engineers. Though Rizal had been the scene of much heavy fighting, on this day it could have passed for Kezar Stadium. Two bands were there, and the crowd sounded just as boisterous as they do at home on Saturday afternoon. I was impressed by an inscription on the outfield fence. It read “4th Home Run, December 10, 1934, by Lou Gerhig”. The brand of football was good.

The ATC boys were bigger and heavier, and they were up by 20 to 0 at half time. Then the rains came – in torrents – and Jim and I left.

That something big was in the offing could be inferred by two observations that we could easily make: first, that the PX was having so much business that practically everything was rationed; and second, that we didn’t try to go into town unless the motor pool had a jeep available because bumming a ride was too competitive. These observations translated into a massive buildup of forces. The most recent arrival was the 86th Infantry Division. It had been sent to the European battlefields, but, at this point in the war, was not needed in Europe, and continued on to Manila.

One morning, business took me to GHQ in downtown Manila. It was a brilliant sunny day. As I approached the entrance to the headquarters, I noticed that an olive-drab limousine sporting a flag with five stars was parked in front of the building. Two armed MP’s were standing by. I paid no other attention to the scene and continued up the walk. At that moment the doors swung open and out strode General of the Army Douglas MacArthur. I recognized that commanding presence instantly, came to attention, and saluted. Directly there was a return salute, along with the greeting “Good Morning, Lieutenant” delivered in his famous sonorous tone.

The official word had come down to employ Filipinos in every capacity possible. We figured that some of them would be good gardeners landscaping around the receiver buildings, setting out gardens, and growing a lawn. We had lots of applicants, selected about half a dozen of them and set them to work. The results eventually were spectacular, but there were some surprises along the way. To begin with they did not want a watering hose; their preferred method of watering was to take a big two gallon can left over from the kitchen, punch a series of holes in the bottom, fill the can with water from a larger supply jug, and allow the drippings to fall on the area of interest. It took forever, but perhaps that was their intent. They wanted no lawn mower either. Grass was kept an appropriate length by individually shaving each blade using their trusty all-purpose machete. Then one day, they could have put us off the air. Someone of them planned to plant a banana tree, and had dug a large hole for the root. In the process, he ran into one of our underground electric cables but did not recognize it as something important. He got help to pull the thing out. By the time I noticed their operation, three of them were tugging away, trying to dislodge the cable. I stopped that, of course, but I don’t think the Filipino gardeners ever really understood.

Word was passing among the men about the betting the Air Corp boys were doing on the end of the war. In July they were taking bets that the war would be over by Christmas. Some of our men went for this, but the conservative ones like me saw no basis for such optimism. Then about the first of August, the odds were dramatically raised, and the time was shortened. One could get very favorable odds betting against the Air Corp boys who were then asserting that the war would be over in 48 hours!

As Information and Education Officer, I found myself responsible to carry out the latest Army directive that ‘all troops shall be indoctrinated concerning the Japanese Islands. Obviously, in preparation for an invasion, the troops should know something about where they were going. We had always known Japan to be the objective – but that was way down the road. Now, all of a sudden, invasion seemed about to happen. In any event, I had to make up some lectures dealing with the Japanese homeland. I managed, but it was tough – I had no background in the subject.  But the Army had several booklets that seemed to have pertinent material, and I leaned on those.  Nobody fell asleep during my lectures.

About the first of August, Harley Taylor was transferred downtown to the Control Center, and his place was taken by Lt. Ira Weil, a new face to most of us. Ira moved into the bunk space in our tent where Taylor had been. Ira was from Montgomery, Alabama, and a perfect prototype of the White Upper Class Southerner. We got along very well, but it was plain that Ira retained remnants of the Southerner’s antipathy for Yankees. He also had a love affair with the bottle; it wasn’t long before he was known as “Souse Weil from the Deep Souse”. Many a time I stood duty for him while he sobered up from a torrid night on the town. We remained friends long after the war was over.

THE BOMB was dropped over Hiroshima on the morning of Monday, 6 August 1945, and although we did not know then, the world would never be the same. Word of the Atom Bomb came to us quickly, and few people had any concept of what it was, though all were willing to believe that it must be a weapon of terrible power. Now we understood why the Air Corp boys had been willing to bet on the course of the war. Lots of barracks lawyers tried to tell the rest of us what was now going to happen in Japan; and lots of men who thought they knew tried to tell us how the bomb worked. But that was all conjecture. There was no immediate response from Japan, and we went back to our routine chores.

On Wednesday, 8 August 1945, the Russians declared War on Japan. Everyone thought it was awfully late for that gesture, but we welcomed it nonetheless.

On Thursday, 9 August 1945, a second bomb was dropped on Japan, this time over the city of Nagasaki. Again the word spread swiftly, and conjecture about the possible impact on the Japanese war machine was on everybody’s tongue. But still there was no positive indication that our tasks could be relaxed.

The next day, 10 August, I had the evening shift. It must have been about ten o’clock when the duty sergeant from the Intercept crew came into my office carrying a message form. He handed it to me without saying anything. I gave the form a perfunctory glance, for I was busy doing my frequency projection work, and dropped it into my “IN” basket for later attention. But the sergeant stood there, staring at me with wide eyes; so I did a double take. It was a message in plain language that one of the Intercept operators had just copied, broadcast from Japan, saying that the Japanese were ready to accept Peace on the Allied terms, reserving the right of the Emperor to retain his throne.

Immediately we sent the word on to the Signal Center where it was rapidly processed for wide spread distribution. Within minutes, high ranking brass began descending on the station. Any number of Majors, Colonels, and even a couple of Generals came to the site apparently believing that by some magic we could pull more information out of the air. But we had all there was for that night. That didn’t stop the brass from twiddling the dials and knocking circuits off frequency. Most of our regular circuits suffered this hazard. In desperation, I steered the brass to our massed bank of Super-Pro receivers, gave each a set of ear phones and his own receiver to twiddle all he wanted. That kept the station in business. But celebrations started everywhere as soon as the word was received. At the Officer’s Club the scene was wild. The majors and colonels spent the the night climbing out of the swimming pool where the exuberant junior officers had tossed them.

There was lots of discussion among the officers as to whether or not Truman would accept the Japanese stipulation that the Emperor be spared. Most thought that an acceptable condition, but some hot heads were opposed. Then on 14 August 1945, our station copied the following message:

MARSHALL TO MACARTHUR INFO NIMITZ

YOU ARE HEREBY OFFICIALLY NOTIFIED OF JAPANESE CAPITULATION

YOUR DIRECTIVE AS SUPREME COMMANDER FOR THE ALLIED POWERS IS EFFECTIVE WITH RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE

15 August 1945 was officially declared V-J Day and the celebrations began in earnest all over again. The cheers could be heard all over the camp; impromptu parties started up everywhere. Many a bottle, carefully preserved for this day, was broken open and consumed in a wild orgy of joy. In town the celebration got out of hand – several men were killed and many were seriously injured.

It was hard to believe that the war was over, and for a number of days in August, it really did not sink in. In fact, the Russians did not cease their efforts. They had begun an offensive which continued for several weeks until they had driven the Japs from Manchuria and the Kurile Islands. And it was late in the month before all pockets of Japanese troops in the war areas had ceased to fight.

Some troops now had to occupy Japan. The first group to go in was the radio team consisting of transmitter, receiver, and message center equipment, plus people to man these items. Everything had to go by air from Manila to Atsugi Airdrome. To maximize the pay load, every effort was made to minimize material needed for the initial station set-up. To this end, the radio group had to select its three lightest weight qualified officers. I was not one of the three, hence never got to Tokyo. But Lt. Polston was selected and went as commanding officer of the advanced radio team. With his absence, Lt. Earl Hartman became commanding officer of WTA.

It was about the 24th of August when the troops went to Tokyo. Polston’s radio team set up shop at the airport as soon as they arrived, and established contact with our receivers immediately. The first message was from MacArthur to his Chief of Staff directing that the Chief inform Mrs. MacArthur that her husband had arrived safely.

The formal surrender ceremony was held on 2 September 1945 on the deck of the battleship Missouri anchored in Tokyo Bay. Two representatives of the Japanese Empire signed the surrender documents in the presence of General MacArthur and the entire array of Allied Military leaders in the Pacific Basin while we all listened intently to the radio description of the activity. The War was truly over.

Going home! That’s what we were interested in! When was it going to happen? Well, we knew it wasn’t going to happen overnight – but hopefully by Christmas? – not a chance. There were about 1,800,000 guys in the Pacific area, and it could be presumed that most wanted to get home as soon as possible. Realistically, the ocean trip was long, and the number of troop carriers limited; the prospect was for months of delay. We made no allowance for the possibility that the ruling military and civilian authority would not necessarily share our enthusiasm for going home – in the end, home front political pressure had to be exerted on the Congress to get the homecoming process speeded up.

In the meantime, we had to keep busy. The station had to stay in service. The end of the war had not changed the need to communicate; so we continued to have the routine of station duty. Mostly the messages were in plain English. There was no need to encode anything. Subsequently the work load at the message center dropped off, making a few of their people available for other assignments. Some came out to the receiver site. Also, the Intercept work was shut down and, with no enemy to monitor, about 100 fellows were reassigned.

On 4 September 1945, the Army announced the end of the censorship of mail. Thereafter letter writers could discuss anything at all in their letters without concern for prying eyes. I was most pleased that this rule had taken effect so promptly; censoring the men’s mail had always been an odorous duty. Curiously, however, I had not fully realized how much time had been eaten up by the censor chore; that time now became available just when we were burdened to occupy the time we already had.

The Armed Forces Radio Service operated a standard AM station for the entertainment of the troops. The station, WVTM, was located in downtown Manila. They liked to retransmit news and other broadcasts from the States, but the quality of the signal that they could pick up was always poor, and there was much complaint. I suggested that we could pick up signals from the States much better than they could – perhaps we could provide the service for them? They jumped at the offer. Soon we added the daily chore of tuning in the Stateside programs that were wanted by WVTM. That added some interest for our operators.

The Engineers came around one day to start work on a new Quonset hut that they had been directed to build for us. That started a discussion; Lt Barksdale decided that the best use for the new hut was for officer’s quarters, but I suggested that the enlisted men should be given the use of the place as a day room where there would be a pool table and a ping-pong table. There wasn’t much discussion; I was overruled, and the place became Officer Country. However, I was perfectly satisfied to stay in the tent, and did not join the trek to the Quonset. Then the Engineers agreed to build another hut, this time for the men. Finally they got their recreation hall.

Fred liberated a boat from among the many that the Army had on the Pasig River; how, he didn’t say and I didn’t ask. He invited me down for a ride. The boat was a typical cabin cruiser painted the Army’s favorite olive drab, about 26 feet long, with a cabin, head, and galley, covered deck aft, able to sleep four, and powered suitably with a gasoline engine. The diesel generator station for which Fred was responsible backed up to the Pasig River, so Fred had a fine spot for docking his boat. His only problem was in getting enough gasoline, but usually he could trade rides for gasoline furnished by motor pool men. At any rate, we went down the river, through the heart of the ruined section of the city which was fast being reclaimed by the Engineers, past the stout forbidding rock ramparts of the Old Walled City, on out into the Bay. Dozens of Jap ships lay on the bottom with large portions of their super-structures out of water. We approached close to one of those, contemplated going aboard, but finally thought better of that. Further out in the Bay, a British aircraft carrier was swinging at anchor; we took a turn around her and got ourselves a cheer from a group of sailors on her deck.

Fred’s boat

 

The electric power supply for the living area was a small diesel generator.  It required frequent service which it rarely got; consequently it was frequently shut down for repairs.  Nordahl, who was our power officer at the time, suggested that we should run a power service line to the living area from the station area; it would provide more power, and more reliable power since there were three machines at the station with a crew to keep them running continuously. We decided to do it even though the power line would have to be underground, crossing the antenna field to minimize interference. That meant a big long ditch had to be dug. I proposed that we get some Jap prisoners to provide the labor.

That was a fine idea, and I was told to do it. I called the Major in charge of a Jap prisoner of war camp that was several miles south toward Batangas and found that we could borrow prisoners on a day to day basis. Just come and get them he had said. So I selected a sergeant and six men, saw that they were well armed with carbines, and sent them off. They returned soon with a truck load of young Japanese prisoners, and the sergeant reported to me. “They laughed at us down there for being so well armed,” he said. “The Major said the Japs will not try to escape unless ordered to do so by some officer. Just don’t let anybody order them to escape.” That turned out to be accurate advice. We found that the Japs did exactly as directed. Told to dig – they dug until told to do something else. They literally had to be directed when to pause for a rest. There wasn’t a sign of interest in escaping. For a noon meal, all they wanted was a plate of rice. Within a week, the ditch was dug, the power line laid, the ditch filled, and our reliable power was in service pleasing everyone.

We were not the only outfit trying to keep the men happy waiting for the return home migration to start – the Navy had problems, too. One weekend, the cruiser ESSEX came into port and gave shore leave to about 2000 crew members. It was a disaster. Between fights and bad liquor, twenty of their sailors died.

As we expected, word came that a fixed station was to be built in Tokyo for the use of MacArthur’s new headquarters. Hemond and fifteen of the men were advised that they had been selected as the cadre for the Tokyo station – we should be ready to move on 15 September. But the 15th came and went and nothing happened. I never did find out which radio men went to Tokyo.

In conversation with Mr. Matthews of RCA, I learned that he had proposed to his company that they lease the station from the Army, use it for their own commercial purposes, and rent service back to the Army. This way all the Army boys could go home. In addition, a lot of civilian jobs would become available to man the station – jobs that Matty thought would be worth anywhere from $400 to $600 per month and be attractive to some signal corps men. We wished Matty lots of luck, but the idea never caught hold at RCA.

Matty also advised that RCA was starting up an overseas phone service for military persons. They were offering three minutes at a modest charge. Matty said don’t try it – first minute, the lady cries – second minute, nobody can think of anything to say – third minute, she cries some more – end of conversation.

Final points were reckoned as of V-J Day when my total was 50. But the word passed around was that the first returnees would be people with 85 or more points. So I knew I had a long wait. However, the Army also announced a goal of returning 75% of the officers by 1 July 1946.

In October, the PX announced a new gift service tailored to the Christmas season. Simply pick out a gift from their new catalog, identify it by catalog number, and pay for it along with mail and handling charges. They would assure that the gift, appropriately wrapped, would be delivered in time for Christmas. I used the service for gifts to Fran and our parents.

From time to time, various men had animal mascots. Probably our favorite was Peso, a little white short haired English terrier. He was an energetic and sociable tyke – enjoyed going to the movies where his yipes were regarded as applause, and his growls were disapproval ratings. Peso usually made the rounds of all the living quarters at least once a day. But, of course, his favorite hang-out was the kitchen where he got special notice. Peso had a friend, a perky white female we called Queenie. The boys had a betting pool as to when there were going to be more Pesos. I forget who won the pool.

The dogs

 

My letter of 17 September contains note of a trip.

“Today the boys arranged a trip to Tagaytay Ridge, so I went along. It was a fizzle, however, for when we arrived the clouds were too dense. The Ridge is about 30 miles south of Manila. On good days, I am told, one can look straight down on Lake Taal with its volcanic mountain out there in the middle. But the fog was so thick it was like trying to look through some ice cream at the bottom of a dish. But we could see back to the north where Manila Bay (cluttered with ships) spread out, and back to the east separated by a narrow land corridor from the broad expanse of Laguna de Bay. I can easily believe that, on a bright clear day, this is one of the scenic spots of the world.”

The weather pattern in the Philippines follows an interesting pattern. One could generally anticipate lots of hot sunshine during the day when the temperature would be in the nineties, so we usually wore a sun-tan uniform, with the collar open, and the sleeves rolled up partially. Strictly speeking, the correct uniform required a tie, but nobody wore them. Sometime almost every day, one could also anticipate a sudden rain storm. The rain would be heavy for periods of ten to sixty minutes, but would then shut off like somebody turned off the faucet, and the hot sun would reappear. So we became accustomed to a wet feeling; either we were wet from perspiration, or we were wet from the sudden downpour. The weather terror was the sometime typhoon. Then the rain would be accompanied with very high winds causing the rain to seem to fall horizontally, and things in our tents would get soaked. And sometimes, the wind would overturn somebody’s tent. Frank McTigue often talked about the Navy’s fear of typhoons because they could be fierce enough to sink ships.

The days crawled by as we hoped for signs that the homeward trek had started. Our biggest problem was how to fill up the “wait” time and make it tolerable. Work didn’t do it; there were so many officers available that we went on an 8 hour on, 24 hour off cycle, which simply supplied more hours to be filled up. We wrote letters. I wrote one every day to Fran, and often to others including my mom, my brothers, and friends like Benny Rosenburg and Johny Powers. We saw movies. There was a double feature every night. The Navy had a receiver station adjacent to ours. They had a much grander living style which included a large day room with handsome movie facilities. So we shared movies at their place. They had a daily allotment of one show, and we did also. Not infrequently, the movie was a repeat, but that seldom made any difference; we went to see it anyhow.

We read books. I think I read two or three a week, which was fast reading for me. We lingered over meals, and we lingered over showers when there was lots of sun heated hot water. We slept a lot. We played games a lot. Card games, especially poker, appealed to most guys, but my passion was chess. Hardly a day passed without one or more bouts of chess with another officer. And we went sight seeing when a jeep could be wrangled from the motor pool. Lots of guys took courses from the Armed Forces Institute. And later, when it was allowed and cameras became available, we took lots of pictures which we also printed and developed.

The World Series that year was between Detroit and Chicago. Because of the great interest in the games, WVTM intended to put them on in real time as well as several taped replays. The need for the real time broadcast was to keep honest the betting that was sure to ensue throughout the services. The problem with a real time broadcast was that it started at three AM our time. But, in view of the importance of a good signal, I kept for myself the task of selecting the stateside signal that we would pipe downtown to WVTM. It turned out to be an interesting challenge, because it was a time of day and a frequency band when conditions could be quickly changeable. I learned that when the direct path signal via San Francisco fell apart, there often was a very good signal available via the Armed Forces station in London.

One day in October, Lt Barksdale, who had a point total of 96, got his orders to report to the Replacement Center for shipment to the States. We cheered for him and for this concrete proof that the home bound process had indeed started. Barksdale turned the administrative reins over to Lt Griggs and left.

Got talking to our Filipino houseboy, Frisco, one day after he had happened to see the collection of photographs on the inside of the cover of my footlocker. He expressed the opinion, “You rieesh – you rieesh!”

“No,” I said, “I’m not rich. That’s my father’s house; but most houses back home are like it. Tell me about where you live.”

Then I got a pathetic tale. Frisco was married with two baby sons (he looked like a young kid himself), and they lived with his parents in a one room bamboo hut down the Batangas road. The Army pay was thirty pesos a week, but rice for the family cost him three and a half pesos per day. No wonder he thought me rich.

As each day went by without visible signs of people leaving to go home, the matter of returning the boys became a political issue. The Signal Center had been putting out a news bulletin called GROUP GARBLE. The editors started a movement to get everyone to write a slogan on the outside of their letters home – the slogan to read, NO BOATS, NO VOTES. I don’t know if it had any real impact, but when a note from my dad said the activity had found its way into the Congressional Record, we felt better at least. Then the Manila Port Commander announced that he would be willing to use Liberty ships as troop transports. He would have to have forty-eight hours work time, and money enough to add facilities for feeding and caring for men for a thirty day trip – the Liberty was designed as a cargo carrier. Apparently, he was given such authority – by November a Liberty left Manila taking 500 men home.

31 October 1945 was the third anniversary of my marriage to Frances. I marked the day with a telegram to her, and she sent a wire to me. But cables were a sad substitute for in-person celebrations. We would just have to make things even next year on the fourth anniversary.

The Army announced a major re-enlistment plan; we officers were supposed to spread the word.  The idea was to collect lots of volunteers for overseas service by offering an attractive deal.  There would be a major re-enlistment bonus, a choice of duty assignments outside the Continental limits, and a ninety day furlough at home, with priority shipping, prior to the start date of the new enlistment. The idea had an immediate appeal to the low point men whose prospects for going home were remote, and these men signed up in droves. It apparently mattered little to Army authority that this plan would further delay the legitimate return home program based upon point totals. Nor was it ever explained why the Army needed more men – we thought the idea was to dismiss the troops as fast as possible. These days we would have been aware that high ranking officers never are willing to diminish the size of their commands.

One day in November my attention focused on my carbine which was perched convenient to my bunk. I realized that I hadn’t given it any attention in weeks and it was due for a systematic cleaning and oiling. I set to work putting it in first class shape, all the while thinking why do I need this thing anymore? When I had the gun shining like new, I took it over to the supply room and turned it in. I noted that it had never been fired in anger. The sergeant was quite willing to accept it, and as he made out a receipt for the weapon, it seemed like another symbolic gesture that the war was over.

It turned out that Peso had a son, and the boys named him Lucky. Lucky was a chip off the old block, full of pep and enthusiasm for rough house. He trailed along after Peso to the movies every night; but soon bored of the pictures, he usually busied himself chewing on somebody’s boots.

Amateur radio was officially authorized on 15 November, but Fred, and Ryan, and Taylor had already been busy building and testing transmitters. Soon there was a contest to see who could make the farthest contact using no more than 5 watts of radiated power. Most of the boys operated at 20 meters on CW, and made frequent contacts in California.

Fred tuning up

The mess sergeant came back from his daily run to the supply depot for rations with the very happy news that he had some ice cream which he would serve at dinner. It was quite a treat when he set out banana splits with the vanilla ice cream smothered with butterscotch sauce. For a moment or two we could imagine we were back in the States.

Word had been passed that the Army Recreation center at Baguio was open, offering golf, tennis, fishing and swimming along with fancy quarters and delicious dinners. We had a surplus of officers, so Lt. Hannah was authorized to be absent for a week to try out the new facilities and report on them. Hannah was gone a week, and he returned quite satisfied. The golf course was top notch, so were the tennis courts, but he hadn’t tried out anything alse. Seems that the catch was that time spent officially signed in at the Center would be deducted from one’s terminal leave. So Hannah bummed a place to sleep at an MP camp, and ate at the USO and the Red Cross station, and never signed in to the Center, thus protecting his terminal leave time. All of us felt the same way about terminal leave – we wanted all of that when we got home – so none of the rest of us went to Baguio.

A notice on the bulletin board indicated we were entitled to wear two more ribbons. Everyone could wear the Victory ribbon. And anyone who had served in the States for at least one year was entitled to the American Theater ribbon. So I had those two added to my Good Conduct ribbon, my Philippine Liberation ribbon, and my Southwest Pacific ribbon with two stars (Leyte, and Luzon). So that made a total of five ribbons to decorate my dress uniform. We also were notified that the official shoulder patch of the 4025th Signal Service Battalion had been determined. Patches, to be worn on the left shoulder of the dress uniform would be available in about two months; however, the company tailor made some up and sold them to the men.  I got one and sent it home to Fran to attach to the uniform.  We also learned that any patch of any unit that one had formerly been in could be put on the right shoulder.  So I asked Fran to put a 9th Armored patch on the right shoulder.  But, the other day, some 45 years later, I checked my olive drab winter uniform and found that neither patch has been sewn in place.  So there is a 45 year old chore waiting for Fran.

In November we learned that the long term plan for operating WTA was to hire Civil Servants to augment a cadre of regular Army people.  The Civil Service jobs were tentatively put in the salary range of $2900 to $4500 per year which was assumed to be enough to interest lots of enlisted men. But there was no big rush to sign up because everyone wanted to know what the policy would be about bringing wives to the islands.  The wife question was initially answered affirmatively – of course you can bring your wife over.  So several men signed on for a Civil Service appointment.  Then they got the truth – wives would not get transportation to the islands for another six months.  So all the candidates cancelled out.  But then one of them got a letter from home saying that both his brothers who had recently been discharged were unemployed and desperate to find jobs – so he changed his mind again and signed up.

The 16th of November 1945 was the first day of my fourth year in the Army.  I was now eligible for “longevity” pay, which meant a 5% increase in base pay, which figured out to $7.50 per month.

There was a smart Alec announcer at the Armed Forces Radio WVTM.  He frequently had nasty words for our service.  “We’ll now give you the latest State-side news – that is, we will if somebody is awake at the receiver site and smart enough to turn on the receiver.”  We decided to get even.  There was another service we picked up from the States which was news bulletins dictated slowly enough so that they could be directly typed by a secretary.  This was popular as a support for the many commands in the area. From that service we deliberately selected the noisiest hardest to copy signal we could find to transmit to WVTM.  After several days of that, and after WVTM had got numerous complaints from the various headquarters, I had a telephone call from the WVTM officer, with humble apologies for their past insults.  We gave them first class signals again.

I tried to swim every day, gradually increasing the number of lengths of the pool I did each day.  Around mid-November, I finally did 100 lengths without stopping, all breast stroke; that was well over a mile and I was totally bushed by the effort.  After that I raised my sights to do a 200 pool length swim, but I never made that. 

Blasting caps were very popular with the natives for their use in fishing.  A cap detonated in the water would stun the fish for yards around and they would float to the surface where they could easily be picked up.  So blasting caps were frequently the target of the Filipino raids on the Manila ammunition dump.  One night things got out of hand.  A burglary was interrupted in progress, and the Filipinos threw away the evidence, which promptly detonated and started a fire in the dump.  There followed three days of non-stop fire works that could be seen and heard for miles. 

One day in late November, Fred and I went for another ride in his boat.  We ventured out into the harbor to see what activity there was.  We didn’t like what we saw.  There was a large Japanese transport ship loaded with Japanese prisoners of war – all going home!  How come they get to go home while we still have to stay here?  Didn’t we win this war?  And then, at Pier 6, we saw the Lurline, one of the fastest and largest of the American tourist fleet, loaded with GIs.  But on close inspection, they informed us that they were a boat load of re-enlisters going home on their 90 day furlough.  We saw more red!  How come they all go home first?  And over at the fitting dock, there was a lone Liberty ship being altered to carry men home.  But it wasn’t moving, and when it did it would only take 500 men at a time, and consume nearly two months for a round trip.  So, downhearted, we rode back up the river and stopped at the small boat repair depot where Ryan was on duty as radio repair man; Phil was always good for a laugh or two and he obliged us again. 

A letter from brother Robert indicated that his prospects were good to be home from the European Theater by Christmas.  That was great news.  I reflected that Robert had gone into the service after me, had been to England and France, and now was getting out before me, and I had never seen him  while a member of the armed services.

Thanksgiving was early that year in the Franklin Roosevelt custom.  The mess sergeant out did himself.  He served breakfast, and then a mid-afternoon dinner that had everything a turkey feast could include, and all one could possibly eat. It put everyone in a festive mood in spite of our disappointment over the slow pace of the homeward trek.  Irrepressible Earl Hartman was in great good humor – at the start, that is, while singing the cook’s praises, he piled his plate high with all the good turkey, dressing, potatoes, gravy and everything else, then set the plate down at his place, and, as he was settling to enjoy the feast, managed to tumble the whole thing into his lap. 

One natural result of the slow pace of the homeward movement was that everyone had more and more free time, and they naturally gravitated toward Manila seeking diversion and amusement.  A recreation center was opened there, adding its attractions to the USO and the Red Cross canteens.  But this led to more soldiers getting drunk and rowdy, and the posting of more and more MPs.  By now there were even three check points to pass on the way into town.  I went with the courier one day in our motor pool’s armored scout car.  We were flagged down  at the first check point outside the nurses’ compound, where the MP directed that we provide transportation to two nurses, which we did.  On the return trip we were flagged down by the check point at the end of Dewey Boulevard, and the MP directed that we give rides to a bunch of men, which we did.  But when we got to the next check point, we were flagged down and the driver was given a ticket for having an overloaded vehicle.

One day, we were surprised by the arrival of a contingent of some 100 men commanded by a Captain Grant, who announced that this was the 2nd Signal Service Group, providing secret Intercept service directly for the War Department.  They had just flown in from the States, would make use of our intercept building, would expect to use our antennas and other technical facilities, and would expect to be fed and housed in our camp.  Friction promptly developed.  To begin with, Captain Grant wasn’t satisfied to sleep on a cot; only an iron bed with mattress and sheets would do. He didn’t get them, nor did he get any of the other State-side amenities that he wanted. 

Shortly after that, our first Civil Servant arrived.  He was a young fellow who had been trained in the RCA school, and seemed well qualified for radio teletype duty.  We got him settled, and that evening he came to the officer’s mess, a precedent already set by Mr. Matthews, also a civilian.  But Captain Grant blew his stack – for our Civil Servant was a black man, and Captain Grant did not eat with “niggahs”!  It was a tense situation, but when the Captain discovered that his rank was not enough to get our system changed, he backed down.  In subsequent years, I was to wonder if this had been a precursor to the famous lunch room scene in Georgia.  Weil, from the Deep South, was, of course, in the Captain’s corner.  He announced that it was only because he was about to go home that he could tolerate this breakdown of decent race relations. 

On 1 December, we switched to Daylight Saving Time, the only noticeable effect of which was that the open air movies could start earlier.  After that I got more sleep at night. 

Early in December Lt. Hannah, whose home was in Los Angeles, was released from duty and set to the Replacement Depot for shipment home.  We cheered and bid his farewell.  But we were to see him a number of times in the following days.  It was his luck to get to the Depot as an entire Signal Service Battalion was also checking in to go home as a unit.  They were an officer shy, so they picked up Hannah.  But home for them was Fort Monmouth – the unit was going there to be deactivated.  This meant that they would wait for a boat to take them all the way to New York: and the push out of Manila was to San Francisco.  So that outfit, with Hannah, sat and waited for a boat.  Hannah came back for supper many days giving us a blow by blow account of the mess he was in.  One day he was excited, for the aircraft carrier Yorktown had come into port to assist in moving personnel and his outfit had been put on the Yorktown shipment.  But then the next day they were taken off because the Yorktown skipper had declined to take his ship through the Panama Canal.  But the episode lost the Signal Boys their place in line for a boat and they had to wait some more.  It was nearly Christmas before Hannah finally left. 

Lt Hannah of California

Sgt John Lane of Tennessee

 

Sgt Harold Perry of Rochester

Lt Alfred Mack of Brooklyn

Lt Earl Hartman, left; dentist – name forgotten; Lt Murray Hannah

Photography gradually absorbed our interest.  The correspondence course I had take had gone fairly well, and I was ready to take pictures.  Problem was I didn’t have a camera.  Dad had sent me one, but it had never arrived.  Weil had one, and Fred had one, both 35mm, but borrowing was not too satisfactory.  However, film, paper, and chemicals were all readily available for free from the Air Corp Photo men who had a depot nearby.  They went strictly by the exposure rules; when film or paper passed the expiration date, it was giving away.  But the stuff was actually still useful.  So we set up our own photo lab in the corner of our tent.  There were plenty of bottles for developer (Weil always had plenty of bottles around).  We got started by developing films shot off by Fred and Weil.  We followed the photography text exactly and did fairly well. Prints were another matter because for some time we didn’t have an enlarger.

One day there was advance word of an important transmission coming in over the Single Side Band circuit.  It was expected at three in the morning, and was to be relayed to the Signal Headquarters. The brass downtown was quite anxious about this circuit, and we had to demonstrate that we were ready.  At the appointed time, I was in the station to be sure that the signals were in good order.  It turned out that the important transmission was a broadcast of the Army vs Navy football game for use of the Downtown Officers’ Club.  No wonder the brass was anxious for good signals.  But, at about half time, the San Francisco circuit, as customary, began to fade out.  Fortunately, I had learned from my frequency work that a signal of about 5000 ck originating in London would be strong in Manila at that time.  I searched that part of the spectrum using a Super-Pro receiver and found the game broadcast coming in strong from an Armed Forces station in London.  We switched to it from our fancy side band receiver and finished the game in great style. I don’t suppose anybody at the Officers’ Club was conscious enough to hear it. 

Early in December, about twenty of our men were released from duty, but they weren’t sent to the Replacement Depot immediately.  That was a mistake. While waiting, it was a non-stop party with a high alcohol content.  Someone decided to have fun with the company bulldozer which was parked in the motor pool.  They decided to mow down our tent city, but were dissuaded by some of the men not released.  So then they decided to tackle the antenna field and knock down the towers.  Fortunately the dozer got stuck in the mud before they got to the poles.  The CO was all for holding a Court Martial but I persuaded him to send the exuberant drunks off to the Replacement Depot instead. 

The headquarters officers put the fancy Wac-Wac Country Club back in commission.  One Sunday, Bill Gausman invited Fred and me to accompany him to check out the place.  It was pure luxury.  They had the best of everything.  There was a bar and lounge, there was a dining room with waiters and tablecloths, there was a large swimming pool with numerous WACs and Nurses lounging around the edge, and there was a championship golf course. The golf course was still being reworked, and play was not yet permitted. And the tennis courts needed lots of work.  But a good time was had by all.

Hemond and Gausman

Bill Gausman

Officers’ pool at Wac-Wac

On December 17, 1945, Headquarters Order #177 was issued.  Therein, Hollowell, Nordahl and Hemond were all promoted to the rank of 1st Lieutenant.  The most immediate impact was a pay raise: I now earned a total of $308.60 per month.  Shortly after that, both Nordahl and Hollowell moved from town out to the site.  Fred moved into my tent bringing with him some nice tables and a fancy Australian radio receiver that he had liberated.  Jim Nordahl preferred the officers’ quonset. Weil was expecting to leave soon, and as a parting gesture he had found enough plywood to make us a new tent floor and even put it down all by himself.

Christmas was a strange day.  From time to time, packages and cards had been arriving – I saved all such to be looked at on Christmas.  Fred and Ira Weil took the other approach and opened everything the moment it arrived.  So on Christmas, they had nothing new and shared my packages.  I learned later that things I had sent home had at least arrived in the Christmas season.  I had sent Fran a blouse made here by a Filipino tailor using material salvaged from one of the parachutes that the Airborne troops had used in the recapture of Corregidor. The mess sergeant did even better with the Christmas meal than he had done on Thanksgiving.  We spent most of the afternoon eating it.  Earl came in for more kidding as the fellows remembered his embarrassing food spill at the Thanksgiving dinner.  He did better on Christmas – until dessert, that is – then his exuberance got out of control again and he spilled a glass of cider all over his trousers.

Fran’s parachute silk blouse

There were wild parties on New Year’s Eve.  The Enlisted Men’s Club whooped it up and could be heard for miles.  Most of the officers went to the downtown club for a night of revelry.  Hemond volunteered to man the station and had a very quiet evening – scarcely any radio traffic.  And thus Hemond was the only sober guy in camp on 1 January 1946.  The mess sergeant had another grand meal for New Year’s Day, but there weren’t many hungry chaps around.

On 2 January 1946 I decided finally that I must have my own camera; too many photo opportunities were getting lost without one.  So, with Weil along for his bartering capability, we went into Manila’s shopping district.  A number of little stores were in operation, and some of them had cameras for sale.  We looked them over closely but failed to find a unit that fit our requirements.  Finally we ran into a soldier from the 86th Infantry with a camera he was trying to sell to the shop keeper.  I asked what he had, and he showed us.  It was a German made unit that he had bought when the 86th was in Germany; now the man was going home on points and he wanted to get rid of the thing. It was a Weltix, well preserved in a nice leather carrying case.  It was a 35mm that folded into a compact package that fit into my shirt pocket.  It could stop down to f2.9, and it had shutter speeds down to 1/3000 second.  It would do the trick.  I paid him 100 pesos (that would be $50) and the camera was mine.  To celebrate a successful mission, we went over to the Manila PX which had lately started to sell ice cream cones and had ourselves several.  That camera took lots of pictures in the Philippines, on the way home, and for years afterward until it was superseded in 1980 by a Canon AE-1 reflex unit.

LT Ira Weil, Jeep

One day, Fred liberated a big roll of nylon screening.  We set out to tack it up all around the tent openings to try to keep the mosquitoes at bay.  It was a big job, but proved worthwhile – it kept the critters out and we could devote attention to our photographic work on dark nights.  After than Fred found a large tarpaulin that could be used as a second roof, thus forming an air space which should keep the temperature in the tent at more manageable levels during the heat of the day.  It was tough getting that in place, but Weil even helped out and we got the job done.  It too worked like a charm.

My letters are overflowing with comments and complaints about the way the job of getting the boys home was being handled.  Nothing however irritated the men more than the monumental goof by Secretary of War Patterson.  When he addressed the troops in Manila over the radio station, he displayed almost complete ignorance about the policy as well as the status of the home trek.  The following day there was a spontaneous crowd of about 20,000 angry soldiers in front of GHQ shouting obscenities and demanding an explanation.  Lt. General Styer, the ranking officer since MacArthur was in Tokyo, tried to mitigate their fury, but he got booed for his trouble.  The MPs finally had to break up the meeting, but it was a long time before the men could forgive and forget.

Our photographic “lab” was badly in need of an enlarger if we were to get decent size prints from 35mm negatives.  Once again Fred was equal to the challenge.  Somewhere he found a set of lenses that had been used in a camera, and these became his projection lenses.  The kitchen yielded two large food containers, which, when soldered together made a fine housing for the light source.  A couple of pieces of brass strips were used to make a negative holder, and we were in business.

Photo enlarger

And what a business it became.  Hardly a night went by when someone wasn’t developing film or making prints.  And with this facility, there was great impetus to take pictures of the area.  Most Sunday afternoons were used for photography junkets.  We revisited Tagatay Ridge one day, went to see the Ipo dam north of Manila on another day, toured out to the Wawa Dam east of Manila on another Sunday, all the time taking pictures of scenes and scenery. The Weltix did noble duty and proved to be a fine camera. (Editor’s note – see end for gallery of Philippine photos.)

On 21 January, Ira Weil got his orders to report to the Depot for shipment to the States.  Within thirty minutes, Ira was packed and the courier took him to the Depot.  Ira was back for supper, however, because there were no ships that were ready for loading passengers.  It was another week before Ira actually got an assignment to a boat.  During that time his main interest was figuring out how to smuggle enough booze on board to last him the trip.

About that time, the personnel situation for running the station was getting highly confused.  The regular enlisted men had decreased greatly in number, the recruitment of Civil Service personnel had increased, the number of Filipino operators had increased, and there were too many officers.  Earl Hartman made me his Assistant and gave me responsibility for keeping all circuits manned properly at all times.  With the continuing mix of people available, it was a challenge.  Civil Servants in particular were hard to deal with because they would do only what was in their contract.  Thus a repairman would not operate, and an operator would not repair. This is not exactly the situation we had had with all enlisted personnel.  The Filipinos were very willing, but all of them were beginners and it took more time to see that they did the work correctly than it would have required to do the work oneself.

One hot day I wondered why I continued to wear combat boots when they made my feet uncomfortable.  Somebody said there were low cut shoes at the PX.  So I went and bought a pair of fancy officer shoes.  They cost me three pesos and sixty centavos.

As noted, Sunday afternoon had become the time when we went on photo and sight seeing expeditions.  About mid-February, I set out to see the Malacanan Palace, the home of the Philippine President.  I didn’t know the way for sure, so I stopped to inquire of a Filipino standing beside the road.  He said sure he knew the way; and he was even going that way so could he have a ride?  I readily agreed, whereupon he turned and beckoned to a group of natives that were huddled behind some shrubbery out of my sight.  The gang, consisting of children and adults, came pell-mell jumping in and on the jeep grasping every hand hold.  I was inundated with ragged odorous humanity.  But I had made an agreement and stuck with it.  So did the guy, and after a short drive, we were at the Palace, the gang debarked, and I could breathe again.

The Palace grounds were surrounded by a wrought iron fence, but the gate was open and unattended.  I walked inside.  The grounds were immaculate.  Gorgeous gardens were everywhere, providing tempting targets for my camera.  I explored the grounds all the way around the mansion, expecting to meet someone who would challenge my presence – but I met no one.  I approached the front entrance of this ornate Spanish style structure, and, finding the door wide open, I entered.  There was not a person in evidence, so I continued my exploration wandering through room after room, all richly furnished and decorated, all gleaming and polished.  I exhausted my roll of film and left, totally amazed that I could have seen their “White House” all by myself totally unchallenged.

Malacanan Palace

Malacanan Palace

 

On 19 February, the names of Hartmann, Schmalback, and Hemond were posted on the “90 Day List”.  This was great news signifying the beginning of the end of our Phillippine sojourn.  The 90 day List was the General Headquarters method for warning the various commands that the people whose names were there would be available for duty no more than another 90 days.

Chuck Schmalback

The scene was gradually changing.  We learned that one day when we went to call on Phil Ryan at his small boat radio repair shop. Phil wasn’t there – in fact the radio facility had moved out and in its place was a store, run by some natives.  We hunted around and finally found Phil – the owner of the property had reclaimed it from the Army and gone back into business, forcing Phil to find a new spot for his service.  That same day we went down to the wharf area to see what troop activity there was.  There wasn’t any, but we did find that two commercial sea lines had reopened their docks for business.  And back at the site, we found Mr. Matthews steamed up over the fact that he had to give up some of his space because the Army was renting it to Mackey Radio Company – RCA was to have competition.  And then one day, we were ordered not to let civilians in to see our movie shows; seems the commercial theater interests were complaining that we were spoiling their business.  We conformed to the order by putting a low rail fence around a small section of our open air movie ground and calling that the theater in which civilians were not allowed.

The power line from the power house to the living quarters was not properly protected from short circuits because the proper power switch had not been available at the time we had strung the line.  We had promised ourselves we would fix this as soon as possible.  One very hot afternoon, I looked at Earl Hartman, and he looked at me and we mutually suggested that we should go into town and locate a power switch.  We took off in Earl’s jeep, and when we got to town we stopped off at this place that had a long line of guys.  We joined the line, and after a wait, discovered that they did not have power switches – only double chocolate hot fudge sundaes.  To be certain, we even stood in line twice – but they still only had double chocolate hot fudge sundaes.  Thereafter, on succeeding days, we went on a number of power switch searches, but always the lines led only to ice cream concoctions.

Ryan’s jeep was stolen one day emphasizing the problem of protecting one’s transportation.  The Army had started selling surplus jeeps to civilians, but there was no policy for spare parts or tools.  So the Army’s jeeps became targets of civilians needing something; tires were frequently stolen, but it was easier to take the whole machine.  Fred took action to protect his jeep; he installed three great big padlocks; one sealed off the engine; one held onto the spare tire; and the third locked the steering wheel; all in addition to the ignition lock plus an additional hidden ignition switch.  One would have to know the combination to get away with Fred’s jeep.

Fred with Jeep

HC – same Jeep, same place

Checking the dipstick

Army Recreation started to offer a day trip out to see Corregidor.  One Saturday, Fred and I decided to go.  We had to start early, for the boat left from the wharf area about 8:30.  Turned out the trip was only for enlisted men who had reserved places; but the sergeant running the show let us get aboard anyhow.  The boat used was similar to the 100 foot vessels that the Coast Guard uses for harbor patrol.  At fifteen knots, it took a good part of the hot sunny morning to cross the broad bay and reach the pier at Corregidor’s narrow waist.  Then we tramped the island from end to end taking many pictures.  The fortifications and structures were in complete ruin, and so rapid is jungle growth that much of the destruction was already being buried under the foliage.  The island consists of two major rock mountains separated by a small low plain in between.  The smaller mound, to the east, is honeycombed with tunnels which were used as the island’s hospital.  The larger mound, to the west, facing the ocean, was studded with coast artillery.  Standing on the edge of the sheer cliffs that face the sea, and observing the narrow harbor entrances, one on each side of the island, I could easily imagine that the island was impregnable.  Yet MacArthur and Wainwright had lost it; and so, in their turn, had the Japanese lost it.

Headed out to Corregidor

Control of the Civil Service personnel became more and more of a problem as their numbers gradually increased.  With enlisted men, an order could be issued, and it would be complied with.  That process with the Civil Service only invited trouble.  After much thought, I decided that we had to resort to a system of Delinquency Reports.  Orders to the Civil Servants would be posted on their bulletin board.  If someone did not comply, a Delinquency Report was issued.  The Report had a place for the person to reply in writing. The system multiplied the paperwork, but it worked – Civil Servants do not like a paper trail defining their delinquencies. 

On 18 March, Earl Hartman was relieved of duty, and the responsibility for command of the radio station WTA was turned over to Hemond.  Earl signed in at the Paranaque Replacement Depot that day, but was back in camp for supper.  He wasn’t assigned to a ship until 26 March.  In the meantime, we managed to fit in a few more “power switch” searches. 

Two of the Civil Servant shift chiefs were men with merchant marine backgrounds who had been hired by the personnel Major downtown.  One of these fellows struck me as unreliable, and I began to wonder about him.  So I made inquiry one day of the Manila F.B.I. representative, who said that merchant marine personnel frequently were a source of trouble.  “Ask to see their Draft Cards”, he suggested.  So I did, of both of the men.  In both cases the answer was evasive, “It’s down in my luggage in my tent.”  The next day, the one I was suspicious of was nowhere to be found – he had disappeared into thin air.  And the other one sheepishly admitted that he had no draft card because of his age – he was only seventeen, and had falsified his age on his application.  I gave him the choice of being fired, or requesting demotion to shift operator.  He took the latter.  The two shift vacancies then generated some healthy competition among the other Civil Servants.

Pay scales for the Filipino civilians had become a problem.  The whole battalion was now employing about 1400 Filipinos without ever having tried to put together a sensible pay policy.  The natives were conscious of this; for instance, our power plant operator got less money than a day laborer at the Control Center.  One of the HQ Majors was told to straighten this mess out, and he put together a committee to help.  I was one of the group.  We met for three straight days at the Transmitter site north of Manila before we finally got a handle on the problem. 

A typhoon struck the Philippines on 4 April.  Thanks to Fred’s ingenuity in finding sufficient numbers of cables and anchors, our tent suffered no damage.  But the camp generally was roughed up.  At least six of the tent quarters were completely blown away, and most of the permanent buildings had roof damage. 

On 10 April, I was released from duty.  Command of the station was turned over to Fred Hollowell, and I was free to plan ahead while awaiting shipment orders.  My first concern was the condition of my luggage.  We could ship a foot locker and a duffle bag.  We were permitted to carry whatever we could personally manage.  I planned to carry my Val-Pac.  Upon checking it out, I discovered that it was occupied by a family of mice.  I routed them out, and then noticed that the straps were mildewed and frayed.  They needed replacement.  Fred helped.  He had some good straps liberated from somewhere. 

All luggage had to have name and final address painted on in large black letters.  There was some satisfaction in doing that and observing the results.  Maybe this was real, and I was going home! 1ST LT HAROLD C HEMOND 01650573  174 PEARL ST  HOLYOKE, MASS 

On 12 April, exactly one year to the day from when I had first set foot on the Philippines, I was advised to pick up orders at Battalion Headquarters.  I did so, learning that I was to report to the Paranaque Depot on the morning of 16 April 1946.  Chuch Schmalback also received orders, except he had to report on 15 April.  Phil Ryan and Steve Taylor were included on the 16 April order.  I reported to Col. Beck and expressed appreciation for having the good fortune to serve under his excellent leadership.  He was gracious, assuring me that no officers were any better and that there was a place for me in the Army at any time.  I saluted and left HQ – for good!  I went back to camp and sent a telegram to Frances. 

But that wasn’t the only biggie event of the 12th.  That night, Fred and I got robbed! Probably by some native, although that is speculation. The uniform I had been wearing that day, I had put on my trunk locker as I went to bed.  It was gone in the morning. Along with it went a fountain pen and a pocket knife.  Fortunately, per a long standing Army habit, my wallet was safe under my pillow. But Fred wasn’t as lucky; he lost a uniform and his wallet.  After that Fred made up a booby trap using a long trip wire around the tent that would knock over a pile of coke bottles if disturbed.  They call that locking the barn door after the horse has run away. 

Fred’s amateur radio station finally got on the air the next day.  The Colonel had forbidden amateur transmissions out of the receiver site, and that had slowed Fred down a bit.  But he arranged to set his transmitter up at Control downtown, and operate it remotely over one of our spare telephone lines.  So on this day he was finally ready for a test.  He called CQ on 20 meters using the call KA1ZU, and immediately hitched up with a fellow on Guam. After that he tried for a Massachusetts contact, but didn’t make it. 

On the morning of 15 April, using Fred’s jeep, I drove Chuck Schmalback over to the Paranaque Depot.  Then I came back to the site, walked up to the station, and, with some strange sentimental tugs, looked the whole place over for the last time, wondering all the while whether or not my presence had made any significant difference.  That evening, the mess sergeant having also departed, the all Filipino kitchen put on the dinner; it was a delicious roast chicken meal with all the traditional fixings plus pie and ice cream for dessert.  After that there was a movie, and then I played Jim Nordahl three games of chess, winning two.  Early on the morning of the 16th, Jim Nordahl drove me over to the Paranaque Depot. 

It was important to get there early, because the order in which one signed in was the order in which one would get assigned to a ship.  I was not the first there – far from it – the place was overrun with officers with orders to report on the 16th.  I got in line and finally got into the processing deal which amounted to much paper work plus a bunch of shots by the medics. 

The medics seem to be the most important people to impress at the depot – can’t get on a ship unless they pronounce you fit for the trip with no infections, etc. After that, I got assigned to a barracks and began another wait. 

Paranaque, which is on the Batangas Road on the way into town about three miles from the site, had been originally built to house the Nurse Corps.  It therefore had a high dense fence all the way around to assure the ladies of privacy.  But that fence also assured the occupants of little breeze.  Of all the hot places I had been on the islands, this was certainly the hottest.  So, although we were technically restricted to the Depot grounds, most everybody ignored that order at will. 

The routine at Paranaque was simple.  There was shower and shave, dress, and breakfast.  Then wait for the posting of ship assignment which happened around ten o’clock – if your name did not appear, you were free until the next day when the process was repeated.  Four transport ships were in the harbor: the Sea Star, the General Bundy, the General Pope, and the Admiral Sims.  Everybody speculated as to which ship he would draw.  My guess was that I would be on the General Pope which would be interesting because it was a sister ship of the General Blatchford that I had come to the Philippines on.

But for the present, there was nothing more to do but wait.  Chuck was there.  So was Phil Ryan and Steve Taylor. 

On the 18th, Chuck’s name appeared on the list for Sea Star, leaving the next day.  We went out to the site for dinner, and Chuck bid everybody good bye.  The next morning, the two of us had breakfast, and then I helped him in his final packing.  He discovered that his toilet case did not have any soap -so I found an extra in my case and gave it to him – it was highly optimistic that he would get a chance to use it on the ship.  But then he was off, and I checked the bulletin board once more for my name with no luck. 

On the morning of Saturday, 20 April 1946, the shipping list for Admiral Sims was posted.  My name was there.  So was Ryan’s and Taylor’s  Shipment was set for Tuesday, 23 April 1946, at 9:00 AM.  That would be two days after Easter, which somehow seemed fitting.  I rushed to send a telegram to Frances. 

 

GOING HOME 

There was nothing I was required to do save wait for the Tuesday morning ship loading activities.  Theoretically I was restricted to the Paranaque grounds until then, but I wanted to use RCA for sending a wire to Fran, so I slipped out, went back to camp, got the telegram off, and then stayed for dinner, the Saturday evening movie, and a last round of good-byes. 

The next day, Easter Sunday, happy speculation at breakfast that the Sims was a speedy ship and we would have minimum time at sea with her was rudely interrupted by the public address horn.  “Now hear this! Sims passenger list has been corrected.  All hands should consult the corrected list when it is posted at 1000.”

Disaster! We’ve been bumped from the list!  Everyone conjured up his own version of what had happened.  I would be heartbroken if I had to rescind the happy telegram that I had sent yesterday.  The wait until 1000 was pure torture.  At last the list was posted.  My name was still there!  But thirty-three men had been dropped.  I didn’t know any of them.  Ryan and Taylor would still be on the Sims with me. 

Shaken by the event, I went off to the Easter Sunday service, which had a calming effect.  And after that I did some laundry.  Very little needed washing, but washing was doing something and it filled up time, so most of my clothes got washed.  It was a good move because it later turned out there were so many people on the Sims that access to the ship’s laundry was a lost cause. 

About noon, we were advised that luggage for the ship’s hold had to be ready on the shipping platform at 1600.  So I completed packing my foot locker and duffle bag, and surrendered them to the supply sergeant, wondering if I would ever see them again. 

Monday was a long, long day.  The only thing I had to do was pass by the doctor – he had the last word on whether of not a fellow could get on the ship and he was quite pro forma about it.  After that I got a haircut – not that I needed one, but it was something to do.  And then it seemed time to load my Weltix camera with a roll of Kodachrome film that I had been hoarding.  I planned to record this trip on film as best I could.  Fred came around to deliver some pieces of mail that had arrived at the camp, and he stayed for supper and the evening movie.  After that I wrote letter #417 to Frances – it was my last letter from the Philippines. 

Tuesday, the 23rd, was a typical cloudless warm tropical day.  I was up early, having tossed about in bed most of the night.  Ryan and I had breakfast together, and then we packed up.  I was ready to go at least an hour ahead of time.  I sat on my Val-Pac in the hot sun and wondered what criteria I would use for taking pictures, and never did develop a suitable answer.  As I looked about at the busy scene, I recognized many potential good shots, but my film supply was very limited.  This uncertainly was to plague me all the way home.  Some shots I took too soon rather than miss the chance for a picture; some shots I missed altogether waiting for a better angle or better light. 

Packed up – ready to go

About nine o’clock a convoy of GI trucks drove into the compound and we were told to climb aboard.  We did, and soon the caravan departed Paranaque, driving down the main street of the little village on the now familiar road to Manila. None of the natives took any notice; it wasn’t like the cheering waving greeting we had had the year before.

GI truck convoy going home

Troop ship loading up, Manila

The Manila dock area was not far, and soon we were rolling past the MP gate heading for Pier #6 where we could see a large grey ship; its name board, Admiral Sims.  The convoy stopped nearby, and we were told to dismount, and respond to a roster check. This took time; and it was hot.  Finally, we were directed to the gangway midships which went from the dock level up to the main deck, a vertical height of at least four decks.  At the bottom of the gangway, somebody else was making a roster check.  After he checked my name, I trudged up the steep narrow incline trying to keep my Val-Pac from snagging on the rail and wondering if we were supposed to observe the Navy tradition of saluting the flag on boarding.  Nobody was; so I didn’t. 

Admiral Sims

From the main deck, we serpentined through a hatch and down a stairwell – down several levels – at least four decks – through another hatch into a compartment with four high stacks of canvas bunks supported by iron pipes.  Aisles were barely as wide as a man.  The scene was already crammed with humanity – assorted officers all – 2nd Lts., 1st Lts., and Captains all in a jumble.  The grumbles were more than audible.

“Is this what they do fer officers?”

“Yeah, man, this is it.” 

“I wouldn’t put the horses in here.”

“The god damn gooks – they must be on board – this ship supposed to have quarters for 500 officers.”

I was no less chagrined by the sparse quarters, but determined to make the best of it.  If the ship went in the right direction, it served me well enough.  I struggled through the mass of men finally finding an empty bunk in a side aisle.  It was the bottom one of the stack.  I inspected it momentarily, figuring that there was room for me or the Val-Pac but not both.  But I was more interested in getting back topside to witness the departure and take a few pictures.  I put the Val-Pac in the bunk, strapping it to the nearest stanchion and assumed that was enough to mark the bunk as mine.  Noting carefully where I was so that I could bet back, I fought my way out of the compartment and got back to the main deck. 

Loading was still in progress, and as I gazed down at the dock, it became evident why thirty-three men had been bumped from the passenger list and the rest of us bumped from the officer quarters.  There below was a line of at least 150 pairs, male and female, GI and native girl, and an occasional child.  Many a guy was bringing home his Filipino wife!  Rather than watch the family migration, I turned my attention to the ship.  I was going to be on it for a while so I wanted to see what there was.  It certainly was big.  Later I learned that it was 608 feet long, with a 75 foot beam, and a 29 foot draft, weighing in at 22,000 tons, and capable of 19 knots cruising speed.  I walked fully around the main deck, looking at the ship first, and then gazing out across the bay trying to decide which of the many photo opportunities merited one of my precious shots.  Somewhere the ship announcing system was giving directions about lunch, but I was not ready for that hassle, and anyway, I wanted to watch the departure. 

It probably was about noon when the lines were cast off and the Sims began to move.  I noticed with some gratification that the engines could not be heard – probably because they were rotary steam turbines – and probably because they were new.  Pier 6 drifted away as Sims backed off to her full right rudder.  Then she went ahead and turned west toward Corregidor and the harbor entrance.  I climbed to the top deck for the best all around view.  Although lots of GIs were on deck, I was somewhat surprised they were not all there.  No doubt many were seeking lunch.

Ships – Manila Harbor

The blue expanse of Manila Bay, some thirty miles across, was flat as could be for there was no breeze at all.  I was glad of that – it would reduce the onset of sea sickness.  Thinking of sea sickness recalled the frightful mess on the Blatchford on the way over.  Stay out in the fresh air as much as possible was a lesson I recalled from those days. 

Light cruiser

A picture of Corregidor was a must.  But when?  The island was already well defined on the horizon.  But much too far away for my little Weltix.  I watched as Sims gradually narrowed the gap and Corregidor grew.  When the island and both channels around it could be framed in the Weltix view finder, I was tempted to flip the shutter.  But I held off.  I knew I wanted shots of the island’s head walls and that would use up my picture budget. 

As we passed Corregidor close in at a few hundred yards distance, I took the photos that I apparently had programmed myself for.  I stayed on deck to get a further view of the island and Bataan Peninsula, for it became quickly apparent that Sims was going to round Luzon to the north leaving Bataan to starboard.  Well into the afternoon the Philippines had disappeared over the stern.  I got tired of watching and decided to try to find my bunk. 

Corregidor

 

Bataan

It wasn’t easy.  I got lost several times.  Finally I came upon a side aisle and found my Val-Pac in a lower bunk quite as I had left it.  Trouble was that my neighbors had encroached on my limited space.  When they had been cajoled into removing their gear from my bunk, I had to fit my gear and myself into that little hole.  I opened the Val-Pac its full length and used it as a mattress. Not the Hilton, but it worked. 

The main problem was passing time.  As I had learned from experience, a daily routine would help to subdivide the day into manageable segments.  The routine was built around the meals.  When dinner was announced, one stood in line to enter the mess hall, ultimately was handed a divided tray which he carried to the food window.  There each segment of the tray was filled with something – meat, potato, vegetable, dessert, fruit, drink.  The eating area was beyond.  Long tables at waist height just wide enough for two trays, accommodated men on both sides.  It was a boisterous scene; eat quickly and make room for the next group was the rule. 

We were given three regular meals a day, and there was always plenty. 

My daily routine started early.  I woke and got up early when there was little competition for the wash facilities. 

Then the line, and breakfast. 

About ten o’clock, read the ship bulletin board and news report. 

Then the line, and lunch. 

After lunch, check the ship’s log.  At noon the ship’s position is reported.  Soon the venturesome were running gambling pools based on the best guess as to distance the ship traveled in the past twenty-four hours. 

Mid-afternoon, the line and the ice cream cone. 

Then the line, and supper. 

After dark, watch the open air movie on top deck (no matter what is showing). 

About eleven, get in bed. Sleep if you can. 

In between, lounge in the open air on top deck; that will suppress sea sickness and avoid crowd illness.  Play chess if a player is available.  Steer clear of the gamblers.  Thus the days dragged by. 

I hadn’t seen Ryan since we boarded  It must have been the second or third day when I saw him.  He had been assigned responsibility for the ship’s “zoo”.  This was a screened off segment of the top deck where animals belonging to the passengers were housed.  There was every kind of pet imaginable.  Ryan had to see to their welfare, arrange food and other essentials, and keep the area sanitary.  I went up to see Phil expecting to hear a tale of woe.  but not so.  He was having a great time.  He had drafted the GI pet owners to do all the physical work. 

The days dragged by, a week dragged by, and it was May Day. 

On the evening of 6 May, the public address sounds: “Now hear this.  The Captain estimates time of arrival, Port of San Francisco, 0900 tomorrow.”

Cheers rang out throughout the ship! 

Little sleep that night.  I wanted to be up and on deck when we made the Port.  I overdid as usual.  By 0400, before sun-up, I went on deck to look around, but could see nothing.  And it was cold; not really cold; just balmy Frisco weather; but cold by standards of the tropics.  I went below and struggled to fish my great coat out of the Val-Pac.  It didn’t have a liner – but it was the best I could do.  I went back top side to take up my vigil.  I wanted a picture of this event. 

Gradually I was joined by others.  As dawn was breaking I suppose the entire contingent of some 5000 men must have been on deck taking advantage of every possible perch. 

Some sharp-eyed fellow called out, “There’s the Golden Gate!” 

I couldn’t see it.  There was a low-lying fog bank. 

The sun rose higher, the fog thinned out, the bridge came faintly into view, and Sims was heading straight towards the center arch. 

The gap between Sims and the bridge decreased, and an optical illusion worried me though I knew better.  The masts of the Sims which I was standing beneath looked too tall to get under the bridge. 

Couldn’t be.

But as the bridge got closer, the bridge got higher.  So then I took a picture. 

At last we were under the bridge and back in the States.  Almost home.  I took another picture. 

Past the bridge we looked back at it as the morning sun turned it into gold.  Yes, it was truly the Golden Gate – and I took another picture.  Sims coasted to a halt.  The anchor was dropped.  We were lying just off Fisherman’s Wharf.  It was about 0900 – just what the Captain had predicted.

But we had to wait.  All morning we waited during which time we watched as the General Blatchford came into the harbor, passed right on by, and headed for the docks in Oakland.  It was a great chance to take a picture of the ship I had gone out on, so I used another photo.  A great view of Alcatraz completed the views in the harbor.

Alcatraz

General Blatchford – Frisco harbor

There was a call for lunch, but I was too busy absorbing the sights and sounds of the Frisco harbor and shore to bother. 

Waiting to debark

It must have been 1500 before Sims began to move. Slowly she headed for the Bay Bridge.  We went under the bridge and passed the harbor ferry that plies between Oakland and Frisco.  Dead ahead was the Oakland Army Base.  Sims nudged up to the pier and cast her lines ashore.  The order to disembark was passed. 

We were let into a huge covered shed lined with steel cots, told to select one and wait for instructions. 

They were simple.  Trains to all points would be leaving  per the schedule on the bulletin board.  Find yours and be sure you are on it.  A steak dinner for everybody was being served in the terminal dining room.  And then he told us where the telephones were located. 

The rush to the phones was instantaneous.  I was as fast as anyone.  I placed a call to Frances.  Soon we were connected and I was able to announce my presence back in the States at the Oakland Terminal.  I think Matty must have been exaggerating.  We didn’t use up our telephone time with tears.  After that I called my mother with the same news. 

The steak dinner was terrific, partly because it was good, and partly because I hadn’t eaten all day.  I ate with Steve Taylor.  Ryan was still on the ship tending his menagerie. 

Then we checked the train schedules.  Train to Devens departed at 0900 the next morning.  Taylors’s train to Los Angeles was later. 

We looked at each other. “How about a run over to Frisco?” I asked. 

Steve was game, and, in spite of our fatigue, we caught the cars that traversed the Bay Bridge to Frisco, and got off at the foot of Market Street.  Why does everybody walk so fast? 

The city was ablaze with lights.  We were the only service men around.  It was business as usual.  Of course it was eight months after V-J Day.  For the vast majority, the War was old hat.  We decided to go to the Top of the Mark.  So we walked over to California Street and took the cable car to the Mark Hopkins Hotel.  To the Top we went.  We had rum cokes as we viewed the incredible Bay Area at night.  Then I ran out of gas.  Fatigue had caught up with me fast.  We left the Mark, and parted – Steve still had some places to visit.  I went back to the Terminal- to bed. 

Up early on 8 May.  Needed a shower most desperately, and got one in before breakfast.  Then some food.  Neither Ryan nor Taylor was in evidence – probably still in bed.  Concerned about my foot locker and duffle bag, I sought out the Terminal office and asked a Captain on duty.  “Everything is out of the ship’s hold,” he said.  “Have you checked the storage pens?  They are arranged by train destination.”   

With that advice I looked for the storage pens which were near the train loading dock.  One was marked Fort Devens.  I looked in through the heavy wire mesh, and there in plain sight was a foot locker marked Lt HAROLD C HEMOND.  I didn’t see the duffle bag, but seeing the locker was enough assurance that the luggage matter was under control. 

Then I repacked the Val-Pac, putting the dirtiest thinks in the bottom of the pockets and the still usable stuff where it would be more accessible.  Laundry would have to wait until I got home. 

It was 0830 and time to look for the Devens train.  I went to the loading platform, and a train was there already.  I asked a man in a conductor’s uniform, “Is this the train to Fort Devens.? 

“Sure is.  if that’s where you are going, climb aboard.”  I needed no further invitation.  Only for a while I was still uncertain because there were parlor cars!  With recollection of previous experience on troop transports, I certainly had not anticipated the Army would use parlor cars!  But other men began trickling in, and they were all headed for Devens.  So I chose a likely seat, stowed the Val-Pac, and relaxed. 

By 0900 the car was filled.  I had a seat mate – a Captain of Infantry as I remember.  The train began to move.  I had my camera ready.  I had budgeted some photos for likely scenes on the train ride across country.  But, of course, I was again uncertain when I should trip the shutter. 

By all previous standards, that was a luxury trip.  Comfortable seats during the day; Pullman beds with sheets at night; plenty of fine food three times a day; magazines to read; games to play; and the marvelous American countryside flashing by the windows. 

California town – from train

California scenery

Nevada

Mining town

Royal Gorge

But I was anxious to get home. 

Rest stop

Late afternoon of the second day, the train made a service halt at Salt Lake City.  I ran into the station and sent a telegram to Frances. 

ARRIVED SALT LAKE CITY  500 PM 9 MAY LOVE 

Great Salt Desert

The train went on, and our routine of eat, sleep, and whatever continued.  Two days later, we pulled into Kansas City in the morning and stopped at the station.  I dashed into the terminal, which was no stranger to me, and sent a telegram to Frances. 

ARRIVED KANSAS CITY 1030 AM  11 MAY LOVE 

Kansas City

Kansas City airport

Missouri town

Missouri farm

I sent another telegram that day also.

ARRIVED ST LOUIS 830 PM 11 MAY LOVE 

Sunday and Monday dragged by as the train rolled along at a leisurely pace.  There was no further opportunity to dispatch telegrams. 

Muddy canal near Cleveland

Ore carrier

Refinery

On Tuesday morning, 14 May, as I woke and looked out the car window, the scene was clearly that of upper New York State.  After breakfast the train rolled to a stop at a small station bearing the sign NORTH ADAMS.  Massachusetts at last! 

North Adams, MA

Williamstown, MA

Massachusetts – white birch

Fort Devens is located in Eastern Massachusetts in the Town of Ayer near to Route 2.  The rail line we were on would go through Greenfield, Athol, Gardner, and Fitchburg.  We ticked off the towns with mounting anticipation.  Shortly after the noon lunch, we rolled into the Devens depot, and debarked.

Separation from the service was by the numbers in typical Army style.  There was an orientation, of course; I could scarcely listen; I wanted to get on the phone to Frances.  But, as usual, the doctors had the first priority.  It was probably 1400 before I had a chance to use a telephone.  Frances was ready to leave; Matilda was raring to go; they set out immediately.

Most of the processing was scheduled for the next day. No there would be no exceptions; the schedule was quite fixed. Yes, officers were free to leave the Fort when not required at a processing session.

So nothing to do but wait some more.  This time for Frances.  We had agreed to meet at the Visitor’s Center. I walked over and checked the time – few minutes had gone by.  Tried to get interested in something to read – but impossible. Every so often I would walk out the front door looking for a sign of Matilda in the parking lot.  But the car wasn’t there.  I checked my watch.  Only five minutes had gone by since I last checked for Matilda.  Time had stopped.

During what must have been the umpteenth check, I saw somebody walking toward the entrance – it looked like Frances.  She came closer. Yes! Yes! It is Frances!  I rushed to sweep her up. JOY! JOY! JOY!

It was evening and the bugler was about to sound RETREAT.  All over the post time came to a stop and soldiers stood at attention as the flag was lowered.  We didn’t care.   The processing sessions were fully complete by late the following afternoon, so on 15 May 1946, Frances, I and Matilda drove to Holyoke, civilians all.  Our Army days were over.

Home

Fran – Fort Devens

Mom – 59 Fairfield Avenue, Holyoke, MA

PHILIPPINE GALLERY

Corregidor

 

 

Ruins

 

 

Legislative Building – artillery point blank

Old city walls

Downtown Army

Headquarters

General officers quarters

Exchange – PX

 

Rizal Stadium

AIRCRAFT

SHIPPING MANILLA HARBOR

 

 

Patrol boat powers up

OFF BASE

Intersection of Azcaraga and Rizal

Directing traffic

Manila Hotel – MacArthur’s residence

Santa Thomas

Pasig River – Heart of Manila

Fishing rig – Pasig River

Evaporating ponds for salt

 

COUNTRYSIDE

Japanese gun – 120 mm