My father was inducted into the Army at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, on January 15, 1942, a little more than a month after the attack on Pearl Harbor.  He was sent by train to the artillery training center at Fort Bragg, North Carolina; where he arrived some time before January 20 - the date of his first letter home from Fort Bragg. 

The letter below is his first substantive discussion of life as a new recruit.  I am interested in any comments.  

I hope you find this interesting! 

Postmark January 30, 1942, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.  Return Address Pvt. A.A. Pritchard, A-12-4 F.A.R.T.C., Fort Bragg, North Carolina.  Dated “Thursday Evening”, presumably January 29 .

Dear Folks:--

                First, I want to thank you for writing so promptly.  On the first day that mail arrived here, I got three letters,[1] more than anyone in the barracks!  (I haven’t fared so well since—but that is probably due to my neglect in writing) and believe me, it was good to hear from you.

                Second – the candy arrived today – and that was very welcome, too.  Since getting into this Army I’ve developed quite a sweet tooth; to the point where I have at least two bars a day.  (This will probably get a little too expensive after a while). 

                Shack[2] has probably relayed my tale of woe about K.P.[3] to you, so I won’t dwell on that.  I meant to write to you over the week-end but that beating that I took (in the mess-hall) discouraged that – rawther!   Elsa’s[4] letter – telling me that you were worried lest I were sick etc. – made me feel guilty on this score; but I’m a little afraid that circumstances balled me up.

                Something interesting is happening in the matter of our mess.  I’ve watched it very carefully, (it’s been so good) and peculiar to tell; very slowly (and deliberately, I think) it is beginning to take a turn towards the poor!  To check on myself, I’ve asked old hands from other outfits about this, and I’m told that this is a regular procedure.  For the first couple of weeks the food is good, then it begins to go down-hill.  Then just before the training period is over (and the selectee has completed his training period, - and  is about to be shipped somewhere) the food suddenly becomes very good again!  I have my idea about the reasoning behind all this, but it is too devious to go into.  Interesting (and somewhat tantalizing) to think about, though, don’t you agree? 

                To give you a rough insight into “My Day” (apologies to Eleanor)[5] .  Up at 6:00 A.M.  Then you rush like Hell into fatigues (with leggings and overcoat) with no time to wash, shave, or perform any toilet; and line up for reveille (in the dark).  After “2^nd platoon all present and accounted for” we tear back into barracks to make up bunks, sweep up the floor, clean up the latrine, and the innumerable details connected with policing up a barracks – hoping to pass a little water over your face before ”Chow” is called.  Following chow, back to the barracks to discard fatigue jackets and then to the parade field for calisthenics (good – but strenuous at first).  Back into fatigues (with rifle belt and rifle) for about an hour of drill and manual of arms (the other morning we drilled in raincoats, in the pouring rain; walking for a solid hour!)  The remainder of the day is taken up by an assortment of things – gas mask drills, general instruction in cannon firing, classes in military courtesy, first aid, organization of the army, duties of a guard, driving military vehicles (I have an army permit, incidentally – in fact, I spent all day hanging ‘round acting as the B.C.’s ( “Battery commander’s”) chauffeur – just took on (sic) a brief  trip to the finance office in a jeep – a different guy gets to do the job each day).  Then we have that little ceremony which I am beginning to detest quite completely – retreat!  Among the delightful details of this performance is one known as inspection; during which you swelter in an overcoat, holding your rifle across your body with the bolt drawn, looking (or staring) directly ahead, while an officer (generally a jerk 2^nd looey[6]) looks you over minutely.  If he decides to take a look at your rifle he simply snatches it out of your hands. And when his inspection is completed, he simply slings it back to you --- the dear God above is the only one who can come to your assistance if you miss that rifle!  There are, of course, any number of little items that he can find to tell you about – you say nothing in return (except to a direct question) – a little K.P. might be in order if the offense is great enough. Something like a mess-kit that isn’t scrupulously polished will bring this to your door.  Very entertaining!

                A couple of things more, then to what is now home – my bunk!  (in my next letter I shall attempt to tell you just what the job of an I&S (instrument + survey) man is --- if I can remember!

                The climate – at night – is the damndest thing I’ve ever run into.  You go to bed at nine with two blankets and swelter till about 1:00 A.M., then the bottom seems to drop out of the thermometer and you barely manage to keep warm till morning.  The days are lovely, though, very like our late spring or early summer (the native says this is an unusually fine winter).  One thing mars the beauty of a day here – the dust!  In building the center, they uprooted all the brush, leaving a dry, semi-sandy, semi-fine clay top soil exposed – The result that a little wind produces can easily be imagined.  Later, it gets to the point where you live in a perpetual cloud of dust – March or April, it starts. 

                Something surprising to me, - astounding, in fact, and then to bed. 

                We were taken on a general tour of the center last week; mainly to see the different types of guns and have their use and operation sketchily explained.  Remember this – this is an artillery training center.  And I only saw one (1) gun that might be classed as modern!  Don’t misunderstand – there are a goodly number of guns here -- but a bigger collection of prehistoric antiques couldn’t be found anywhere other than in a French junk shop.  Now perhaps this is my lack of knowledge of artillery (that lack definitely exists) but it seemed so apparent to even my semi-laymen’s eyes, that I don’t think I’m wrong.  Horse-drawn 155 m.m. howitzers that take 3 hours to set up are not modern weapons to my way of thinking, -- and French 75’s (the place crawls with them) – well, that ain’t exactly a brand new gun neither.  A good gun, yes --- but not compared with some that are available to be used against them.  And the trainee cannoneers don’t even use live shells! (They did before Dec.7)[7] Why?  Because they aren’t available – they’re being used in active combat, I presume.  And this in a country with the reputation for productive genius that we enjoy.  Simmered down what do we get?  A soldier who, incidentally, not might, but is being shipped to a combat zone (The 1st Division is in Ireland[8] our lieutenant told us last week – “hold onto your hats boys!” he said) who has trained on an obsolete gun, -- with dummy ammunition!  Good, no?  We could talk endlessly about blame placing  -- but that doesn’t put a modern piece of machinery under the gunner’s command, nor a live shell in the barrel. 

                I’m not being cheerful, I know, but reportorial rather.  Things are probably better than I’ve been forced to believe, but until I see an improvement, my opinion will not change.  To me, if my observations are correct, and this situation is general, it is a crying, God-damned shame, --- and there ought to be a little judgment arranged.  Or try a little philosophy (If you can find solace in philosophy while looking at the wooden-wagon wheeled cart that a 75 m.m. rests on) – the fault, dear Brutus etc.[9] 

                                                                                                                Good night, dears,

                                                                                                                                                Tony

---

[1] None of these letters have been found.

[2] Harold Shackleton, a friend from North Providence.

[3] “Kitchen Police” or “Kitchen Patrol” – widely disliked. 

[4] Elsa Pritchard MacCardell, Anton’s older sister.  Living in Providence, married to Dr. Frank MacCardell. 

[5] “My Day” was the title of a syndicated newspaper column written by Eleanor Roosevelt from 1935 to 1962.  http://www.gwu.edu/~erpapers/myday/, accessed February 7, 2014. 

[6] Second lieutenant, the most junior officer rank.

[7] The date of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, marking the U.S. entry into the war.

[8] The 34^th infantry Division was sent to Northern Ireland in January 1942.  The 1^st Infantry Division did not leave the United States until August. 

[9] A Reference to a speech by Cassius in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, act 1, scene II.