Another letter from my father to his parents - He has been in basic training at this point for about three weeks, and is beginning to reflect on the physical, mental, and psychological demands of his situation.
"K.P." is "Kitchen Police" - i.e., assignment to help a cook. Usually rotated, unless it was used as punishment for minor infractions. Widely despised.
Next week I plan to skip ahead to a different, more advanced kind of training which he began after as few months in the Army.. Enjoy this one and stay tuned for the next!
Postmark February 12,
1942, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Usual
return address. Dated “Sunday Afternoon
(Without K.P.!). Presumably February 8.
Dear Folks: --
Yesterday
I received a letter from Elsa[1] that got
me a little irritated with you both.
(Statement) She said that you had been worried about my condition and what
not! Now Look! If I’m sick, or in trouble, or in need of
anything, or whatever other worry-inducing circumstances might arise, ---- I’ll
let you know, and very shortly, too. So
don’t bother about me please. I’m in
good health, as good spirits as time will allow, and finding that I’m fairly
well able to take care of myself (to this point, at least). I’m genuinely sorry
if I’ve caused you anxiety because of my failure to write, -- and I shall
attempt to repair the damage. I have had time to write, very little, - very,
very little, -- but two matters have interfered. One is this matter of
polishing and cleaning. There is a
certain fixed percentage of a soldier’s time, a minimum that you can’t get
under, that has to be spent polishing and cleaning. I could tell you what you have to polish and
what you have to clean, but to you it would just be a list, and consequently
uninteresting. There are guys who
spend all their waking hours (off-duty) with Blitz Cloth, or Brillo, or Bon
Ami, or G.I. soap and a brush. I don’t
do all I should, but I am trying to keep an eye constantly on that
minimum. A bit of brass on a tent pole
that doesn’t glisten can find you on K.P. faster than you can say Fort
Bragg. Now I’m willing to take K.P. when
I get it because of my position on a list – that is a matter of uncontrollable
circumstance. But to get it because of a
spot of cosmoline behind my rear rifle sight?
Not good! To be avoided where
possible. Sedulously avoided, as the
Ph.D.’s would say!
The
other has to do with a mental condition.
It takes a certain amount of effort to concentrate sufficiently to write
anything intelligent, - right? And
sometimes the effort is too great -- during this toughening up period, at
least. Take a case in point.
Last
night we went on an overnight hike. Like
in the Boy Scouts, you know (only different!)
Well, you start out with a slight matter of about 65 pounds strapped to
various parts of your anatomy (like carrying yourself and about half another
guy) (a military rifle (not a .22)(a couple of blankets, overcoat, raincoat,
half a tent, gas mask etc. make up this mess that is slung on you).[2] Then you have a brief, carefree jaunt of
about 6 miles over sand roads in those nice, light, comfortable G.I.
shoes. Camp is pitched, mess served then
some singing (good!) and so to bed (for
bed read an in vain 8 hour struggle to get a little sleep in sweaty clothes
with a raincoat between you and the cold, cold ground (not Massa[3] –
me!. Up at six, rarin to go, of
course, to go through the same
procedure in reverse (i.e. direction).
As soon as you get back to camp (it rained, or poured, rather – to frame
the picture) you get your third typhoid shot (the heaviest). The above saga might appropriately be titled
“Lo, the poor infantryman!” Almost
forgot a little detail. That pack has a
habit of working on your abdominal muscles (besides chaffing chest, armpits and
shoulders). It produces a soreness over your whole stomach and lower rib
structure, so that when you cough which the boys do to such an extent that we
sound like a ward of consumptives (the dust, my dears, the god-damn dust). It gives with an effect like somebody jumping
feet first into your belly.
Perhaps my
picture is a little lurid, -- I doubt it.
For the uninitiated it’s a wee bit, - shall we say, trying? And, to get to the point of all this, -- that
effort necessary to concentrate (see about page 2) --- it’s tough to summon. Get the picture.[4] It is not all blackness, though. As I’ve told you, I have no doubts but that
as time goes on and I become more familiar with the ropes, it will straighten
itself out. You understand, I know. It’s
like a new job, -- the other fellow is just coasting along in a seemingly
leisurely fashion while you’re working like blazes trying to get your day’s
work done. There is the point of the training period being cut from 13 to 8
weeks to be considered. The Army won’t
shorten the amount of work, of course.
What was done in 13 weeks will now be done in 8, that’s all. Think about it a minute and you’ll realize
that we have a tremendous cut there.
Golly, it surprises me when I think that I’ll be here only 6 weeks more
(provided I don’t get some kind of a post here, - or (faint hope) get a crack
at officers training school).
This,
roughly, is what I’m being trained to do.
Our main job, the artilleryman’s job, is that of supporting the
infantry. First, we go into the field to
conduct a rough survey of the territory (with transit etc.). The reconnaissance officer (R.O.) has the
battery (3 or 4 guns) set up in what is considered a suitable place camouflaged
and made semi-permanent. An observation
post is chosen, generally on a hill commanding a complete view of the target
territory. If this can’t be done, some
poor second looey (a dime a dozen) is sent out 8 or 10 miles[5] ahead
with the infantry, to radio with a walky-talky corrective data after a check shot has been
fired. Where things proceed in the normal
course (i.e. a hill that can command the target area is available) the
observation post (O.P.) is set up and we begin work. Let’s throw a diagram in here, it may
help.
O.P.
(observation post)
(battery)
Three main things have to be found.
1. direction
- the direction of the target from the O.P.
2. elevation
– how high the gun must be pointed to get the shell to the target.
3. difference
in elevation – difference in elevation from sea level between the
gun and target that is. The gun might be
in a valley and the target a hill, and this difference would have to be
corrected for; added to the height that you have to raise your gun to for the
shell to reach the target if the gun and target were both on the same level.
Complex, ain’t it?
All right, let’s presume you have
these three figures. You’ve only got a
start. Why? Because all three figures were obtained from
work at the O.P. presuming that the gun was in that position (at the O.P., I
mean). But, the guns ain’t at the O.P! Sometimes they are a Helluva long way from
the O.P.. So all this data must be corrected for the difference in position of
the gun and the O.P. (This is where it gets tough). Now you’re ready to fire a “check shot”
(after you’ve telephoned your data to the gun).
The battery fires and you hope your work has been done well -- if it
hasn’t there’s always the possibility of dropping a little T.N.T. into your own
infantry. After the “check-shot” you run
through the whole business correcting.
If you can make any sense out of
it, - that is the story.
This little game has its
interesting angles too, of course. Part
of a battery’s job is silencing enemy batteries. And, I’m told, though it sounds a little
rough and unsportsmanlike to me, the enemy will try to silence your
guns. Not by calling you up and asking
you to stop, (or wig-wagging you) but giving like for like. This is not a nice way to play, I don’t
think, but that the way it done (sic).
I’ve probably confused you enough,
so -------
From the dust bowl (#2)
Anton
A very fine violinist is giving a
concert here at the Service Club ---- this is the damndest Army!
Guess what I found in
Fayetteville? A U.S.O. that has a
complete darkroom that I can use completely free of charge (enlarger too). The only cost is paper and that is sold at
wholesale. Believe me when I tell you
that there are some in this country genuinely interested in lightening the
soldiers lot and I (and I think I’m part of a good sized group) for one will be
forever heartily grateful to these people, whoever they may be. It is quite an experience to walk into
something like that. It immediately
becomes personal, why I don’t know, and you say to yourself – “Boy all this for
me. --- I can use it all – for nothin’ –
Boy! Nice people! If whoever is behind it were to realize how
the soldier feels, he would be amply repaid.
Gave me a new insight into the pleasure of giving.
A
