Getting to know some of the locals in England

My father's battalion arrived in England around March 1, 1944, and remained there until July 18, when they crossed over to France to join in the Normandy campaign.  In some ways his letters from that period are my favorite segment - reflecting his curiosity, his enthusiasm for seeing new things, and his thoughtful preparation for what he knew was coming.  Today I am posting his account to his parents of his time in the village of Kinlet, in Shropshire.  He does not name the village, but there are clues which in the age of Google made it very easy to identify.  I have since had the pleasure of visiting Kinlet twice; in 2014 I met Charles Smith, whom he mentions, and his wife Vera.  This was largely due to Francis Engleheart, local historian among other accomplishments, who guided me and who saw to the publication of the letter in the Kinlet newsletter. 

This is a long letter, but wonderful, 

Hardly had we returned from our whirling tour when we left our home station to do a little job some 80 miles from here.  At its inception I had my doubts about whether this jaunt would prove of much interest, - but time proved my fears to be very foolish, - we had a lovely ten days which almost amounted to a vacation.  Work from eight till five (not too wearing either) then off for the evening, - with transportation.  As Petrillo[1] would say, - but good!!!  The men will be talking about it for the next ten years.

             We were in a quiet corner of Shropshire, on the estate of an Englishman, who leased the estate to the Army, - the manor is being used for a blind school.  And I became acquainted with the Squire by a really whacky set of circumstances, the only one of the bunch who did!!!  Again, - most interesting.

             Without going into complete details: We have the problem of garbage (swill, over here) disposal no matter where we find ourselves planted.  It was during the course of my manouverings (sic) to get rid of the stuff that I met Hubert Smith, the Squire’s bailiff (a pretty important guy in his own right, I find).  Well, the problem became pretty involved; someone else had made some sort of arrangement without my knowledge, - so I had to go back to Hubert, like an ass, and tell him that he couldn’t have the swill.  “Oh, I can’t, can’t I, - well, Tony, my boy, we’ll see about that”.  And so I met the Squire.[2]  Here am I, in my funny way, trying to palm this stuff off on someone, and, to my surprise, I find that I’m handling quite a little pearl. (There are some four or five hundred hogs[3] on the estate, - get the picture?  With grain as hard to get as it is, - what a dope I can be!!)  How I wish that I had the time and patience and skill, to tell of K------- H------[4] Hubert told me some of the history of the place and the family that has lived there thru centuries.  His story was only a wee part and yet it would take me a day or two for me to attempt a retelling: ghosts, great ladies and gentlemen, the family silver, the family tree, how the present Squire acquired the estate (quite a tale in itself, complete with second cousin Edmund getting himself killed in the World War[5]  etc.) and so on and on.  I’ve been to the manor and tho’ considerably mutilated by its present occupants, it takes very little imagination to picture it in its heyday.  As an example: there’s a staircase, the widest I’ve seen outside of a public building, which is made from solid oak cut on the estate (the whole place, the wooden part, that is, is constructed from wood cut on the grounds) and every riser of the staircase is inlaid with the coat of arms of the Childe family, - and the walls of the stair well are papered with stuff made of satin and velour!!!  And you ought to see the Big Room, I don’t know whether they call it that or not; corresponds with our living room in function, I imagine. 

            The church on the grounds, a lovely little place, tells much of the family history, simply by containing their tombs, - members of Parliament, the High Court of Chancery, and God knows what all rest in the place.  I remarked to Rodney[6]  that to write the family history of Roland Childe Esq. and do it completely, one would probably have to write the history of all England, - and I don’t feel that my remark was very far from the truth. 

            Roland is a character undescribable to an American, and I’m not versatile enough to chance it to English born.  Physically, he’s about my height, 42,[7] quite stocky, and has a manner which at first meeting I thought I’d never be able to bear, - married, for the second time, to a most charming English woman (Rod and I took to her immediately, - she speaks with very little accent, and certainly knows how to be the complete hostess).  He’s come down considerably in the world since the war (tho’ the income of the estate runs to some 20,000 pounds, he’s taxed 100% on everything over about 1500, - unbelievable, isn’t it?[8]  There’s a lot of other stuff connected with his finances which Hubert told me in confidence, - and I couldn’t remember half of it if I tried.  Roland had a bunch of ancestors who would make pikers out of some of our so-called gamblers, it seems, and they left the guy with a couple of debts here and there.)  But in manner he’s changed but little, I think, - and he manages to retain a sort of half-bitter, half cynical, half  Oh what the hell do I care sense of humour about it all, - it’s the damndest thing, really!!!

             I hope this isn’t getting too bewildering for you to cope with, - it is for me … I’ve had the God Damndest Three Weeks that I’ve ever had in all my life and it’s most difficult to make a sensible letter out of it. 

            The Squire invited Rod and myself to dinner one evening and we enjoyed ourselves very thoroughly.  On first meeting, as I have said, I thought I’d have a lot of difficulty getting on with him, but as the Scotch began to flow and we talked the usual getting-more-acquainted-talk I suddenly discovered that what I presumed to be an overbearing, pompous English Squire could be, and was, a pretty human guy.  After four or five cocktails, we retired to the dining room for as delicious a dinner as I’ve had in ages; green peas (fresh) duck, which I was given the honor of carving and those tiny potatoes that I’ve heard you speak of so often (roasted, like you do it, Mom.  Oh, my but they were good!!!)  Beer and Scotch were on the table during the meal and then a decanter of Port (Roland pooh-pooed our exclamations on its quality, - but I still think I have a bit of a tongue for wine, - and it was good.) which had to be passed counterclockwise around the table till it was consumed.  Mrs. Childe retired to the living room about this time, - and it’s a good thing that she did.  I’ve discovered something about the English male: swearing among them is more or less restricted to the upper and lower class (and farmers), the middle bracket seems to leave it more or less alone.  Well, we wandered from story telling (not clean) to a general discussion of politics: here believe me I received a considerable shock, for the man was no ultra conservative as I expected.  He’s pretty mixed up in a lot of his views (who the Hell isn’t???) but there’s a thoughtful, quite openminded vein running thru all his views (even as regards Russia).  About England and America, he stated that he thought that some sort of policing arrangement ought to be agreed on, but that the two countries “shouldn’t go to bed together”, - a sentiment that we agree on completely.  (There’s a bit of going to bed with the Russians going on here now, and, as in the States, most of it is pure bull.  Mr. Average Joe is pretty sincere I believe, but that’s as far as it goes.  And that’s a Helluva long way from being far enough for anything concrete to come of it.  

Before I’ve finished with the dinner may I say that it was perfectly served by a couple of Hungarian maids and the setting was just about perfect.  The dining room is small and intimate, candlelight was used (properly, however, - you could see your food) and some of the family silver was trotted out.  Later in the evening, Roland showed us some more of this, - most of it made years and years ago, and, believe me, its beauty is a tribute to the man who spent hundreds of patient hours making it.  Such craftsmanship is a thing of the past, - what there is of this sort of art in the States probably came from over here.  Thousands of pounds worth of it have been sold from Roland’s estate in fact, and the purchasers were American for the most part.  (Hubert told me one evening that a three day auction was held at the estate some years ago, - three days, - and that one of the items sold was a complete silver breakfast set, - plates, cups, saucers, everything solid silver.  My back!)[9]  We joined Mrs. Childe in the other room to finish the decanter of Scotch, (two evenings we spent at that house, and both times we had to finish the decanter before he’d allow us to leave.  A great hardship I can assure you!!!) then Roland and I had a hilarious omelette making session in the kitchen, - at which time he told me that I must call him Roland (you can touch me if you want to!!!) and another barrier dropped to the floor.  So home to my little bed sack.

             In case you are harbouring any ideas about my trotting out my best behavior for the occasion, or acting in any other way except normal thru the night, let me assure you that I almost proceeded in the opposite course.  I arrived at his home fully prepared not to like the man, and spend a most boring evening putting up with him.  Perhaps it was his ability to act the perfect host effortlessly that made the evening so pleasant, - I don’t know, but it was pleasant.

             So much for Roland Childe. 

            Now for a page or so about the Smiths.  This is more difficult, because we became quite good friends, strolled down to the house whenever we felt so inclined, and consequently there aren’t the clear-cut recollections that go with meeting Roland.  Before proceeding, tho’, I can say that I’ve never met finer people; we, Rod and I, were free to act as tho’ the place, Norton’s End Farm,[10] were our home; little kings we were with nothing too good for us.

             The family is Hubert, the Squire’s bailiff, Mrs. Smith, Charlie, a handsome strapping boy of 23 who runs one of the farms on the estate, and Betty, a 14 year old gal who is just beginning to sprout wings (and will she be something when they’re sprouted!!!).  Rod and I spent six or eight evenings down at the farm; we did nothing particularly exciting on these occasions, just sat around drinking Bass, chewing the rag, playing darts, and quietly enjoying ourselves.  Some of my countrymen would have thought the time wasted I know, - but … Hubert is a natural story teller (he likes to talk incidentally, - a commendable trait I find, - you get to know such people much quicker).  One of the facts that contributed to our welcome was that they live a comparatively uneventful life, especially since the war has progressed, we were the first Yanks that they had become acquainted with, and since we went half way to meet them, Norton’s End was our kingdom.  Another contributing factor was that Mrs. Smith worked in St. Helen’s[11] (at Pilkington’s[12]) years ago (I believe she lived in Preston (?)) and when I announced that my Mother was born in St. Helen’s, she was so pleased about it that she didn’t stop talking of the wonder of it for days!!!  She asked me to ask you if you remembered a pork butcher name of Whittle (I believe that was the name, - tho’ what the Hell difference it makes whether you remember this guy Whittle is beyond me.)  She was so pleased about this coincidence, that made (sic) me feel sorry that I’d not paid closer attention to you when you talked of the places that you remembered in your birthplace.

             We have a standing invitation to come to Norton’s End if we ever get enough leave to make this possible… the invitation, to Betty and Charlie and Mrs. Smith, is practically equivalent to our getting there.  “When Tony and Rod get their leave we’ll do such and such” They say.  Hubert, fortunately, takes a more realistic view of the business. 

            Now I’ve got to say something about a Saturday that we spent on the estate that is really a memorable occassion (sic).  (Ain’t you just a little bored by this about now!!!!????  My exclamation and ravings are beginning to pall aren’t they?  Forgive me, ----this is all so new to me, ---and I had such a good time that I’m enjoying[13] it all over again just in the telling.  My only regret about any of this is that all of you can’t be with me as I go high-tailing around England with an insatiable interest in learning something about the country.  

            The evening that we had dinner at Roland’s (a Thursday) he asked us if we would like to take part in a deer drive that was to come about the following Saturday.[14]  Would we??? Oh my lord love a duck!!!  Would the Old Man[15] let us have the time off was my first thought, ___so to spike that worry I asked Roland, whether, if worst came to worst, I might ask 44[16], so that we could go.  I knew the old devil would leap at the chance, and he couldn’t very well go and not (illegible)[17] us to, (sic) ---- and further it’s thing’s (sic) like this which put him ever so slightly in my debt, not a bad way to have things, I might add.  I hope that doesn’t sound like “operating”  because there’s to (sic) much of that stuff going on now without my sticking my finger into it.  But a little now and then doesn’t make me feel too guilty, -- it’s done in the best of Army circles.)  Saturday arrived and as luck would have it we were all busy with things that couldn’t wait, -- but we finally decided “to hell with it” at noon, called Hubert and arranged to meet him at the local pub, and took off armed with our carbines and a few rounds of ammunition that Rod had managed to finagle. 

            Ten or twelve farmers participated and the afternoon was a huge success.  We got seven deer, one of which I shot (the only one bagged with a carbine, --- managed to ride the Colonel a little on this!!) in a really hilarious afternoon.  It’s been a long while since I’ve seen anything as funny as those crazy farmers arguing about who shot each deer, and then, like grand strategists debating about how the next drive would proceed.  They talk pretty broadly (and cuss the same way) and half the time neither Rod nor the Colonel could understand what in blazes they were talking about.  (Strangely enough I fare a little better than most, -- due, no doubt, to hearing you use some of the same expressions as they use, like “mither” and “cheeky beggar!)  Odd fact: they say “I be” for “I am” and “I Bain’t”  (sic on capital) for “I’m not going to”.  But it sure was fun, -- then weary from the running about, we carried our prizes back to Norton’s End, where Hubert (the Squire wasn’t present, -- some Home Guard Business) strictly according to feudal tradition divided the days kill.  You don’t get what you shoot, because all the deer belong to the Squire, so it’s his privelege (sic) to decide how much you’re gonna get.  Hubert gave us a leg and a loin (More than our share, as three of the deer were set aside for consumption at a Harvest Supper[18] for all hands a week or so after we left) and foe (sic, obviously a typo for “for”) Sundays dinner we had a huge platter of the most delicious steaks you can imagine.  Rodney, the animal, ate four, --- good sized ones too, and then could eat no supper.

             The evening that we left was a large one.  The squire came over to see me in the afternoon, telling me that we had to come into town for a drink at least. Then Hubert followed, with an invitation from Charlie and Vera (his wife) and all the while I didn’t know if we could get out for the evening.  (The O.M. was in an uproar about something ---- even thought of asking him along again so we could go!!!) But it wasn’t necessary: after chow we took off for Hubert’s place, stayed there till ten (Roland called up twice to ask where the Hell we were) then over to Charlie’s.  At both places a quart of pre-war stuff was dragged out.  At eleven thirty we headed for Roland’s, where the usual decanter had to be consumed, and back to Charlie’s at one thirty (they insisted that we come back, regardless of what the hour).  Finally at 3:45 we bid a sorrowful goodnight and back to camp for a couple of hours of sleep before returning here. 

             I write the above paragraph with a definite purpose in mind.  Believe me, I’m not crowing about how much people love us, or about my whisky consuming ability. Rather I want to make you understand how far out of their way several very good people went to make us welcome.  With Scotch at 3 pounds per quart, on the unrationed market, people don’t just trot out a bottle every other night of the week, --- it ain’t done, ‘cause in many cases when that’s gone there ain’t no more, especially 40 year old stuff like Charlie had. 

             Rod and I went into Birmingham one evening, the only evening that we were away from here that stands out as a poor evening.  I don’t like what I’ve seen of Birmingham, --- so much for that.  (God, I’m coming up in the world, aren’t I?  The second largest city in England and I dismiss it with two lines.  Helluva nerve.)

             That brings us about up to date.  I’ve not told you ‘arf, of course, but it’ll have to do for the present.

             You know, --- I can’t find those notes that I referred to at the beginning of this longest of letters.  Damn. 

 Just General Stuff:

             While in London I cashed a check for $50.00 at the Cahse Nat’l of N.Y.; [a1] added to my present debt that makes a total of $179.94 that I owed you.  Notice I say owed.  Because a couple of days ago I sent you $100.00, leaving a balance of $79.94 by a simple subtraction. Check?  I think that this can be cleared up next pay-day.  Let me know when you get the “C” will (illegible)[19] some sort of arrangement will have to be worked out on this money proposition because I can’t cash checks under normal circumstances and I don’t like carrying my entire pay around with me.  What I shall probably do is allot some part of it to you to do with as you see fit, ---bonds or whatever else you deem sensible.  Or would you rather I increase the bond allotment and take care of it that way?  I don’t want to cause you a lot of trouble, and yet if a few dollars a month can be useful to you I don’t want it steered into the Treasury vaults.  Tell me about this.

             Was humming “Has anyone here seen Kelly” [20] the other night, and, much surprised, my ATS[21] acquaintance asked me where I’d ever heard that.  This was followed by a lengthy discourse about Vesta Tilly[22] and her contemporaries.  Got to wondering after a while where the Hell I was, in England or at 36 Wellesley Ave.!!!!  Have I told you the story of the Colonel’s gal Hilda, -- and this ATS couple that Rod and I drop in on now and then?   Most Amusing Tale (sic).  Tell me if I’ve told you-all about it, and I haven’t,[23] I’ll attend to it in a future letter (if I can remember the details that long).  There’s another story, not a damn bit amusing however, that will wait till after the war for telling, -- about some pilfered doughnuts --- but I’m way too disgusted to go into it now.[24]

             Charlie Parry[25] is a must on my list.  The only way that I can get time to see him however, is by taking a couple of days leave ([26]as usual officers do not get passes, --- the men do, -- but not our little group.  As soon as thing (sic) calm down here a little, I’ll put the bite on Ruff and see what happens.  I suppose I should write to him shouldn’t I?  Come to think of it, there’s a lot of people that I should write to!!!  My main trouble during the past few weeks has been that the Army interferes too much with my getting about.  Bad situation.  Generally, if it’s been a choice between the Army and something else, the Army has wound up the loser. Also bad situation.  See if we can’t remedy that shortly, Pritchard, ---or modify the attitude at least.

             Right here and now I want to declare myself about my life over here.  I feel a statement coming on.

             Statement:  Tho’ I wear a ribbon for being in an active theatre of operations, my attitude about this phrase is the same as it’s always been, --- almost.  I’m having as good a time as I’ve ever had in my life, and I would refuse to put a price on the experiences that I’ve been priveleged (sic) to enjoy.  There are those who are very unhappy over here, --- foolishly so, I believe.  Ordinary people would misunderstand such a declaration: fortunately for myself you are not ordinary people. I miss you all very much, --- once upon a time I missed you all the time. That is not so now.  When I do have my spells of homesickness, they are more intense than they were, and I am no person to live with for a few days.  (Rod generally has to bear the brunt of such attacks).  But I’ve learned the formula for snapping out of these moods and am better for it.  And this I feel most sincerely: When this God Damn foolishness is over I shall come back home a much wiser person than I left, and God knows I can ask no more.

             Enough of that.

             I’ve enclosed a request for a few items that I’d appreciate your sending.  If they give you any trouble at the P.O., tell them that there’s a second Joe[27] in Europe that says to go jump in the Woonasquatucket.[28]  I can manage without the things, -- just a matter of a little treat that I’d like you to ship.  These people have gotten along for five years on a Helluva lot less than I’m getting, and if they can do it so can I. 

             I’m way behind on my correspondence (always am) so if you don’t hear from me for a while don’t worry.

 

                                                                        Cheerio[29],

 

                                                                                                Anton

 

            I’ll go over your letters and answer any specific questions in my next – if I can remember.  

             

---

[1] Tony Petrillo, a friend of Anton’s from Providence.

[2] Roland Lacon Childe (1898-1944).  Died December 28, 1944; according to current residents of Kinlet of a sudden heart attack.  The plaque in his memory in Kinlet Church reads in part, “From his tenants, employees, and many friends as a token of gratitude and respect for his 21 years service as a benefactor to the parish of Kinlet”.. 

[3] This seems to be an underestimate; according to Charles and Vera Smith (see later in the letter) the farm at Norton’s End had three pig houses each one holding 500 pigs.  See Charles and Vera Smith, “Farming at the time of World War II: a valuable part of Kinlet’s contribution to the war effort, 1939-1944” (sic), in The Kinlet History Group, Kinlet: The Life and Times of a Shropshire Village (Kinlet Hall, Bewdley 2007) pp. 154-155.

[4] Kinlet Hall, In Kinlet Parish, Shropshire. Presumably not spelled out for censorship reasons.  Constructed or rebuilt in 1729 for William Lacon Childe.  For views and information, see   http://www.discovershropshire.org.uk/html/search/verb/GetRecord/theme:20070117084941 and

http://www.ukuva.co.uk/hall.htm,, accessed September 10, 2014.

[5] Edmund Childe-Pemberton, killed at the Battle of Vimy Ridge in Flanders, April 13, 1917.  Kinlet History Group, op.cit., pp. 132-33.

[6] Rodney Mortensen, another lieutenant in the 212^th Armored Field Artillery.

[7] Actually 45

[8] I don’t know at this point whether this could have been correct.

[9] The Kinlet Estate held a very large auction of land in 1919, and an auction of items from Kinlet Hall in 1922.  The silver breakfast set was most likely part of the 1922 auction.   Kinlet History Group, op.cit., pp. 142-148.

[10] Norton’s End Farm is still listed as a working farm by the website of the Kinlet Parish Plan Steering Committee, http://www.ukuva.co.uk/kinletpp.htm. , accessed March 25, 2014.   Googling Norton’s End Farm was the first step in identifying Kinlet as the location of the events described in this letter.

[11] Anton Pritchard’s parents, Arnold Pritchard Sr. and Fanny Hart Pritchard, came to the United States from St. Helen’s, in Lancashire (now Merseyside), in 1911. 

[12] A large glass manufacturer, based in St. Helen’s. 

[13] The word “enjoying” was omitted from the typescript and is hand-written in the margin.

[14] For the origins of these annual hunts see Charles Smith, “Shooting on the Kinlet Estate”, in Kinlet History Group, op. cit., p. 151.  The hunts originated in the 1920’s; the goal was to keep the herd to a viable size and protect crops. 

[15] As the later part of the letter makes clear, this and the reference to “44” is Lieutenant Colonel Phillip H. Pope, Battalion Commander of the 212^th Armored Field Artillery. 

[16] Another term for Colonel Pope.

[17] There is an ink blot in this part of the letter which covers this word. 

[18]Charles Smith describes setting aside some of the venison from the 1940 hunt for a supper for the estate workers (about forty people) Kinlet History Group, op cit., p. 151.  It seems unlikely that “Harvest Supper” is the right term for an event held in April.

[19] This is also affected by the ink blot mentioned above, which soaked through to the back side of the paper. Several other words are affected but enough is visible to make it clear in context what is intended. 

[20] Popular British music hall song by C. W. Murphy and Will Letters (1908), originally titled “Kelly from the Isle of Man”.  The original and some modified versions, appears in a number of films and TV shows both before and after the war.

[21] Most likely the Auxiliary Territorial Service, the Women’s branch of the British Army during WWII.

[22] Stage name of Matilda Alice Powles (1864-1952) very well-known English male impersonator and popular music hall performer.

[23] Word “if” apparently omitted

[24] I learned something about this from former Colonel Benjamin Schleider, who in April 1944 was a lieutenant in the 212^th AFA.  He and Anton Pritchard were out on a night exercise with a small group of troops, and got back to base in the wee hours of the morning.  Being cold and hungry, they broke into a dining hall and had a” doughnut feast”.  They were bawled out by both Colonel Pope and by the Head of Division Artillery, but nothing was put in the official record.  The incident does not seem to have harmed Lieutenant Schleider’s standing in the Division, as he was soon after selected to become an aide to General Grow, the Division commander.

[25] A chemist (pharmacist) in Colwyn Bay, Wales.  A friend of Anton Pritchard’s parents, from before their emigration from England to the United States.   See his letters of January 29, 1940, and November 27, 1944.

[26] This parenthesis is never closed.

[27] A second lieutenant

[28] A river in Rhode Island.

[29] Everything from this point on is handwritten.

---

 [a1]So what is this?. 

.  

I have gotten away from posting excerpts from my father's WWII letters.  I will post another in a few days, but this time I decided to do a WWII story that has nothing directly to do with my father, but reflects some current concerns. 

A few years ago, at the Northeast storytelling conference, I met a woman named Ann.  She told a story about her grandfather which stuck with me.  I realized that were strong parallels between her grandfather's experience and that of my wife Gretchen's grandfather - but the experience diverged at one key point.

Both grandfathers immigrated to the United States as young men in the early twentieth century, with little besides the cloths on their backs, their native abilities, and a willingness to work hard.  Both settled in west coast cities, Gretchen's grandfather in San Francisco, Ann's in Seattle.  Both worked hard, and over several decades achieved a share of the American dream - both owned small grocery stores, and had achieved some prosperity and respect in their adopted country.  And in December of 1941, both of their native countries went to war with the United States.

No one bothered Gretchen's grandfather - his business continued to prosper, and he was able to pass some wealth on to his descendants.  Ann's grandfather was sent to an internment camp, and he was forced to hastily sell his business for a small fraction of its value.  He never fully  recovered.  As you have likely guessed, Ann's grandfather came to the United States from Japan.  Gretchen's grandfather came from Italy.

Yes, this happened almost eighty years ago.  But it affected the opportunities available to the families involved for decades.  It has somewhat affected me.  It is one small example of why we White people should be careful to deny the relevance of racist events which happened what seems like a long time ago. 

During WWII the officer corps of the U.S. Army expanded from about 16,000 on duty regulars to over 700,000.  A few of the new officers came from the National Guard and ROTC, but the vasts majority were like my father, Anton Pritchard.  They were plucked out of civilian life and given some intense but rudimentary training; in Anton's case the artillery officer training course which took nine months in peacetime was compressed to thirteen weeks.  They were then thrown into new situations to do the best they could.  

The following letter (slightly abridged) was written about three months after Anton had completed officer candidate school and joined the 212th Armored Field Artillery Battalion, part of the Sixth Armored Division, in the Mojave Desert of California.  It describes the stresses he felt during the period of intense training which the division was going through. 

An artillery battalion at this point included just over 700 soldiers.  It was made up of three firing batteries, plus a service battery and a headquarters battery. 

From 2^nd Lieutenant Anton Pritchard, in the Mojave Desert, California, to his parents, Arnold and Fanny Pritchard, in North Providence, Rhode Island,  January 16, 1943

Dear Mom and Pop:

                Where I am right now as far as letters are concerned, I confess I know not.  What I’ve said to who, or when it was said, beats me.  Tho’ I’m sure of this, --- you haven’t heard too much from me, -- explainable, during the last three weeks or so, by the fact that we have spent very little time here at the base camp.

-------------------------

           You will understand, I know, that it is quite impossible to do any writing in the field.  In this the men are a little more fortunate than I, since once in a rare while they can sit down and dash off a line or two perched on a half-track hood.  The privilege is more or less denied me, because part of my job is to see to it that they don’t sit on half-track hoods and write letters.  “Improvement of your gun position is never completed” say the manuals.  So, I flit through the (llegible) bushes “gettin these guys on the ball!”

 The last manouver,  (sic) Monday thru yesterday, beat the blazes out of me – boy, -- this is a rugged life.  If we weren’t given the two and three day semi-rest periods back here at base camp – we’d all be corpses ere long.  I am getting much more used to it, of course, than I was, but I still must learn a pile about personal expedients, let alone the multitudinous details connected with operation of the battery before I can sit back and relax a bit.  It is a tremendous job, this,  --- by far the biggest I have ever tackled, -- if it is done thoroughly and conscientiously, that is.  Perhaps I am being too conscientious, don’t know how to relax and take things in my stride, am too thin-skinned about certain matters.  Others don’t take their jobs so seriously, goldbrick flagrantly and worry or bother little.

 The most bothersome part of this life is the unsettled, unsystematized disorder of it all.  Leon[1] will verify this, -- don’t misunderstand, - a very large percentage of it is completely incapable of being any other but the way it is.  For instance, I have had three battalion commanders since joining this outfit, each with his own pet set of formulas for running the show (the last, who took over last Monday, has had us standing on our ears since he grasped the reins – personally, as a man I dislike him, -- but am reserving  judgment on his capabilities).[2]  Get any idea of what I’m trying to get at?  Organization is the word!  There ain’t but little of it, -- one day you’re authorized 4 decontaminating sprays, the next you only can have 3, first you drive “peeps” with the top up, then they order you to drive with the tops down, -- a bunch of shoes come in, no one knows why or where they came from or who asked for ‘em, then an inspector comes around and asks why the Hell you’ve got so many shoes!  (I never saw such a place for mysterious appearances and disappearances of all manner of goods and gadgets).  A million men have got to be instructed in a million things and – Oh blazes!  So on ad infinitum.  This is about the eighteenth time that I’ve tried to explain, to a small degree, what a vast, complex, intricate affair an army is – I’ll probably never stop trying and probably never quite succeed in explaining the complexities of the Army. 

                A week ago I was made battery executive, which as I told you is the next job to the B.C.[3]  In the field, I am in command of the firing battery at the battery position; and in camp, it is my responsibility that they are trained as a firing battery, i.e. as cannoneers  (in other words anything that has to do with the guns and their serving is my job).  The manuals say (again) “The production of an efficient firing battery is the executive’s primary job” (unquote).  With this go two (there are more than two – but the rest only take about 8 hours a day to keep abreast of, so I won’t mention them) other jobs, very detailed, irritating jobs.  One “Supply” (Oh what a headache is there, my countrymen!)  and the other Supervision of the Battery Office.  These are dandies believe me!  

           Yesterday was the first time that I’ve had any time to indulge in any of the Supervision of the Battery Office business and many were the unpleasant surprises that greeted my unpracticed investigating eye.  Take the filing system – I don’t claim to be an expert on the subject – but I saw enough of that file to realize that it is of no earthly use to any one in its present messed-up condition.  Many have been the days since I saw anything so completely buggered as that is – not an iota of sense or reason could I discover in it.  What does it mean?  It means that I have to set up a filing system and then teach someone how to run it.  When?  God knows, not me.

                Have I been going on – Lord!

                ……………………………………………………………………

                To my little sleeping bag.   Gotta get up at two to check the guard – damn it! 

                Love to all, --

                                                                                                Anton

---

[1] Anton’s younger brother, serving in the Army Signal Corps.

[2] Lieutenant Colonel Phillip H. Pope, who commanded the 212^th Armored Field Artillery Battalion for the rest of the war.  Anton’s opinion of Colonel Pope rose considerably over time, especially after serving under him in combat. 

[3] Battery Commander.

Letters Home from Officer Candidate School

Anton Pritchard went through artillery officer candidate school at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, from July to September 1942.  The following letters give an idea of the tension and pressure of that experience, but also at the satisfaction of some parts of it.   Some the pressure came from the fact that the course for training an artillery officer, which in peacetime took nine months, as shortened to thirteen weeks during WWII.  

Envelope postmarked Fort Sill, Oklahoma, August  1942, exact date illegible. From comparison with other letters, probably near the beginning of the month. 

Dear Ma + Pa ---

                I’ve been planning all week on writing a very long, lazy letter today, -- but Tony Lutrario[1] came over and suggested we go to town for dinner: and here we are.  There are many things that I ought to be doing, but I’ve accepted a week-end off policy whenever it is at all possible.  This, I think, is more beneficial than poring over books, maps and charts all week-end.  As I have said, there are many things that I could (or should) be doing, but for three week-ends I’ve simply cleared out and the Hell with it, I’ve said.

                Tomorrow morning we go out for our first “service practice” during which I will be called upon to fire that first problem that I’ve spoken about (I may be missed tomorrow, as they will only be able to get thru about half the class --- but I hope I’m not – if I’m going to flub it, if I’m going to mess it up, I want to do tomorrow ---- but somehow I don’t think I shall).  To the prayers that I’ve requested in the past you might add one asking God to please not let Tony “jump his bracket” tomorrow?

                You have mentioned Leon’s trouble with sleep in a letter past.  This difficulty is almost the greatest that one has to overcome.  You see, you work about 15 hours a day, - you have to eat, wash once in a while, etc., which leaves a maximum of about 7 hours out of the 24 for sleeping, - and in 7 hours one simply can’t recover from the 15 working hours.  It is so chronic that we have a standing rule (which every new instructor will tell you about) that you may stand up and walk about a class-room whenever you want.  Many times I have seen 8 or 10 men walking quietly along the sides or back of a room while a lecturer is talking.  For myself, I have arrived at the point where I can sleep at any time, - just after breakfast, before lunch, during lunch, after lunch, in the middle of the afternoon, -- sitting up, standing, lying on board seats – anyway, anywhere!  And believe me, I am not exaggerating.  Weekends should be the time when one makes up for this, but what do you do? ----- the desire to get away from the infernal pounding grind is greater than the desire for sleep so we come into town and walk and walk (generally round and round the same block – the only block) in a semi-conscious, stupid condition.

                The heat does not help --- such burning, breathing heat I’ve never experienced ---  the only thing that saves one from crisping immediately is the wind (a crazy, weird wind that doesn’t come from anywhere, --- it just blows!) and right now even the wind is becoming hot.  You can’t get enough liquid into you, - we drink ‘till ready to burst, and still the thirst continues.  Let me tell you --- when salt crystalizes behind your ears, --- and under your hat brim and on the outside of your fatigue jacket, -- you’ve really been sweating!

                When I get home, I shall tell you complete details of the marvel of this school – There is nothing to touch it anywhere in the country--- if the same system were applied to a school of academics, it would be unapproachable – a sort of super Sorbonne.  Everything is completely and carefully planned down to a split second, every little detail is planned.  Even to instructors – we have two Gunnery unit instructors, that I call “slow man” and “fast man”, --- and these men are carefully selected just for the psychology of change of pace!  They must have experimented with this and found that they could get more across by changing pace in lecturing --- so we have the fast man for 1 hour and 50 minutes, and then the slow man a couple of hours.   The whole thing is the most remarkably systematized set-up imaginable, -- somewhere there is a bunch of quiet genius (sic) running the place.

                The last few letters have been great – keep it up?

                                                                                                                Anton

             

                Hit the first Gunnery unit for about 85-90 ---- and am pretty sure I “max-ed” the second – this can’t continue!!!

                Fighting to retain my sanity,

                                                                             T.

Envelope postmarked Lawton, Oklahoma, August 9, 1942.  Return address “Corp. A.A. Pritchard/Officers Candidate School Class #32/Fort Sill, Oklahoma.  Dated  “Sunday Morn”,  presumably August 9. 

Dear Ma+Pa –

                Sunday again , -- and I’m in my usual lackadaisical, sloppy, not-enough sleep mode.

                Oddly enough, I’m full of things to tell, and yet lack the ambition to marshall events into a logical sequence and put them down.  As I’ve said, there is so very much to tell, and I fear that if I don’t put most of it on paper, it shall be forgotten, -- Yet when I contemplate the near past reflectively, there are things that I know I shall never forget.

                For now, I shall satisfy myself by straightening you out on a couple of points  ---  I owe letters to Elmer, Tony, Shack and God knows who else. 

                You advise me not to take this business too seriously, -- not to worry about it, -- and Leon adds his bit in the same vein.  If my letters have given you the impression that I’m concerning myself unnecessarily about school here, then it amounts simply to a lack of ability to express my thoughts.  Remember this – for the moment this is my whole life, -- the schedule is so arranged that it cannot be otherwise.  What can I tell you of in my letters?  Only of the double-timing at intersections, the sun sapping the vitality out of one, the continual drive, drive, -- because these are the things that impress me the most ---- There are still the wonderfully humorous little gems that save it all from becoming unbearable ---- like Pratt telling about urinating in another fellow’s bottle (at the induction station) because the the (sic) poor devil had been to the latrine just previous and simply couldn’t “give” (my stomach was sore from laughter the night that we were all lying quietly in bed and he calmly related all the details of this)  ----- and Tony Lutrario insisting that the barbers in the PX do not really cut your hair, they simply turn on that clipper to fool you into thinking they do!  He won’t be shaken from his conviction that it’s done with that cloth that they use – like a magician on the stage makes things disappear by waving a cloth in front of them (I got a haircut last Friday night in exactly two minutes and 35 seconds).  But many of these things are forgotten when I write to you.   Last week, for instance, was a tough week ---- two service practices (I fired both times) and five exams made up a small part of the program, and when you sit for four hours in the broiling sun, expecting at any moment to be called on to fire a problem, some of this is bound to crop up in a letter written a couple of hours later.  By “some of This” I mean some of the tension and nerve-strain that out of necessity goes with exams and firing (Firing especially --- “a field artilleryman is no good if he can’t shoot” they say.  You can mess up on your exams a bit, not be too good in the class room, --- but if you can’t shoot, -- well that’s too bad.  You don’t make errors out there, either, -- because if you do, you’re in a lovely tangle immediately – and it’s all got to be done at a tremendous pace (Problems are rated 1/3 on speed alone).  This is terrific good sense of course, -- when the yellow brethren come tearing over a hill is no time to indulge in a lot of guess work, but a bit of a strain out on South Arbuckle range nevertheless.   

                So ---- to come to the point of these meanderings.  I worry very little (don’t have time) and what I do is not destructive.  I’ll be glad to get out of here, - mainly to get relief from the grind.  But I don’t regret my choice.  And if I don’t know a Helluva lot about Field Artillery, it won’t be the fault of Fort Sill. 

                Tony Lutrario and I saw “Mrs. Miniver”[2] last night and I was very greatly impressed.  The minister’s speech at the end was pretty lousy --- “They were killed because they were killed  --- or rather, they died because they were killed” (very original) but outside of that a dandy job --- see it if you haven’t!    And someday both of you should take a look at the West!  Sill is located just at the beginning of a small range of mountains that runs down into Texas, “The Wichitas”.  Watching the morning shadows change color and chase across Mt. Scott delights me each morning as we march to chow. 

                ------------------------------------------

                                                                                                Cannoneers, Post! 

                                                                                                                                Anton

---

[1] A friend from Rhode Island who was going through OCS at Fort Sill in a class just ahead of Anton’s.

[2] Winner of Six Oscars for 1942, including Best Picture, Best Director (William Wyler), and Best Actress (Greer Garson).  An American film, but portrays an upper-class British family in the early years of WWII.  Anton appears to have forgotten his father’s mention of the film in his letter of July 18.