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.  

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)

Target

                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                           (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

---

[1] Not found.

[2] The parentheses are as shown.  The work rendered “mess” might be “mass”. 

[3] A Reference to Stephen Foster’s 1852  minstrel song, “Massa’s in De Cold Cold Ground”. 

[4] No question mark.

[5] Based on later descriptions from Europe I think this must be an exaggeration.

---

 [a1]

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.