My Hitch in Hell Read online

  As I completed Radio Operators’ School, the newspapers reported that the United States was unhappy with Japan because of the war it instigated against China. The stories indicated that the Japanese soldiers were performing barbaric acts against the Chinese, both the civilian and military populations. The Japanese aggression against China started in 1931, but the full assault did not occur until early in 1937.

  By April 1940 the Sino-Japanese war had depleted Japan’s oil reserves to a catastrophic low. The U.S. government, realizing Japan’s resources were dwindling fast and wanting to curtail any further Japanese aggression, imposed a complete iron embargo against Japan. Japan was being strangled, pushed into a corner. Then on September 27, 1940, Japan signed a military pact with Italy and Germany and condemned the United States for its interference. I had a feeling then that in just a matter of time we would be at war with Japan. The U.S. economic boycott of Japan continued until the surprise attacks on Pearl Harbor and the Philippine Islands.

  Was it a coincidence that in September 1940, after the three-nation pact was signed, the U.S. military draft began? At this time our armed forces began a concentrated effort to train men for combat.

  For Mother’s Day 1941, I wrote the following letter to my mother, expressing my love for her and my awareness of the possibility of war and of the need to fight to protect our country. I also wanted to acknowledge my mother’s strengths and her influences on me: first, her positive attitude about life and, second, her conviction that the United States was the best place in the world to live. As I look back it is easy to see that I inherited her love of country and her positive outlook. That positive attitude was the most dominating influence in my survival.

  May 7, 1941

  My Dear Mother:

  This year I’ll not be home on Mother’s Day which will be Sunday May 11, and I won’t see that big smile of yours, while tears roll from your eyes. I’ll not be there to wear my red carnation symbolizing my Mother is among the living, and mingle with those wearing a carnation of white, whose Mothers have gone beyond. So this year I give you this letter as my Mother’s Day gift.

  Seems funny, Mom, that when I think of you, I recall a lot of little things that bind us so close together. I remember the first time I wanted the car to drive all by myself, you interceded for me, and said you thought I was old enough to have it. I recall how you took me to the store to buy me my first long pants suit. Doesn’t seem long ago that you caught me shaving. Of course I didn’t really need it, but you only smiled. These and many other things come back to me now as I sit here and write you. Another thing I’ll always remember is the look on your face when I left home for Fort Knox. You were torn between two desires. Your mind said you didn’t want me to go, but your heart said I was doing what you had always taught me. That I should prepare myself as best I could for any eventuality. You also taught me it was right to help protect those unable to protect themselves, either as a person or their rights. That’s what we thousands of boys are doing in the Army camps today, preparing ourselves to protect those people and those privileges we love, should the day ever come when someone might try to take them away from us.

  When you get this letter, you will be but one of thousands of Mothers all over the United States who have letters from their sons on Mother’s Day. Here at Fort Knox, almost every fellow I know is writing his Mother, if she is alive, and if she has passed on they will be thinking about her. I’m closing this letter now. I want you to know you are the most dominating influence in my life. You know my weaknesses and my strengths. My weaknesses you have tried to build up, and my strengths you have tried to guide in the right path. You smiled when I needed a smile and scolded when I had done wrong. For these things I’ll be eternally grateful, and whatever I am, or might be, I owe to you.

  Your ever loving and devoted son,

  Lester

  In early September 1941, the week before we left Fort Knox for maneuvers, Laura came to Kentucky to be with me. It was then we decided, in spite of everything, to get married. We were in love and did not think rationally. I had no profession to speak of and no future. And Laura’s mother and father had made it clear from the start that they wanted her to marry someone with wealth or a man who at least had the opportunity to acquire it.

  We had talked for hours about whether we should get married. Every reason why we should had at least two reasons why we should not. As so often happens, however, romance won out over common sense. That night I made love to her. I promised her that our life would be a good one and that we would succeed at whatever we attempted. The following morning I noticed that Laura was not herself. Then it came out: she felt guilty about what had happened. She asked me what we would do if she were pregnant. A nice girl just did not get pregnant out of wedlock and disgrace her entire family.

  We made a decision. The following day I borrowed Lew’s car, and we drove for an hour or two looking for a justice of the peace or anyone that could marry us and make our affair legal and honorable. Finally, in a little town in the hills of Kentucky, I went inside the general store and asked if there was an official in town that could marry us. Much to my surprise and happiness, the store owner was a justice of the peace and said he could help us.

  No marriage ceremony as such, it was just a few words, simple and to the point: “Will you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? ...” After taking our marriage vows, the justice handed me some very legal-looking papers that I assumed included the wedding certificate. I put them in my pocket, planning to put them in my footlocker for safekeeping. Then the justice invited us to stay at his house that night. We accepted and were shown to a small guest bedroom on the top floor of his home. The room was furnished with old country-style furniture, made from boxes and scrap lumber, but on our first night together as husband and wife, it seemed like a castle to us. We thought it was a glorious way to end such a perfect day.

  The next week the four tank companies of the 192d Tank Battalion went on maneuvers at Camp Polk, Louisiana. Our battalion, the only National Guard unit attached to the 1st Armored Division, performed at an extraordinary pace. It seemed we did everything right. Under the watchful eyes of the army’s special investigative team, which included Gen. George S. Patton, a brilliant officer who was an authority on tank warfare, our battalion was declared the finest tank unit of all those on maneuvers. In effect, we won the war games.

  To this day I cannot figure out how we won the simulated war when all we had were broomsticks for guns, markers for heavy tanks, and a few tanks of 1930s vintage. In spite of all these flaws, we were chosen the tank group to head overseas. Actually, unbeknownst to us, we had been selected weeks earlier as the tank group to fill Gen. Douglas MacArthur’s plan for defending the Philippine Islands, the plan known as War Plan Orange III, or WPOIII for short.

  Mac Arthur devised WPOIII in April 1941. Based on the assumption that the war would only be between Japan and the United States, WPOIII theorized that Manila would be abandoned and declared an “open” city and that the U.S. forces would then withdraw to the Bataan peninsula, where they could hold out until reinforcements arrived from Pearl Harbor. Meanwhile, our offshore fortress, the island of Corregidor, along with our ability to overlook all of Manila Bay would provide the firepower needed for the delaying action that would eventually push the Japanese from the shores of the Philippines.

  By October 1941 the world situation changed, and a new plan was devised that was to be implemented if the United States found itself at war with Germany and Japan at the same time. According to the new plan, Rainbow V, which was developed with the full cooperation and in consultation with the British General Staff, Germany was considered the enemy to defeat before an all-out effort would be made against Japan. Rainbow V still called for the forces in the Philippines to adopt a defensive strategy similar to WPOIII.

  While the war games were finishing, all four companies of the 192d Tank Battalion were gathered together in a special area of Camp Polk, where our commandi
ng officer, Major Wickord (recently promoted from captain) and General Patton informed us of our honor of being the outstanding unit. They told us that we were going overseas, but they could not, or would not, tell us where. Then everyone in our tank unit was granted a ten-day furlough. Major Wickord said, “Go home, say your good-byes, get your life in order, because we set sail from Angel Island in a few weeks.” Where is Angel Island? I wondered.

  Within the next twenty-four hours, we lined up outside the medic’s office and received inoculations for typhoid, tetanus, yellow fever, and diphtheria. In addition, of course, the army determined our blood types, just in case of an emergency. The 192d Tank Battalion was also issued brand-new tanks, so new that no one knew how to operate them. And because we needed so many, they were commandeered from other units then getting instructions on their use. All of our old tanks were traded to the tank units that were staying in the States. The new tanks accompanied us to the Philippines.

  I enjoyed ten days with my new wife, planning and discussing our life together. I had a feeling then that this might be the last time, for a long time, that we would see each other. I was not alone in facing the problems that early marriage entailed under these conditions. Many of my buddies had married their childhood sweethearts; others planned on getting married to their girlfriends when they returned. A few did so, but many others never returned to fulfill their vows or enjoy the love of their family and friends.

  The men who returned to Camp Polk from their furloughs were the younger men, without family obligations. The older men and those with children were not expected to go overseas with their unit, and special provisions were made for them. If they wanted to go with the company they could, but once under way, there was no turning back. A few of our men went absent without leave (AWOL). I guess they just did not want to go overseas. Two of the men who did not return after furlough were company cooks.

  Those of us who did return started to load equipment aboard flatcars that were waiting at a siding by camp headquarters. We received new tanks, new half-tracks, and new command cars. Just about everything we loaded that day was new issue. We then packed all of our personal items into an olive green army duffel bag. I remember putting the folded papers from the justice of the peace into a letter-writing pad Laura had given me.

  On October 20, 1941, we left Louisiana for Angel Island, which I found out was in San Francisco Bay, California. Our train traveled slowly through the countryside, and due to the extremely heavy load it was carrying, we had to stop frequently to check the cables and rods holding the equipment. Nighttime came, and we were given dinners of cold fried chicken, coleslaw, carrot salad with raisins, a large apple, and for dessert, a piece of chocolate cake—all wrapped and squeezed into a box six-by-eight-by-two-inches deep.

  After eating our first meal aboard the train, we sat around in small groups, just reminiscing about what we had done during our furlough. I could feel the sadness of the entire group. No one said a word about the possibilities of war. Instead, we tried to pretend that we were going on an adventure. With very little to do on the train, most of us got into our bunks fairly early. I was tired and fell sound asleep almost at once.

  I do not remember what time it was when I was abruptly awakened by Capt. Donald Hanes, our new company commander. He stood next to my bunk and violently shook me until I woke up. He said in a raspy voice, “Tenney, there’re no cooks aboard. They all went AWOL. Can you get up and get breakfast ready for the men?” I knew this was not a question, but rather an order, so I got up and found my way to the chow car, about four cars to the rear. When I looked at my watch, it was 4:30 in the morning. All of a sudden I knew what I was going to do on this train ride—work.

  Cooking on a troop train in 1941 was not a bed of roses. We cooked on stoves heated by coal. Washing pots and pans as well as the men’s mess kits presented a problem all its own; water had to be boiled in forty-gallon pots. Coffee, a staple for the army, was still made the old-fashioned way, with ground coffee beans put into large kettles of boiling water that sat till the coffee looked and tasted done. When ready, we poured a little cold water over the coffee and the grounds would settle to the bottom, unless the train jerked at the wrong moment.

  In preparing three meals a day, we worked from 4:00 in the morning straight through till 8:00 at night. We needed this much time for starting the fires, preparing the food, maneuvering around a room sixty feet long and only eight feet wide, and moving a line of 168 hungry soldiers through this maze without getting everyone and everything upset and agitated.

  When we arrived at Angel Island, local longshoremen handled the unloading of the train and the loading of the ship. We were lined up for a set of examinations that many of the men hoped they would fail but with no such luck. Everyone passed with flying colors, and plans were under way for an early departure to destinations unknown.

  I still remember that first night on Angel Island. I sat on my bunk and wrote a letter to my wife, Laura. I felt that this might be my last one to her for a long, long time. I poured my heart out to her, hoping she would understand my innermost feelings about what I believed would happen during the next few months. With tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, I started the letter. I tried to express my feelings as best I could, realizing that whatever I wrote would not be taken seriously by anyone else in the world except Laura, who really cared.

  October 26, 1941

  My Dearest Laura:

  I am sitting here on an old army cot, afraid to make a sudden move or the cot will collapse. But I must write you today because I may not have another opportunity for a long, long time. We just finished seeing our tanks and other equipment put aboard the “Hugh L. Scott” transport. We aren’t sure just when we will be taking off, but the bet is it will be either tomorrow or the next day. Seems the rumor has it we will be heading for the Philippine Islands and getting ready to defend our military position there against the Japanese.

  In spite of all of the partying, there is little or no real laughter here. This evening is one we will always remember. Sadness seems to be everywhere. Some of the fellows, I’m sure, are sad because they are leaving their recent wives, or their sweethearts who will eventually become their brides. I’m sad because I’m leaving you. I want you to know that you mean the world and all to me, and I’ll always love you till the day I die. My life became more meaningful because of you. I’ll be home before you know it, then we can start our life together—forever.

  There is a lot of talk about war with Japan. Some say it is inevitable, that it will happen before this year is over. As we listen to the news broadcasts we are well aware of the pressure being applied to the Japanese to stop their war with China, but the feeling here is the Japs will not listen to us and won’t be so afraid of our embargo of oil and the hold on all of their money won’t alter their course of action. Not a happy thought, but we are being realistic and trying not to bury our heads in the sand. War is a real possibility, our being at the start of it is also a real possibility. None of us want to fight, but we will if pushed. One of our concerns today is the fact that we loaded new tanks for our future use, but we don’t know how to operate them. Not drive them, they drive the same as any other tank, but the equipment inside: the radio, the machine guns, the cannon in the turret, all of these things are new to us and we haven’t had any training or practice in the proper operation. Maybe when we get to the Philippines they’ll teach us. I sure hope so.

  Well, good night my dearest, try to keep thinking of me, think of all the things we will do when I come home and get out of the service. This may be my last letter for a while, so keep it close to your heart and remember, I love you, I want you or I don’t want to live.

  With great love as always,

  Les

  Laura saved this letter. She later gave it to my mother for her memory box, a shoe box filled with letters, newspaper clippings, and anything else that would remind her of her soldier son in the Philippines.

  At about 8:00 P.M
. on October 27, 1941, aboard the Hugh. L. Scott, formerly known as the President Pierce, we headed out of San Francisco Bay toward Hawaii and then on to the Philippines. The Scott traveled as a luxury cruise ship prior to being taken over by the U.S. government. When the government converted the ship to a troop carrier, it dispensed with the luxury accommodations. Most of the men slept on hammocks, three deep, in the hold of the ship. By the end of the first full day, I was just getting over my seasickness when I heard that the ship’s chaplain was looking for an assistant—someone to run the games, check out game equipment, and oversee the other entertainment on board the ship.

  I had nothing to do aboard ship, as I was given a no-work order by Captain Hanes. His theory was I had pulled duty on the train when all of the other men rested, so it was my turn to rest while all of the other men pulled duty. Sitting around doing nothing was not my style, so I volunteered for the job of assistant to the chaplain. Little did I know then what perks went with the job.

  I was given my own two-room cabin to use as an office as well as my sleeping accommodations. I was allowed to choose a helper, and of course I chose my buddy, Lew Brittan. For the next month, our voyage on the troop ship was more like that of a cruise ship. Lew and I had all of the freedom and luxury one could expect. We printed a daily paper, assembled a ten-piece band, loaned out all types of games, and even ran some group games for all those aboard who wanted to participate.

  Upon our arrival in Hawaii, Lew and I were given full liberty, along with a wallet full of money to buy interesting games for the men to use for the balance of the trip. By this time the rumor was we were heading for Manila in the Philippine Islands. To most of the men aboard our ship this sounded like a dream come true—to see the world and get paid for it. It was a chance to experience the romance, intrigue, and excitement of a country in the Far East, thousands of miles from home; a journey to a faraway land we would be able to tell our children about.