The Stitch

Rest base in the Pacific
April 28, 1944

Dear girls,

I hope you haven’t worried, but I told you there would be this hiatus. We were in the field for a long time – we covered many a mile on these dogs of mine – a lot of firing. We’ve been able to get more ammo on here than we ever got back in the States. It’s been a long, tiring session, but nobody minded it too much. We knew we had to get back into condition, and there were a lot of things we had to learn – mistakes we made last time and how to correct them – new angles to suit the different types of fighting we’re going to do next time. The Marine Corps is really damned good on that angle – preparation and careful planning. We rehearsed our methods and attack formula months before we left Pendleton, though we didn’t know it at that time. It’s the kind of foresight that pays dividends.

We had a parade yesterday, and Nimitz presented the medals and citations to the 4th Division. About 35 were awarded, and almost 90 percent of them went to the 24th Marines. No Congressional Medals were awarded, but 6 Navy Crosses were – the next highest honor. Col. Hart got one, a company commander in the 2nd Battalion got one, and four were awarded to enlisted men – one man in “B” Company and 3 in “A” Company! Think of it! There are about 65 companies in the Division, and “A” Company got 3 out of the 4 awards made to enlisted men! And to top it all, two of those men were in my platoon! Ervin and Tucker. I felt pretty damned proud, I can tell you – not many Platoon leaders in the American forces can say anything like that.

Admiral Nimitz’s speech was very moving – he set just exactly the right note, and he mentioned three names, typifying those killed who we shall not forget – Steven Hopkins, Col. Dyess, and Jack Brown, whose father was with him in the same outfit.

Ervin told me after it was over that he almost burst into tears when they told him he was getting the Navy Cross – he meant it, and for a tough, hard-bitten little guy like that to feel that way.

Harry was awarded the Silver Star, and another man, Cpl. Frihauf, in the Company, the Bronze Star, so it was a pretty drunken night last night.

Thank you, dears, for the pictures – I especially appreciated the one of you as a girl, Mother. I hope I don’t lose it out here, somehow or other. Gretch, I don’t like your hair the way it was in the picture at the office.

Love,
Phil

***

Rest Camp in the Pacific
May 6, 1944

Dear girls,

No sensational news, except that we’ve been doing a lot of work lately. Except for those pretty grim inspections, we had little to do for the first six weeks after we got here, but the last six weeks have been spent getting us back into shape – and we are in good shape now. “Don’t send any more V-Mail, only Air Mail” is all that I’m allowed to say.

Got your “Good Night, Sweet Prince” yesterday – looks so good that I’ve decided to save it for a while. We’ve been so busy the last few weeks that I haven’t had time to read. Sit down with a book and I fall asleep half the time. Don’t even have much chance to play poker.

Ervin made Sergeant last week, and Henderson, one of my Squad leaders, made Corporal at the same time – they had been waiting for it for a long time, so I gave the Section a beer party to celebrate. Rounded up ten cases of it – hard to get, as they are limited to two bottles a night at the slop chute – even had to steal two of the cases – got grills and hamburgers to cook out there – had it all taken out to a little spot in the boondocks – ice, cigars, pogie-bait and fruit – then broke them out in marching formation at 4 PM. They didn’t know anything about it, and grumbled about it, thinking they were going on a special working party – when we got there and they saw the spread, a great shout went up, and they fell on the food and beer. It was a great success, since everyone got potted – we even had to carry two of them home when it broke up about midnight. We talked and chatted and sang old songs around the fire – and one Squad put on an impromptu floor show, which, as I remember it, was very funny.

They’re a damned good bunch of boys – we’re known in the Company for the “gung – ho!” spirit – which is just fine, as far as I’m concerned.

Had an amazing time on liberty the other day – we had been working, and were stiff, so when we saw a massage parlor, it looked good. I went in with Murray Fox – neither of us had ever had one – it was a Jap place, and the proprietor told us to go into one of the booths and take off our clothes. I left my scivvy drawers on, but when he came in to do my back, he made me take them off. It felt good – very restful. I was dozing after he left and lo! and behold, a woman came in. I thought she had come into the wrong place, and grabbed a small but handy towel to protect myself. But she pounced on me, pushed me back prone on the table, and started mauling me, jabbering all the time in Jap.

When she had pounded me until I was gasping, she stepped back, hands on hips, surveyed me up and down, and said “Too much to do, charge and a half” – reached over, and snatched my towel away. I sat up, screaming that she had no sense of shame, but she had a bottle of rubbing alcohol in her hands, and she poured it on my stomach, and it was frigid (I use that word after due thought) and it ran all over the place – I realized that I was helpless and relaxed to enjoy the inevitable. I liked the massage itself, but no more masseurs for me.

The pictures with Harry are the conventional thing to do here, but it took a bit of persuading to get Harry to do it. For a quarter more it would show her kissing us, she said, but we said we didn’t have another quarter. You can even see the rosy glow on Harry’s face.

Until later, lots of love, and a kiss for each.

Love,
Phil

***

On Shipboard
June 8, 1944

Dear girls,

News last night, by wireless, of the invasion. Cheering hadn’t died down before I suddenly got a flash realization that this war may be over in our time. For so long now it has seemed that the war would last indefinitely – just couldn’t see the end of it, stretching on for a couple of years at least. But now, with luck, it is possible at last that I might be home by a year from now, with no more than a couple more campaigns under my belt. Seems impossible of course, but it could happen. God knows, I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.

Nothing much has been happening. A lot of briefing, and exercising in the steaming heat. Played a lot of Monopoly, of all things. In fact, it’s quite the rage, the Red cross having broken out with a couple dozen games – it’s ideal for passing away the time. Also playing some bridge – wisely I didn’t bring much money, so I can’t play poker. Funny, though, how much time you can waste, just in the daily business of living – showers, sleep, eating – only an hour or two of real work in the day, and yet somehow the rest of it passes.

One has to be in the mood to write a letter, or it is worse than none at all – I’m not in it this afternoon – maybe tomorrow.

Love,
Eagle

***

On board Ship
June 11, 1944

It was the moon that did it. Its beauty drew him to the rail like a magnet. That was it, it was beautiful – though there were undertones. Similes spun through his head – a proud woman, reproducing herself in the countless mirrors that lay on the surface of every wave – a tawdry Spanish maiden, trailing her golden cape across the black sea. Some of the gleaming spangles had torn off on the crest of a wave and lay near the side of the ship, sparkling fitfully. They were brilliant, flashing, golden.

He realized that his eyes were wide, staring, and he sharply turned his head, breaking the current between the spangles and his eyes. Anne used to wave her hand in front of him when he got that way, and he’d break, and her eyes would crinkle as she smiled at him. He thought of her, the soft turn of her shoulder brushed by her shining golden hair. But Anne was in sunlight. This was nighttime, and the moon-gold was unearthly, it had no scent of a woman, no human warmth. It was feminine, fascinatingly feminine, because it received him, enfolded his avid glance, and invited deeper exploration.

It stood for Beauty, and the thrumming motors of the transport stood for everything that was not. He had been out there once before, and knew what it meant – tight horror of destruction and fear – cruelty, not in extinguishing a dangerous enemy, but in killing those who tried to surrender, nude with their hands up, because you had no time to handle prisoners. Wary, half-felt fear, face achingly set in one twisted expression, the smell of dead bodies, of death itself, a montage of smoke, rubble, splintered wood and tortured steel. The smell of steel and coral dust in the sun – the leaden foot tread of fear.

Fear again. He wasn’t afraid now. He wasn’t afraid of going in. But he knew that he’d be afraid when he got there, past the beach and surrounded by unseen rifles. That was the worst of it – not seeing, not being able to meet your opponent. But it wasn’t fear – he wasn’t afraid of going in.

His hands slid along the rail and he dropped his head, but his eyes couldn’t escape the flashing lights. They drifted back, slipped into gear, and opened wide again.

That was beauty, shimmering, elusive. Not austerely masculine, but feminine in its personal allure. What he was headed for was ugly, it was pain and discomfort. He wasn’t afraid now, but he knew that fear would be one of the worst pains when he got there, on the beach. His mouth would be dry, his eyes strained and tired, and his ears deaf from the chattering roar of battle. Here, even the low murmurings of the sleeping ship were lost in the soft swish of the water curling up from the bow. The water was soft and sibilant, the moon-glow was cool.

His shoulder muscles convulsively tensed and his arms threw him back from the rail. His back hard against the warm steel bulkhead, he thought, “God! I almost went in!” Now he was afraid, that last lurch, and he had teetered – what was the matter with him, anyway! He was a rugged Marine. He’d never let this bother him before, he had joked with the rest of them, and here he was thinking like a moon-struck schoolgirl.
•
I felt the first part of this last night, it bothered me, and I thought I’d try to get it down, in its tenseness and confusion. I figured I’d caught it and thought you might like to see it. But don’t get ideas! It’s not a story – could only be half a chapter of an introspective, Thomas Wolf-ian book.

Love,

Phil

***

At sea
June 5, 1944

Dear girls,

We’ve been on this baby for a long time now, and of course are getting restless. The heat becomes more and more oppressive – shirts are always wet and soggy, and you actually steam when you go below decks. Wish we were doing this in winter, as we did last time. Hard, terribly hard to bring yourself to realize that summer is coming into her first full bloom back home, that you girls are wearing flouncy, starchy summer dresses, that the windows are wide open to welcome the warm night air, and the comforting hum and rumble of New York at night. What plants do you have in the window this year, Mother? I was always partial to the grapefruit we had in Hastings. I hope it won’t be too long before I see it all again. By next summer, it must be.

All my love,
Phil