We see images and reports of wars in foreign lands daily on the TV news. It has desensitized us somewhat to the actual horrors the participants experience, but I’m sure those on the scene are forever affected.
Like many men of his generation, my father fought in World War II. He spoke to us very little about his wartime activity, but I found a letter that he wrote to my grandmother, his mother-in-law, in October of 1942. Dad would have been twenty-one.
Here’s what he wrote:
Been some little time since I received your most welcome and enjoyable letter. Sorry to have been so long in answering. Beg forgiveness on the old alibi grounds of being too busy.
Had a nice old problem to occupy our time, and believe me at this, the rainy season being in New Guinea’s jungle is no privilege. Makes one appreciate the small comforts of our little camp.
Here’s what he probably meant:
It’s wet here. We are not occasionally wet, it’s constant. Wet, muddy day and night for weeks on end. The trees drip eternal moisture, the ground oozes endless rivulets, clothes, food, and equipment, all are at the near saturation point. Just finding a dry piece of paper or a working typewriter was a challenge. The sun might be visible for a few misty minutes every two weeks.
And hot. Feels like 120 degrees in the shade. The mud is ankle-deep, and we’re fording streams constantly. In the jungle, the gas cape is a necessity, like a water-proof poncho, or more like a personal tent and blanket rolled into one. To sleep, we lie on a bed of wet leaves with our heads on our packs, and cover ourselves with the gas cape, hoping not to be discovered by a poisonous snake.
Food consists of rations. We go months without fresh meat, milk, vegetables, eggs, butter, or any of the niceties that are taken for granted where we hail from. On the rare occasion that we are given bread, it is prized like a delicacy.
The army keeps us busy with the business of war. The Australian forces have trapped the Japanese at the Sepik River on the east as we move in on the west. For the most part, we only have to cut off their supplies and many of the enemy soldiers are dying of starvation or disease.
He wrote this:
The big news of the Philippine invasion here did not set nearly as well as the European one. We were all planning on opening that deal. However, have not completely given up hope of seeing both the Japanese and the Philippines. Would be a welcome diversion after seeing nothing but the Fuzzy Wuzzy who are becoming a bore.
He meant this:
We’re stuck in the jungle while the Allied Forces landed in Normandy a few months ago. At least the 151st wants to get in on the action when we return to the Philippines. We’re bored of this place and don’t speak their languages. What’s next?
Later in the letter, Dad wrote this:
Life seems to be pretty disconcerting for post-war planners. Not much one can do about it until this is all over. Think most of us give it a lot of thought, perhaps too much. Have had a couple of boys go whacky worrying about it. Rather a surprise to find out the weakness of some of the people’s mental makeup.
If he’d read this passage later in life, he might have said this instead:
Combat stress is a real thing. PTSD wasn’t treated widely in 1942. Now researchers know that military training makes your responses as automatic as possible, because you may not have time to think in a combat scenario. Reflection and critical thinking are discouraged as a result. Even mental health experts are sometimes mystified by how PTSD affects a soldier or veteran’s psyche.
Note: Within six months of the date of this letter, Dad’s unit was sent to the Philippines, where he received a silver star for assuming command when his commanding officer collapsed, and he reorganized his unit while under attack. He fought on the Zig Zag Trail in Bataan. He also was awarded a Purple Heart when a bullet grazed his temple.
Claudia Severin August 2024
