Sgt. Shorty: Innocence Lost and Found in a Young American WWII Recruit and P.O.W. in Germany

By Paul J. Caron

Paul J. Caron's personal experience as an 18-year old WWII recruit who follows his faith and fate through; gunner training with a mighty 8th Air Force 389th B-24 bomber crew, a single mission deep into Germany, a terrifying bail out and eventual capture by the Germans that leads to a year in two P.O.W. camps. His descriptive and innocent narrative takes the reader into the minds and hearts of both friends and enemy's.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257286676

Book preview

An auspicious beginning.

The Army Recruiting Office came by our school one day and we got out of English and Math class if we wanted to try out their selection tests. To get out of two hours of classes I would have taken the Army’s firing squad tests.

I took the tests in March and spent two comfortable hours doing multiple choice questions. Somebody told me once ‘when doing multiple choice tests: answer every question, your first guess is as good as any other; anything that says ‘always’ or ‘never’ is usually wrong,; and a little study helps a lot.

I was genuinely surprised in May to learn I had been selected for the Army’s Officer Training Program called the Army Star Training Program. It was official and signed by a General Ulio who informs me that I have been selected for ASTP and will be assigned for college training as a potential officer in this Officer Training Program. Save this letter and bring it with you to the induction center it says. They will assign you to an ASTP Unit. I carefully put it away with the important things I need to take to the war with me. I decide to start off right and do as the General told me.

They also served

Flo Leo’s real name was Fiorello Leone. Too fancy for Flo. Fiore is the Italian word for ‘flowers’ and definitely not the right name for a six foot two hundred and fifty pound block of muscle. He was about twenty-nine and married to Mr. and Mrs. Aliberte’s oldest daughter, Rosie. Flo and Rosie lived in a small private suite in a nicely restored part of her mother’s spacious walk-up attic. The second floor, immediately below, also had three huge bedrooms; one for Rosie’s elderly parents and two which had been shared by her four brothers. I lived on the first floor with my brother, mother and grandmother. No Dad; he had been a stock broker and was wiped out by the 1929 cataclysmic stock market ‘crash’. I was barely four years old then and don’t remember much….except one day when a man pounded on the door and took away our new blue Chevrolet Coupe while Mom and I watched from a window and cried. A day in the same week that we lost good old Dad. Mom cushioned me from the transition of rich to poor. That’s what brought us to that small first floor apartment and a very close relationship with the Aliberte’s upstairs.

We were like one family. Their youngest son, Rick, became my closest chum. His real name was Americo, a patriotic gesture by this immigrant family that had fallen in love with their adopted land. Rick and I answered to the same authority, which seemed to us to be anybody a day older than we were. Mr. Aliberte worked for the Gas Company and was the titular head of the family. But the enforcer was Flo who worked as a guard at the local coke plant, and the one to whom all us boys ‘bent the knee’’. To us, he was a gigantic, muscle-rippling, ever threatening Flo. He prowled around in an undershirt that showed off the edges of an abundant covering of chest hair and powerful biceps that I couldn’t span even with both hands. He established his authority by subjecting each of us to an arm-wrestling ritual that made us understand that no one was too big or too small to escape his wrath. Like a shepherd dog he was constantly vigilant and nipping at our heels. All us boys experienced his stern discipline many times in the years before we went away to war.

In many ways, the Aliberte brothers were my siblings and Flo was our bete noire. Without a Dad of our own, my brother Bob tried to fill his niche; but it was Flo whom I feared the most. Throughout those prewar years when the Aliberte boys and I used to range the neighborhood to raid our neighbors’ apple trees, cherry trees and tomato gardens, we were often found out and regularly took our punishment from Flo. Once we actually raided Mr. Aliberte’s giant grape arbor in our own backyard and blamed it on the rowdy kids across town. We got away with that ghastly treachery but lived in fear for years that someone would leak our secret and Fearsome Flo would destroy us.

The war had stretched out to 18 months and all four Aliberte brothers were already in the service. Barely six months older than I, Rick was whisked away by the Navy V12 Program before our high school graduation day. Meanwhile, our family moved to larger quarters the next town over and I commuted daily to Everett during my final year of high school. Why was Flo’s draft so delayed? From time to time I would revisit the neighborhood and the Aliberte family. On most of those occasions Flo would usually just give me his what are you doing here look and take his newspaper out to the backporch. He still perceived me as a high school teenager, which, of course, I was. Once, though, he put his hand out for a handshake like we were old pals and he stared into my eyes smiling as he squeezed and squeezed me to my knees. Clearly our traditional relationship was intact.

That’s why it was such a big deal to me when Flo’s draft call to the army induction center comes on the very same day that I received my own call. I grew about ten inches psychologically when Flo called me and offered to come by the house to pick me up to OUR army physical.

When we arrived at the Induction Center in Boston, we filled out a pile of papers that revealed everything about us including our bowel habits. We were told to walk up and down little steps, do push ups, deep breathing exercises, and read eye charts. We talked to shrinks with two inch thick glasses, and finally sat with a doctor who reviewed the results. He wrote his own comments in the margins and shoved it all into an oversized envelope. He then pointed to a soldier sitting at a desk on the other side of the room and told me to carry it all over there. The soldier looked it over and told me when and where I was to report for transportation to the army reception center at Camp Devens, Massachusetts.

I was excited as I sat down at the tiny wooden table with a bored army private in a too tight khaki uniform who tediously went through every little piece of paper. Flo had already completed his physical and paperwork review. He appeared impatient as he waited by the door for me. Well, it looks like we’re ‘in the Army now’, Flo I said feigning casualness. Maybe we can arrange to be assigned together and ‘buddy up’ at the same army base somewhere? It was the first time that I had ever addressed him as an equal and I could tell by the dark look on his face that that was a bad move. He was still his officious self and rejected any idea I might have had of equality. Ignoring my comment he turned toward the exit waving a command to follow.

Come on, come on … let’s get out of this damned warehouse. And what the hell took you so long. , he said. It wasn’t really a question so I didn’t answer. He turned and strode to the door leading to the parking lot and we hurried to his almost new 1938 Ford. The ride home was long and silent and I stole a glance at Flo to gauge how hot he was and wondered what I had done this time. He was staring ahead through the windshield at the five o’clock traffic as we headed over the Mystic River to Sullivan Square. He was hot allright and it was a new kind of anger that I had never seen in his face before. With a fixed stare, he glowered at the windshield and acted like I wasn’t there anymore. Taking the hint, I looked over the bridge towards the Navy Yard and stared at Old Ironsides moored at its dock and then Bunker Hill monument. I carefully read and pondered over every billboard flying by. It took 30 minutes to reach the Gillette Razor factory and then the Schrafft Chocolate factory. The heavy aroma of bittersweet chocolate coming from Sullivan Square station made me hungry. He pulled over at the trolley car barns, left me off wordlessly, and pulled away. He waved but I couldn’t tell whether he was saying Goodbye or Take a hike. From here I would take a trolley car over to Medford and up the Fellsway to my stop and a short walk up the street to my house. When Flo pulled away from the station he would continue on past the car barns, the gas company and finally the Coke Works where the searing odor of coal gas sneaked into every passing car and smuggled itself into Everett, the other end of the ‘blue collar rainbow’.

I imagined Flo going home to the nearly empty Aliberte house which only months ago would have been filled with the four Aliberte brothers. Mr. Aliberte wouldn’t be home yet from his job at the Gas Company. Only Mrs. Aliberte and her daughter Rose would be at home, so the house will be quiet. But it will be quieter still when Flo and I leave for Camp Devens. Flo and I had parted with hardly a word between us but I was excited and happy about going away to the army. For some reason, Flo didn’t like the idea at all. Why should he? Who would take care of the old folks or Rosie? But why was he mad at ME?

As the Medford bound trolley rattled past Leechmere Square I became belatedly indignant. "Maybe I don’t want to go in the Army with Flo either. Yeah. That’s for sure. The war wouldn’t be any fun with Flo Leo pushing me around. At last I’m going to get away from him.

I was at my stop and the trolley doors folded open to let me off. Still grumbling to myself, I slouched out, and walked the short distance up Harvard Street. Well, I said half out loud, I suppose I’ll ask him what branch he signed up for and then I’ll take anything else. I pushed the doorbell. So much for that grumpy pain in the butt., I said conclusively. Mom was at the door. I heard they took you, she said, without enthusiasm. How did you learn that? The wind slipped out of my sails as I thought about Flo probably calling up to say ‘he’d take care of little Paulie’. Somehow I have to escape that guy. Did Flo call and tell you? I asked, making sure the edge in my voice wouldn’t be missed. No, it was Rose who called. Flo didn’t make it, she said. They said he has a bad heart and has to go see a doctor at the Massachusetts General. He was crying, Rose said, not about his heart but because he wanted to go into the army so bad.

I stood there in the front hall, slipping out of my jacket and trying to sort out what Mom had said. That must have been why he had that funny look. I thought to myself. But heck, Flo is over 6 foot…really huge…his muscles have muscles…why wouldn’t they take him? He does his job OK at the coke works…so, what’s the sense of it? He gets turned down as 4F and they accept ME? I remembered the way he just headed for the door without saying anything. Gosh, he really was ‘holding it all in’ in the car. My anger left me along with any elation I might have had for being accepted. Gosh, it’s hard to feel good when somebody you know is feeling so bad. I thought about Flo’s disappointment… maybe embarrassment. I still couldn’t fathom that decision, why would they take a ‘me’ instead of a ‘FLO’ for the army. It stumped me. I shrugged and hung my jacket in the front hall closet. I don’t know, Mom, this sure is a crazy war they’ve got going here."

I thought of Flo a lot those next few months in training. He really wasn’t a bad guy, I now realized. Heck, he could beat anybody here at ‘arm-wrestle’. You know, I wish he could be right here with me now. Flo died on the job one night of a massive coronary. I know he would rather have done it some other way; maybe leading a charge against the enemy somewhere. I guess, for Flo it was much harder dying all alone in that coke factory than it might have been on a battlefield strewn with heroes.

Nobody names himself

August is approaching very fast and I think about changes I might make in my persona. After all, going away in the army is a way to have a new beginning. I scrub the idea of ‘elevator shoes’. They don’t make army boots like that anyway. I get a book from the library. It’s kind of old -1921 -and it is called ‘The Army Manual’. Most of it was on the ‘cutting-edge’ during the Spanish-American War, but some things like right face, left face, about face and attention will hardly ever change. I practice them each night in the kitchen when everyone else has gone to bed. I do them pretty good even when I hold the broom on my shoulder like a rifle. Except one night when I am doing ‘about face’ I twist my legs together and when I try to untwist them I fall down and the broom knocks over the vase on the kitchen table. It shakes the whole house and everybody comes running in and I tell them I was sweeping the floor. They have doubts about my story but don’t say it. Wise old Nonna is last to go back to bed. Next time, she says, don’t sweep in the dark

I decide it will help my image if I walk at attention all the time. I do it getting on and off the trolley. The trolley driver can see there is something different about me as I walk straighter, taller, and don’t hold on to the handrail when getting off the trolley. On the other hand, he might think I’m developing hemorrhoids.

Next important step to a new beginning is a nick-name. Movie actors change them all the time. I think of my name. Mom slips occasionally into my grammar school name: Junior. Luckily it was never in the presence of school chums. Then there’s Paulie? Paulie.. No, not a ‘fighting man’, I need a new macho-Army name. My middle name is Joseph and Joe has a nice ring to it. But in the end I reject it as too common. I try Boots for two days but everybody asks Why Boots? I can’t tell them I read it in Argosy magazine. Finally, I settle on my initials ‘PJ’. They do that in lots of movies. It sounds macho… but it’s a ‘friendly’ macho. Maybe it even has a ‘savoir faire’ sound to it; I learned that in French class. It means that you know your way around. OK, I decide, PJ it is". No, maybe I’ll wait until I’m out of Camp Devens. I may meet somebody I already know there.

It turns out to be a good decision. Waiting ‘til I get out of Camp Devens, I mean, because wherever I go, the GIs just naturally look down and call me Shorty. I wrote about that to Mom. She wrote back and said life is really like that. You can pick-out a name for yourself but, in the end, people who know you decide for themselves what you should be called.

Give my regards to Broadway

I answer the ‘selection’ call of my friends and neighbors at 7:45 A.M. in a big hall that is located on the 2nd floor of the main police station. All the draftees are gathered there accompanied by fathers, mothers, wives, girl friends, sisters and brothers and a good representation of grandmothers. I am there with my grandmother and Mom and brother Bob. He 5 ½ years older drove us all to the police station. Bob is different from the rest of our ‘little’ family. He’s 5 foot 11 1/2 inches tall and very handy around the house especially when we want anything stored more than 5 feet off the ground. He is graying a little early, no streaks just a mature grey fleck here and there. When we walk into the big room over the police station I glance around to see who is there that I might know. It’s crowded and apart from rumps and elbows I can’t make out anybody. People are dabbing at their eyes and blowing into big white handkerchiefs. They are short of chairs I say, announcing the obvious. Bob reaches out with long arms and traps a chair that someone has just abandoned. We sit my grandmother in it and stand around her repeating the same goodbyes we’ve been saying at gatherings of family and friends for a week or more. We were told to be here promptly at 8:A.M. It is now after 9. As time drags on the crowd thins out a bit and groups lean over to other groups asking what’s next on the agenda. Nobody knows what’s next and nobody knows that we have been ‘snookered’ into the old army game of ‘hurry up and wait’. Sadness has given way to impatience. People are looking over their shoulders more and talking less. They stand facing one another and repeating the same small talk over and over. Redundancy reigns. It has been a long wait…over an hour. A surprising number of people consult their watches, solemnly announce they can’t be late for work and leave their draftees standing alone. My little family hangs in there with me. For the third time, Bob leans close and warns me again to beware of women who will be after my money. I’m not really concerned about it. After all, how far can I spread myself on only $21 a month. He persists, But if you get involved (the word ‘involved’ is accompanied by a sophisticated side glance) be sure to protect yourself. I nod not totally understanding what to protect or how. After three warnings I have learned that the correct answer is in the affirmative. I’ve already done ‘Yes’ and ‘Ok’ so I look sideways, nod my head and give an affirmative wink.

Mother is reminding me that now I will appreciate home. Nonna, (that’s what we call our diminutive and very wise grandmother) says simply, pray everyday for us and we will pray for you. As the crowd thins out I can get a better view of the others across the room. The morning sun is slanting through the window and settling on my Civics teacher, Mr. Curtin. Mom is saying I’ll come up and visit you after you settle down at Camp Devens this week. But I’m not paying attention. My focus is now fixed on Mr. Curtin. I’m marveling at what a small world it is after all and I’m trying to come to grips with the astonishing possibility that Mr. Curtin and I will be army buddies. Mr. Curtin hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s just sitting glumly in a far corner with his wife (or girlfriend) who is also sitting glumly across from him. WOW. Imagine me and Mr. Curtin going to the War together. I try to catch his eye but mother is crying and my ‘big brother is telling me why he should be going away to war instead of Paulie. I do not tell him to stop calling me Paulie or suggest that he upgrade to PJ but I do warn him that he is talking a little too loud. He is telling Mom not to visit the camp next week because they will be keeping me busy; she is saying she’ll just bring up a cake. I am concerned that Mr. Curtin will hear all this family discussion and I warn them again that they are talking too loud. Yes, Mom a cake would be fine. I’ll call you during the week. That settled, Bob is still feeling like a draft dodger and explaining why he applied for the ‘hardship deferment’. My God, Bob, you have a 6 month old baby and a wife laid up in a TB sanitarium. You have nothing to apologize for. The point is made and Bob is reassured that home and family is where he belongs for now. Don’t worry about me I’m not a kid, and I’ll be OK. Now everybody is reassured, even ME.

The motorcycle policeman is up near the front door exit asking for our attention. His goggles are pushed up on his helmet and he has stiff breeches that stick out like wings. His shiny leather boots are as tight as his skin. I recognize him as Motorcycle Officer Richmond Reynolds; known to us high school kids as Rat Reynolds. He has a bony nose that pushes too far out of his face, a chin that melts down to his ‘adams apple’ and eyes that shift side to side like a rat’s. But mostly we call him Rat because he acts like one. He thinks he owns Everett Square. He used to control the traffic lights and he’d turn it green for his pals but when Joey DiSessa borrowed his father’s car and we would drive through the square he would flash the Red and walk over and give us all the third degree.

Actually, there are two motorcycle officers on the force. We used to have only one but the local funeral directors insisted that we needed two cycles to handle funerals. It was worked out to everyone’s satisfaction. A big new motorcycle was donated to the city by The Funeral Directors Association. Then the City Council hired another motorcycle officer. Rat Reynolds got the new bike and Officer Frankie Cunningham got the old bike. So, Rat is posing up front with his brand new, natty summer jacket, leather boots spread apart and large leather driving gloves still on as he calls for silence. Then he introduces Mayor Wilson and we suffer through 10 minutes of apologies for his tardiness and 20 minutes of a plagiarized FDR Fireside Chat. I am not listening to the Mayor or Rat Reynolds or my brother Bob. I am trying to catch Mr. Curtin’s eye and Mr. Curtin is totally unaware of the coincidence that out of the whole town of Everett, both he and I have been selected by our friends and neighbors to join the war on the same day.

It’s time to go somewhere or do something now because everyone is standing up and the talking gets louder. Rat is pushing people out the door. Mother and Nonna hug me and stand back and look at me sadly through wet eyes while my big brother Bob reminds me again to protect myself. Then, big, glitzy, leather covered motorcycle cop Rat Reynolds comes our way and says, OK all family members must leave now. Only inductees can remain. There is a stir as people leave and Bob says, So long, kid. Don’t forget what I told you. But Rat Reynolds is coming over now and puts his hand right in the middle of my back and pushes me toward the door behind Mom & Nonna. He ignores my protest, You gotta go with your mother, now, you can send your brother a letter. I start to lead back into his push when Bob steps between us, stopping him dead in his tracks saying, I’m not going. He’s going. Rat looks like he’s going to arrest my brother Bob. He looks down at me and for once doesn’t look like the motorcycle cop with all the answers. He shakes his head. Aren’t you the kid that usta sell the paper at the square all the time without a license? I swallowed hard and nodded acknowledgement. Geez. he says and moves to the other side of the room pushing people out. Alright, alright, he says with finality. Only inductees can stay. He’s still looking back at Bob and me Geez he says again shaking his head theatrically. I glare right back at Rat thinking Rat - Rat - how did you like that. Rat - Rat -scared of a cat. but then turn away in case he can read it in my eyes.

The smiling fat lady that was sitting at the receptionist desk downstairs comes in the room with a bunch of flags for us to carry. She hands me a flag to carry over my shoulder. I ask for an extra one for Mr. Curtin. Meanwhile, Rat Reynolds tells us all to pair up, go downstairs, and line up to march up Broadway to the High School where the busses are waiting to take us to the Induction Center at Fort Devens. So I bring the flag over to Mr. Curtin. He’s surprised to see me and he agrees to pair up. As we exit the police station onto the street we line up four abreast and head up to Everett Square. I’m on the outside and I wave to Mom, Nonna, Bob and some of the kids from school as we pass the Parlin library and proceed up Broadway. I feel pretty special because Rat Reynolds is gunning his motorcycle and leading us up the hill just like he does for funerals. I’m marching right beside Mr. Curtin. It’s a nice sunny day and lots of people are out shopping at the Square. Some girls from the 11th grade see me and wave. And there’s Anne Covino, the smartest girl in the graduating class watching and waving. I think to myself, I’ll bet those kids are watching me carrying my flag right next to Mr. Curtin. I think that maybe a little buddy buddy talk with Mr. Curtin will really impress them. So I turn to him and waving my free hand I say casually, We’re heading up Broadway, Mr. Curtin. And we’re carrying flags on our shoulders, up the hill and past the high school where buses are parked to take us away to Camp Devens. He looks at me like he’s having trouble processing that information. Then he looks straight ahead and nods. Still waving my free hand I try one more sentence. That’s where they take inductees after we march through the square and up the hill". Out of the corner of my eye I look over at Anne Covino and I can see it has the desired effect. People on the sidewalk are clapping and yelling ‘good luck’ to us. I’m relaxed now and wave to people on both sides of the street while I tell Mr. Curtin how excited I am to be going in the army with him. I guess he can’t hear me very well because he’s just looking straight ahead and not waving back at anybody.

We reach the High School and I guess I’m overwhelmed as I look at the stern gray granite front and eight wooden double doors over which is written Ite et MundumVincite Go forth and conquer the world. I think of Mrs. Barnes my first year Latin teacher and savor the drama of this moment as Mr. Curtin and I take a bus to the war.

"WOW, Mr. Curtin, I never noticed that before - did you ever notice that sign over the door? I pulled a B in Latin from Mrs. Barnes. She was tough. That sign means US. It means Get out and conquer the world. Mr. Curtin doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and rolls his eyes back and forth. I guess he is overwhelmed because he isn’t saying anything. We get onto the bus rank by rank. I am first in rank #1 and have the opportunity to board first and save a seat for Mr. Curtin right next to me. I let him have the window seat and tell him what’s been on my mind ever since I saw him at the police station.

I start by saying WOW, Mr. Curtin, just think - only five and a half weeks ago I was sitting in your Civics class and now we’re sitting together on this Army bus. It was a good class. You gave me a B and the same to Jerry Ragucci but I can tell you now that Jerry sat next to Anne Covino for the final exam and looked at her paper to get his answers. She is very smart and it wasn’t her fault that he looked at her answers. Boy that was some class. On that same exam you asked us the name of the Senator who replaced Vice President Wallace. A lot of us got that wrong. We had to tell his name and the state he was from. Missouri, says Mr. Curtin. Senator Mazzury?, I say. NO. he is from Missouri. His name is TRUMAN, he said, betraying a bit of annoyance. That’s why you got it wrong. ‘Oops’, I thought, better change that subject he’s getting upset. Gee, it wasn’t as if I was asking him to change my grade or anything. I raced through my last semester recollections to find the right subject and gave him multiple choices to pick from. I’m worried about next football season with Rudy Rombolli signing up with the Marines, he was our best passer. No response…Did you know that a lot of kids used to smoke in the 2nd floor boys bathroom? Did you know that? I never did that …well, only once in the boys bathroom. The other time was when Jimmy Wilson, the Mayor’s son, took one of his father’s big black cigars and we puffed on it until we got dizzy and rolled all the way down that grassy hill next to the Capitol Theatre". I am doing my best to hold up my end of the conversation but Mr. Curtin seems wrapped up in his own thoughts. It is a two and a half hour ride to Camp Devens way out in the ‘boonies’ of Massachusetts. After about two hours we both run out of conversation. Actually, Mr. Curtin ran out of conversation first. I think it was when we were still marching up Broadway. The bus driver says we’ll be at Camp Devens shortly. Mr. Curtin hasn’t said much… he just keeps staring out the window. I ask him why he doesn’t talk much and he says it’s because he’s been praying so hard. Now, why would he be praying so hard? I didn’t even know he was a Catholic.

Western Massachusetts is nothing but scenery. Not like Boston where there are factories and all kinds of businesses. A lot of time has gone by and I’m getting a bit antsy. I’m sitting in the first seat so I get to lean over and talk to the driver sometimes… When do we get to Camp Devens, I ask? He turns and looks at me and he gets a big smile on his face like he has been waiting for the question. His answer is shocking, We will be there soon but I have to pass air first. He’s looking at me through the rear view mirror with an antsy look on his face. I’m hoping he will control himself until we get off the bus. Now he’s making some kind of joke and laughing with the guys across the aisle. I didn’t hear the joke and just ignore him. About ten minutes later he’s saying it again. I really mean it. I really must pass air. It’s beyond my control. I’m sitting way back in my seat because I’m right in the line of fire. Now, Mr. Curtin is laughing, too. The driver is getting a bit red in the face as he laughs and lifts himself off the seat a bit. The boys across the aisle are into it, now. Here it comes. he says. uh oh, oh. He points his finger at the windshield ahead….a big sign says Welcome to Ayer, Massachusetts". Now everybody is laughing as the joke is passed up the bus. I guess I’m the only one who didn’t know the name of the town right next to Camp Devens. I slouch down a bit while the laughter dies down and ‘we pass Ayer’. Well, at least he didn’t say ‘fart’ in front of Mr. Curtin.

You’re in the ARMY now. WOW.

We reach Camp Devens and the bus stops at the gate next to a little brick hut. A soldier wearing a white helmet, white puttees, and an arm band that says MP reaches up to the bus driver’s window and reads some papers and waves us in. It’s about two in the afternoon and there aren’t many soldiers around. Someone says it’s because it’s the weekend coming up and the ‘CO’ has a policy to give weekend passes to new recruits their second week on the base. I think its nice of him but learn later he is understaffed and needs to get us out of the way so the training cadre can have weekends off. We move up through quiet streets and are surprised to see an ice-cream shop and a theatre. A few soldiers are standing outside the ice-cream shop watching our bus and licking their ice-creams. As we slow down to make a turn a couple of them look at our civilian clothes. You’ll be saw-ree. one of them calls out ominously. They laugh. Now, what’s the big joke. Everybody on the bus is getting excited as our driver pulls up to a low, neat looking one story white barrack.

Here’s you’re new home. the bus driver announces. We pour off the bus and a Sergeant with three stripes tells us to line up in three ranks. That puts me right at the front of the line. Somehow Mr. Curtin is no longer beside me. Somehow he must have been mixed up in the crowd and now is located in the line behind me and six places down. The Sergeant is talking again. This will be where you will stay until you are assigned elsewhere. Take a good look where you are and don’t forget the number on your barrack. When you go inside you will take a bunk as you come to them. You will find a card on the bunk for you to write your name and bunk number. Leave it on your bunk and nobody touch, or move a card anywhere else. Do you understand? He looks over at me and tells me to lead the platoon in. The Sergeant says they will assign about a hundred of us to each barrack. We were the first bus to arrive. There were 32 of us and two more busloads behind us would fill us up that afternoon. Because I was first I managed to lay claim to two nice bunks right near the door. I pick one for me and one for Mr. Curtin and wave some of the others off to save his bunk. I see him talking to a Sergeant who is just inside the door. They both are looking my way. Mr. Curtin is smiling and nodding to me. Over here, Mr. Curtin, I say pointing at his bunk. The Sergeant is also smiling and looking my way and nodding. It looks like everything is going to work out fine. But then the Sergeant announces that the last five recruits in the line will be assigned to the barracks next door. Mr. Curtin is one of them. Bad luck. I’m really disappointed but like they say, War is hell.

After we get our bunks we ‘fall out’. That, we learn, is the opposite of ‘falling in’. Mr. Curtin is in the barrack next door so about a half hour later when it’s time to ‘fall in again’, Mr. Curtin is standing in the rank behind me and a couple of places further down. Standing next to me now is a guy that I don’t know. He is a little shorter than Mr. Curtin and he seems to have a perpetual smile. It’s not because he is perpetually happy but because he seems to have too many teeth in his mouth which causes his upper lip to push up a bit and show a couple of ‘eye teeth’ squeezed in at the front. This time the second rank boards the bus first and Mr. Curtin is sitting way in the back with some others. I’m in my old seat and the toothy guy is sitting by the window. He is a couple of years older than me and says that he worked for the Boston & Maine Railroad as a brakeman. His name, he says, is Johnny Butler. My name, I say hollowly is …uh, uh…PJ. He looks directly at my eyes with his ever-grinning mouth and I cringe a little inside, thinking, he knows that everybody at home called me ‘Paulie’. But he just shrugs a ‘glad to meet you’ look and says OK, PJ and we both turn to the window to see where the driver is taking us. We pass a lot of long white barracks just like ours and make our way through several streets that all look alike. A group of soldiers dressed in baggy green uniforms see us or rather our bus laboring through a narrow turn and they settle into these big grins as they spy our civilian clothes. They are pointing at us and chanting You’ll be saaw- ree." We hear it again and again those first few days at Devens usually from the draftees who were inducted only two or three weeks before the new incoming ex-civilians. Johnny Butler accepts the taunting good-naturedly and just looks through the bus window; still grinning his perpetual grin.

Clothes do not a soldier make

The bus pulls up in front of a barrack that looks almost the same as our bunk house except it’s longer and wider and has a truck depress and a dock on the backside. A sign on the side says Quartermaster which I learn is the army way of saying supplies. We line up in two columns again and march through a door at one end. Inside there is a double line of slate benches which run almong one side of the room. We file in and take a seat on the benches. I notice that Mr. Curtin is in the rank behind me. A new Sergeant is standing there observing us like lab specimens, hands clasped behind his back, face impassive. One eye seems to be squinting much like it would if he were really watching us through a microscope. The squinty eye kind of roams back and forth taking in the whole group. We somehow understand that talking is not in order and sit there waiting for the Sergeant’s next move. I notice that he has a better quality of uniform than some of the other soldiers we’ve seen. Maybe he’s the Sergeant in charge of this quartermaster place. He stops moving his eye up and down and all around us. He takes a deep breath, pulls in his bottom lip and pulls his chin up against his neck, HENN….SHUP., he yells. We look back and nobody moves. His mouth gets small and thin and his eyes are back in sync again. Staring at us incredulously he narrows his eyes until they look like two slits in an enemy bunker. From the bunker he gazes menacingly, targeting each of us separately. He raises his voice and hollers. I SAID HENN….SHUP. Everybody is concentrating on him now. We heard him say ‘henshup’ but we don’t know what ‘henshup’ means. His face is getting an angry shade of red. Somebody at the far end of the bench with a high school ROTC background stands up stiffly and the rest of us follow suit a bit raggedly but no less stiffly. His face relaxes and the red fades to pink. He sucks in a satisfied little breath. There is no question that he has everybody’s attention now that we all know what HENSHUP really means. We wait tensely for the next command. It comes as swiftly and shockingly as HENSHUP. did.

DISS-ROBE. We are glued in place, processing the new command through our heads wonderingly. ROTC speaks up. Do you mean right down to our skivvies, sir? Now both of the Sergeants’ eyes are squinting at us. He is definitely back in the bunker. I MEAN, SOLDIER, EVERYBODY STRIP RIGHT DOWN TO THEIR ROSY PINK ASSES FAST AS THEY CAN. My God. I realize, I’m right in the front row. Right in front of the Sergeant. My God. Mr. Curtin is right behind me. He’s telling Mr. Curtin to STRIP. What if I have to turn around and we SEE each other. This is awful. And there’s no place to hide."

It is a momentary thought because everybody is hopping about removing shoes, shirts, slacks and skivvies, and dropping them on their insteps. Everybody’s clawing at their clothes and doing ‘HENSHUP’, too. We stand there naked as jay birds on a telephone wire and wait apprehensively for his next command. We don’t have long to wait. COUNT OFF BY THE NUMBERS, STARTING ON YOUR LEFT. The ROTC is first and he yells out ONE into the ear of the man on his right who picks up the count and moves it down. We go through all thirty two of us and begin to feel like real soldiers. With gathering confidence, we stare apprehensively and intently at the Sergeant so we can respond immediately to his next command. A brief moment of silence then the command is DELIVERED tersely, like a whip snapping at us in midair. SIT. he rasps… and instantly it sounds like a round of applause as thirty two rosy pink butts hit the cold slate at the same time. A soldier with one stripe passes around address slips and long paper bags. The Sergeant addresses us again. You will put everything except your watch, your billfold, and yourself into that brown paper bag. You will print your name and address on the label and stick it on the bag. You will tape it shut good because it is going back where it came from. It takes a while as each man tenderly puts away civilian life and ships it home.

This is the moment of transition when individuality is cast aside and sameness puts us into the ‘Big Picture’. The Sergeant moves to a long U shaped counter that is manned out front by men in ridiculously bad fitting uniforms. Behind the counter stands a team of soldiers also in bad fitting new army clothes. We are sitting there naked and the soldiers at the counter in ill fitting uniforms are about to equip us with our own ill fitting army clothes. The Sergeant is clearing his throat and says HENSHUP. We understand the command and as I stand again, my hands, which have been casually covering my lap, are now covering my crotch. The Sergeant glares at me disapprovingly; I drop my hands and I notice that he still is staring disapprovingly. With his wide-angle lens eyes he fits all 32 of us into a single stare. "You will move to the counter with your arms out in front of you. Your first issue will be three GI summer khaki undershorts. You will put one of them on and carry the rest down the line where you will be issued summer tops, sun tan socks, summer sun tan trousers, sun tan shirts, a tie and sun tan overseas cap.

It sounds like quite a load but he’s not even half way finished. You will also receive an OD Blouse, OD trousers, winter union suit, winter socks, an OD overseas cap and two pairs of shoes. At the end you will be issued a Barracks Bag into which you will deposit your General Issue…also known as GI. Are there any questions about what I’ve just said? Clearly, he doesn’t want any questions. Nobody asks one. He nods approvingly and drones on, Give size information… only when asked. Take everything you are given. Carry everything to the benches where you will dress like an American soldier. I’m standing there with nothing on except my watch and I’m holding my billfold and wondering what to do with it. Then I hear a guy behind me ask that very question. The answer comes from the man with one stripe. It is rude and not very helpful. Johnny Butler is next to me and he says Hang on to it ‘til they give you a pair of pants then you stuff your billfold in a pocket. Get behind me and do as I do. So with Johnny Butler leading the way we move forward into the good old ‘army uniform lottery’.

The Quartermaster barracks is beginning to take on the appearance of a maternity ward. The Sergeant is hollering instructions to the team as it takes measurements and calls out sizes. Thirty two nascent soldiers grunt during hard labor as their stacks of clothing grow higher and heavier. Meanwhile, the only encouragement is the unsympathetic and frequent admonishment to the overloaded recruits to bear up, soldier. Johnny Butler moves forward, arms stretched before him and manages to pull his shorts up and around him with one hand while balancing his other underwear and moving forward to the next station. I try it a bit clumsily but it works and from then on it is a matter of hanging on to the clothing to the very end. It is another by the numbers drill. A soldier on the front side of the counter looks at each man who comes by and decides his size. Thirty-eight regular, thirty-four short, forty-two medium. Sir- uh- sir I’m a perfect 42 Large; I always buy my own clothes., I say. Well you’re not buying these, soldier. And 30 days from now when we knock that gut off it will be a perfect fit. So take what we give you and shut up till you get outa this fitting room. 42 Large is just ahead of Johnny Butler who gives a wink at me and moves ahead silently and uncomplainingly grinning all the way. The Sergeant is standing in front of me and squinting again. This time he’s talking right at me. What size does your mama buy for you son? I don’t know Sergeant…I think it’s a 36 Extra Short. What’s the smallest blouse in there? he yells across the counter. Right now it’s a 36 regular. That’s OK. He adds the jacket carefully on my pile. I notice it really is labeled ‘blouse’. Then turning to me he explains solicitously, You gotta roll up those sleeves, soldier. Go down to Randolph Tailor shop, she’ll get you fitting right. But it’s gonna cost you.

He turns and addresses a soldier with no stripes but a good fitting uniform who is manning a two-chair position near the end of the counter. Nathan, are you making sure the shoes fit right? They can’t change shoes, y’know. They start marching tomorrow and I don’t want nobody at sick call bitching about pinched feet. Yessurr, Sarge. says a startled Nathan laying aside his paperback and straightening to a ‘henshup position. Then looking into the storeroom beyond the counter Nathan calls to a soldier with ‘tea saucer’ eyes and bad fitting clothes. You. You over there with the shoe boxes. Don’t screw around with them numbers. Make sure the shoes are RIGHT. We don’t want nobody at sick call bitchin about pinched feet. ‘Tea saucer’ peers further into the shoe box shelves but there is nobody to pass it on to. So he turns back to Nathan with the good fitting uniform, blinks his big eyes once and straightening his hand over his eye brow nods several salutes. Ok, ok sir. Nathan is already into his paperback, reassured that the chain of command is still in good operating condition. Meanwhile, the Sergeant turns back to me, paternally, and just like a regular Florsheim salesman asks, What size shoes do you wear, soldier? I think it’s a 7D. Look alive in there and get this soldier a 7 1/2Charlie. When you march your feet spread a little, son. The extra half size will let you walk further and if you need to fill up some space wear an extra pair of socks." I’m thinking, ‘Wow. I must have done a good ‘henshup’ because the Sarge likes me’. He’s thinking ‘What’s this little squirt doing here in the army? Maybe he stowed away on the bus. ‘.

I make my way around the counter and seem to do OK as everybody gives me the smallest thing in stock. Nathan calls me over to his two-chair position and makes me step into the shoe measurer. He has made a mental note of the 71/2 call by the Sarge. He reads inside the ‘high top’ and nods satisfactorily, Yep, he thinks to himself, it really works. The army way is the only way.

Mr. Curtin is across the way now and has his shorts on, too. I’m surprised to see that he looks kind of skinny and has knobby knees. And he has hardly any hair on his chest. I’m thinking, gosh. , he doesn’t look like a teacher anymore. He looks like…like an ordinary person. And I remember he really wasn’t very friendly on the bus. The bubble quietly bursts and Mr. Curtin’s hour of greatness is over.

Most of the other things I get in my clothes pile are oversized on me. But the tie fits and the skivvies and the shoes are good and the overseas cap and the belt fit. I hook my arm through the strap on the bag and drag everything over to the benches. It looks like a Turkish bazaar. Which, of course, I’ve never seen, but I heard about in senior English class when I mispelled bizarre as bazaar and reminded Miss Boothby about her Mediterranean cruise back in the twenties. She said she actually saw a Turkish Bazaar.

So everyone is holding up articles of clothing and shouting out the sizes and looking for swaps. A lot of them trade around and get a better fit. Except for some socks that fit, I’m stuck with what they gave me. Butler helps me roll up the pant legs and the sleeves on the jacket. We all shove everything we are not wearing into our barracks bags and head for the door.

When we go outside, the bus is gone and the soldier with one stripe says Fall in. In ranks of four. OK, he says, …step off on your left foot and listen to the cadence I call out. Look straight ahead and don’t look at the feet of the man ahead of you. You understand? Yes sir., we respond not all together. So off we go on our first march as real soldiers back to our barrack, stumbling all the way. Although not all are laced up, perhaps, the shoes FIT. It has to be a funny parade with some people still not having laced their boots, unbuttoned shirts, and most of us struggling to keep our pants up. We pass the soldiers in the green uniform which they call ‘fatigues’. They are not laughing - maybe they are even a little bit sympathetic - but they say, Told ya, you’ll be saaw-ree. We’re beginning to get their point.

FITTING INTO THE ‘ECON-ARMY’

Camp Devens was located next to the neat little New England town of Ayer. I don’t mean it was ‘cool’ neat, I mean ‘neat’ neat like somebody got up early every morning and arranged the houses, washed the streets and wound up the people. In Boston they had trucks that would really wash the streets but they still looked grimy after they finished. Anyway, this little town doesn’t have a lot. There is a branch bank, one thriving tailor, two busy barber shops, one small restaurant and a diner, a Congregationalist Church and one good sized pub. Not much else downtown. But then the only place I go in town is Randolph’s tailor shop. I am one of her very best customers, she told me so. That’s because all my GI clothes except my shoes were a yard too big all around. I’m only in the army two weeks and I’ve spent $52.50 already in alterations. My army pay is $21 a day once a month.

War certainly costs a lot and I’m only a ‘buck private’. Imagine what it must cost if you’re a General. I now have one full uniform to wear and one set of fatigues. As for the pub across the street, you have to be twenty-one to go in there. Some of the guys lie about their age and go in anyway. They have a grey haired constable who sits across the way on a bench by the park. Whenever I walk by he looks at me hard so I never try it. Besides, I like milk shakes better. So do a couple of new friends of mine from neighboring barracks. Marty Higgins is a fellow from my high school days. He is medium build and loves to work out at the rather nice gym we have on base. He attended parochial school and talks like he wants to become a priest. He was drafted a week after me but we met one another in the debating club at school. His pal, Herbert Clark, is older and wears big glasses. Don’t know how he passed the physical. He keeps talking about getting into the Rangers. No way, of course, but nobody will tell him. We all hang in together and I introduce them to Johnny Butler.

We spend our time going to the movies, browsing the PX, or playing cards at the end of the barrack. Im thinking about the usual card game tomorrow night and maybe cash out with four or five dollars. I’ve won almost that much in the past playing with Rick and Joey back in our high school days. We all used to play Black Jack, 21, and penny poker. I like 3-card draw poker. They call it that because you can draw up to three cards. You can win by having two or more of a number, or a Flush which is 5 of a suit’ or a run called a Straight or a Full House. That’s the highest. It sounds confusing but it’s pretty easy. I watched them play ‘three card draw’ poker the other night and it is the same as what we played. Except they play with quarters and sometimes the pot has dollars in it. Maybe I can build up my bankroll from the ‘going away parties. I tell Johnny Butler but he says, Don’t play. Learn to live on your army pay." But I’ll just play a little and see if I can get some money for more alterations.

THE G.I. MICKY MOUSE MOVIE

This morning we are scheduled for a program of some kind at the base theatre. The older guys, who are men who have been in the army two weeks longer than us, call this movie mickey mouse and don’t tell us much more. We have to be there at 0700 (army talk for 7AM). We fall out and march to the theatre where we are dismissed and head in to get good seats. The first one of us in there will hold seats for the other three. Herb Clark gets there first and waves us to his reserved seats in Row #1 center. We have a clear view of everybody and I suppose they see us pretty good, too. The show begins when the CO walks out onto the stage accompanied by the Chief Medical Officer Major Carty. He is followed by the Chaplain Captain Father Walsh and Chaplain Captain Reverend Smithers, a Pentacostalist minister and Lieutenant Clifford Cox, the VD Officer. They are all seated now on the stage facing us. Their names and titles are printed on large cards that are folded and propped up on the stage at their feet. All of us except Herb Clark have attended Mass and met Fr. Walsh. Herb is a Presbyterian.

The CO starts off by warning us that this innocent looking little community on the outskirts of the camp is really not as innocent as it appears. It is filled with prostitutes and gangster types up from Boston who are operating in the area. An exaggeration, but the CO’s mission is to ‘fight VD at our very doorstep. ‘ A light goes on. Maybe this is what my brother Bob has been talking about. Dr. Carty now rises and tells us of the CO’s personal challenge to VD. He describes the battle to keep young men like us protected from the predators who lurk just outside our gates. He warns us that metropolitan Ayer has one of the highest VD rates in the United States. An exaggeration, but Major Carty’s mission is to keep us awake at 7:15 AM. And for those in the audience who are not demonstrating enough horror to his blockbusting revelation, he reminds us that anyone reporting on ‘sick call’ with gonnareah or syphilis will be immediately removed from pay status and subjected to incredibly long and painful treatment with knives, needles, scrapers, bad tasting medicine, and if all else fails…amputation. That last possibility, also a slight exaggeration, makes believers of us all.

He is followed by Lt. Cox who stands arms akimbo, feet spread apart, and hands behind his back. He gazes at us a few degrees of arc at a time; first left then right. It is a ‘do or die’ pose he learned by watching actor Brian Donlevy addressing the troops in the movie ‘Wake Island’. In fact, he has a mustache just like Brian Donlevy. The Lieutenant’s mission is to reveal the CO’s secret weapon against Nazi VD. The CO is right. VD is the enemy as much as Hitler, Tojo and Mussolini. We can’t let them win here in Ayer, Massachusetts. We must always be vigilant against the Nazi’s secret weapon… VD. Men - Be alert. Be vigilant. Be safe. Always play is safe and carry prophylaxis wherever you go outside these gates. We listen to him but Marty and I are not sure what prophylaxis is. And he continues, if you don’t know how to use a prophylactic let me demonstrate how. There is a snicker rippling through the audience as he looks stage left and nods peremptorily. Then we all gasp as two GI’s, one at each end, carry onto the stage a large wooden ‘penis’ no less than five feet long and possibly a foot in diameter. It is painted in lifelike colors and, of course, has been circumcised. There is stillness in the theatre as we all try to determine if this is serious or meant as a joke. The stunned silence registers a consensus that this is no laughing matter. Lieutenant Cox is deadly serious. I slide down in my seat to get out of the glare of the footlights and single out Fr. Walsh to get