My Life as a WAC

By Margaret A. Smith

On May 14, 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt approved the legislation establishing the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps. This book tells the true story in her own words about Margaret, an inquisitive young black woman, and her experience in the Armed Services, along with dealing with the prejudice of being not only a black woman but a woman (period) in the Armed Services. It tells the story of her eventually being accepted into the WAAC, and after her first three and a half weeks into joining the WAC, she was considered AWOL because she was not aware that she could not leave the city without reporting to the induction center. It tells of her basic training and eventually, with her determination, being accepted in administration and Officer Candidate School and becoming a first lieutenant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647015152

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My Life as a WAC

Margaret A. Smith

Copyright © 2020 Margaret A. Smith

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64701-514-5 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64701-515-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

New York City And Fort Des Moines, Iowa

Fort Huachuca, Arizona

Fort Devens, Massachusetts

The Return to Fort Des Moines, Iowa

Camp Forrest, Tennessee

Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia

Gardiner General HospitalChicago, Illinois

Godman Field, Kentucky

Dedicated to my son, Michael Leroy,

and my grandson, Shawn Maurice

Acknowledgment

This book was written by Margaret A. Smith for the sole purpose of her Son and future Grandchildren. This book would not have been published without the dedicated efforts of her Daughter-in-Law, my wife, LaVerne R. Smith. LaVerne’s love for her Mother-in-Law and of reading the book recognized that these facts of Margaret’s life in the WAC’S would make interesting reading for the world. Special thanks to my wife LaVerne.

Foreword

On 20 April 1978, a coworker, Ted Cooke, brought in a few snapshots of his World War II days. Ted and I started reminiscing about the good old days; we were remembering the good times and the fun. Another coworker, Vivian Carroll of Toledo, Ohio, asked me to bring in some pictures of me during my Army days. That night I pulled out some old photo albums and remembered that some of my best pictures were in a book I had written, typed, and bound back in 1946. I decided to take a few pictures and the book to the office.

The book and pictures were shown around, and other coworkers, Bell Sanders and Emma McKinney, suggested I have the book published. How does a layman and nonwriter go about such a task? There were suggestions galore. It was then I realized it had been thirty-two years since I read what I wrote down as my memoirs. I came home and read it over again. There were so many things I thought had happened one way, only to read my memoirs and discover they had happened another.

14 August 1942 through 13 January 1946 were truly years of learning experience for me. There were good days and bad days, and it was only during the rereading that I actually remembered the bad days. The incidents cited on these pages actually happened. My reason back in 1946 for writing down my experiences was to let my children and grandchildren know some of the events that happened during the first year the United States Army accepted women in service for the very first time and what actually happened to one black woman.

My son, Michael, was five years old in 1955 when we moved from Mt. Vernon, New York, to Detroit, Michigan. I went to work for the Air Force and then the Defense Department. My son was educated in parochial schools and now works for the city. My four-year-old grandson knows when Grandmama means business.

T/Sgt. Dena M. Hutchins (ret.) was my platoon sergeant, in Fort Devens, Massachusetts. We attended the Black Airman’s Convention held at the Pontchartrain Hotel and Cobo Hall, Detroit, Michigan, 31 July to 3 August 1975. I met Mr. William Campbell, brother of A. Noel Campbell Mitchell, and sent her a note; we are corresponding once again. I also correspond with ex-sergeant Mary Gillette Jackson of Knoxville, Tennessee.

I am very grateful for having known all the people mentioned on these pages. My life has been enriched for having known them.

Margaret A. Smith

Highland Park, Michigan, April 1978

All you soldier men, keep on fighting to win,

For the WAC is in back of you.

If a plane you fly, keep it flying high,

For the WAC is in back of you.

Spread the news around that we’re victory-bound;

With our hearts we pledge anew

That our flag shall wave o’er the home o’ the brave,

And the WAC is in back of you.

Pallas Athene, goddess of victory,

History tells her part in war,

And our own Statue of Liberty

Shows what we’re fighting for.

Spread the news around that we’re victory-bound;

With our hearts we pledge anew

That our flag shall wave o’er the home o’ the brave,

And the WAC is in back of you.

Chapter I

New York City

And

Fort Des Moines, Iowa

City wrought in flame. City of arguments,

underminding, city of terminals, city of

endings, city of the last attempt. City

whereon no one knows whether he is coming

or going…

Felix Riesenberg

16 July 1942, girls leaving Army building in New York City, headed for Ft. Des Moines, Iowa, for the first WAAC OCS class. Future Capt. Donaldson is in front with her luggage.

Some of the first candidate officers for America’s Women’s Army troop happily from 39 Whitehall Street to waiting bus. They hopped train at Jersey City to the Iowa training center.

Unless one has a well-developed sense of observation or a critical sense of detail, they missed most of the minor drama that unfold themselves around us every day: the humor, comedy, pathos, and tragedy that is an integral part of our ever-changing existence.

A little thing like going to the mailbox: Try to imagine the hope, fears, and feverish anticipation that are sometimes so closely related with so small an act or the sickening thud that symbolizes the day of doom to our hopes when our wishes and desires rise too high.

For the first time, I became aware of the routine of my livelihood. As the days rolled themselves numerically into infinity, so was the news one way or another that someone of my acquaintances or friends had volunteered or been inducted into the armed services. Joe, who was the fourth at bridge, was gone; so was Tom, who could always be counted on to have tickets to the best shows.

So, it ran, your past times becoming more and more complicated through absenteeism. What could I do? What was there left to do?

Today, Sunday, as I huddled in bed reading the papers, I was saddened because of my thoughts. What is this? I read it over. What! Moving all the papers, I stacked the pillows and started again.

The Associated Press (14 May 1942)—Women in the Army—the bill introduced by Congresswoman Edith N. Rogers, Republican from Massachusetts, creating a Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps, has just been passed by both houses. Heretofore You’re in the Army now has applied only to Joe, Tom, John, and Bill, but as of today, this adage will no longer be applicable to the selected few fathers and sons but must include Margaret, Mary, and Jane.

It was just a small item in the New York Times that caught my eye. That was the very thing that I needed. Yes, to join the Women’s Amy Auxiliary Corps would be one of the finest things that I could think of doing.

I thought of it constantly during the next three weeks, and the papers helped a great deal. By that time, all America was enthused over women joining the Army or even being a part of it. There were some diehards of men fighting against it and almost all women fighting for it.

Training was scheduled to begin 30 July 1942 at Fort Des Moines, Iowa. The first applications were to be issued 15 June 1942 at 30 Whitehall Street, New York City, for everyone living in the vicinity of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.

Three weeks later at 7:00 a.m., I walked out of the IRT subway at South Ferry. I did not need to look for the building; about eight-five other women came out with me, all heading in the same direction.

Thirty-Nine Whitehall Street was a comparatively small dingy building with two large flags extending out on either side of the door. It looked more like a precinct than a recruiting office, that is, so I thought.

The sergeant in charge started passing out the applications about 9:30 a.m. There wasn’t room to move; he had to make his announcements twice in order to be sure that everyone heard him. He said he had never seen so many women in his life, and the fact that they were all down trying to join the Army was really amazing to him. There were about 3,500 women there the first morning. The ray of hope gleamed like a gem in the breast of all those present. The fact that all but 350 were doomed to disappointment only added grist to the mill of their hope and ambition. The quota for the Second Corps area, which included New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, was twenty-six, but 3,500 were there to try that first day.

We were given applications—pink sheets, white sheets, blue sheets, cards, etc., along with instructions to fill them out and return them to the recruiting office by the earliest mail.

About a week later, some of the women were notified by mail to report back to 39 Whitehall Street for an examination. I was among them. I don’t believe that I slept two hours the night before; nevertheless, about 9:00 a.m., I walked up the steps of the recruiting office.

After the sergeant finished calling the roll, he took us over to another building to take a written examination. The examination was a long one, but not too hard. We were told by the officer in charge that we would be notified by mail if we had passed the written examination.

Three, four, five, six, seven days passed, and finally, for seemingly the millionth time, I opened the mailbox, and there it was, a letter telling me to report again. My heart pounded, I walked on air, I danced on clouds, I had won despite the odds.

For the next three days, there were interviews, physicals, photographs, fingerprints, the works; everyone was happy. By this time, the Negro girls had been filtered out to ten; they were as follows:

We were given almost all the attention because we were told by one of the clerks that all the Negro girls that took the examination had failed, and someone from higher headquarters said that it was an impossibility. The ones in the higher brackets of the test were to be called back; we were the ten. We also knew that four of us were not going, and that was the reason for so many interviews, retest, and such a strict physical. After our final interview, we were told that again we would be notified by mail as to whether we would be on orders to leave for Des Moines.

For me, the letter or wire never came. What a disappointment. By 19 July 1942, all the papers carried the story and pictures of the women that were leaving. I knew then that the impossible could happen and that I was not going. There was nothing left for me to do but go to bed and cry it out of my system. No, I had not given up trying. I was still going in the service; that I knew, but at that moment, I was just too disappointed to think about anything. The next morning, there was another letter in the mail, much to my surprise, telling me to report to Whitehall Street.

Colonel Day and Lt. Munson interviewed me. They tried to give me the plain facts of Army life since both of them were regular Army officers. I was told that the final application reviewer in Washington rejected me on the grounds that I was too young, regardless of the fact that my application had to be accompanied by a birth certificate proving that I was twenty-one years of age and had a high school diploma proving that I had graduated from high school. After this interview, I told them that I still wanted to join, that it was the patriotic thing to do, and that I was willing to go in as an enlisted woman.

I did not hear anything more from Whitehall Street until 12 August 1942. I was told to report there on l4. August 1942. On that date, Alma L. Sims and I were sworn in the Women’s Amy Auxiliary Corps on the orders on page 4.

To say that I was in my seventh heaven would not adequately express how I really felt when I walked out of 39 Whitehall Street on that beautiful hot August day. I had only mentioned the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps to my family vaguely, so I decided it was time for me to explain my thoughts and actions. That night, I caught the train for Raleigh, North Carolina. During my three-week stay, I tried over and over again to explain how I felt about the WAAC and why I had joined. Finally, I left Raleigh with my father’s wholehearted approval and my grandmother’s wholehearted disapproval. My brother, who at that time was stationed in Fort Custer, Michigan, as a corporal in the l84th Field Artillery, shared my grandmother’s disapproval.

I returned to New York to find several telegrams telling me to report immediately to Whitehall Street. Upon reporting, I was notified by Lt. Munson that I had been AWOL for two weeks. I was issued orders and a slip of green paper, which I later learned was a TR, or transportation request, and told to pick up my ticket and reservations at either Grand Central or Baltimore and Ohio station and be ready to leave New York for Fort Des Moines, Iowa, for my first phase of basic training and the start of my Army career.

Saturday, 17 September 1942, about 5:30 p.m., I boarded the bus belonging to the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad taking me over to New Jersey, where I took the train to Des Moines. It was a very pleasant and exciting trip. I had never been west and was thrilled almost beyond the point of sleeping and eating.

Monday morning, 19 September 1942, I awoke to find that sometime between the layover in Chicago and that hour, almost the entire occupants of the train were WAACs. Someone looked out of the window just as we were being seated in the diner and saw a gold dome. When we inquired of the waiter as to what it was, he told us it was the dome on the Capitol Building in the city of Des Moines. Naturally, we got excited, but then the waiter told us we had at least another hour and a half on the train, so we might as well eat, as breakfast would be over when we reached