LOST THOUGHTS OF WAR RETURN: DIARY OF THE MIND

Preparing to kill by gaining expertise with the United States Garand Rifle.

Camps in Virginia, Maine and California 1943 Tanka 22-29

Training to march, build bridges, shoot and kill.

Tanka 22

we must forget school

young boys must kill to survive

rules are all reversed ~

no science or poetry

just learn guns, bombs, flame‑throwers

Tanka 23

rifles are your life

train to hit far off targets

must be oiled and cleaned ~

he became weapon sergeant

a top expert rifleman

A constant memory of the indoctrination by our sergeants was that in addition to our efforts as combat engineers in constructing airstrips, or destroying bridges, we must learn to hate and to kill. We must not hesitate, lest a more ambitious, better trained, enemy soldier would beat us to the punch. Bayonet practice was an example: thrust it in quickly and deep; pull it out and be ready to crack his skull with the rifle butt; be ready for anyone advancing. And be wary of pity – that has caused unnecessary deaths of our civilized boys. When aiming at the enemy, be cool, don't panic, or gasp – slowly exhale while you squeeze, not jerk, the trigger. This philosophy was, naturally, the opposite of the Judeo Christian philosophy, we had been taught in the schools we left to join the Army. We laughed when we recalled what was said bitterly, "Forget what you learned in college – just obey us if you want to survive."

Fort Belvoir, VA , 1943. Expert rifleman.

Tanka 24

hey there city boy

ever seen a real rifle?

better be careful ~

country boys spoof college boy

how does one earn their respect

Tanka 25

shooting a rifle

talent needed to survive

how can a beginner learn ~

clean the gun ‑‑ take it apart

assemble it in the dark

Tanka 26

read the manual

practice often without rounds

slow breaths in and out ~

keep it at your side all night

treat it as your only friend

Tanka 27

the mountain boys smiled

when the rifles were loaded

don't shoot your foot off ~

now the qualifying test

rapid firing as it snowed

Tanka 28

our scores were posted

many smiles changed into frowns

how did we all compare ~

college boy from the city

beat them all and came out tops

Tanka 29

acquired expert rank ‑‑

will that get him much respect?

only a few scowls ~

ability doesn't count

commonality is all

I was shipped with the engineering battalion to which I was assigned, from Jefferson Barracks, Missouri to Ft. Belvoir in Virginia. As part of our training, we built corduroy paths of transverse logs, by nailing thin saplings to the base of heavier tree trunks. These prevented muddy paths, and were invisible from the air.

We were given Garand rifles which were covered with cosmoline, a thick grease that protected them from rust, and were told to be ready for inspection the next day, and woe unto anyone who failed. We cleaned the dust from window sills, and rehearsed making our blankets rigid so that a coin would bounce when tossed on it. But the toughest task was to clean our rifles, which everyone did diligently since, if we passed, it might mean a weekend pass.

Vigorous wiping with rags was not effective; we should have used gasoline, but that was not allowed, so I decided upon another technique. The latrine had a large sink whose faucet emitted scalding water, and I concluded that the hot water would be effective in stripping the grease. I gingerly held each part under the seething stream, which eliminated every molecule of the cosmoline and, because the metal became hot, the water evaporated, leaving it gleaming and bone dry. I reassembled the rifle, and went to bed expectantly.

The next morning, our company commander went down the row of soldiers, grabbing each rifle, examining it and dictating the record of flaws to the sergeant. These contained the derisive: filthy stock, grease‑filled screws, on and on for every rifle. As his anger accelerated he occasionally grunted to a soldier that he would never get a pass home. When it was my turn, he grasped my rifle, examined the stock, the sights, pulled back the bolt, peered inside, and placed his thumb inside so his thumbnail could provide reflection as he peered down the bore. And then his demeanor changed dramatically; he pressed the rifle into my hands, smiled, and said the words all soldiers pray for, "Great job soldier. You have the only clean rifle in this damn company." I was the only one who passed inspection.

We then learned to field strip and reassemble the rifles blindfolded within seconds since we might have to clean and reassemble them in total darkness in our foxholes. On the firing range, each soldier was given three rounds to zero‑in his rifle. This was to see the exact spot the bullet hit when fired at the bulls‑eye, and if it were too high or low, too far to the right or left, we could rotate a screw near the sight to compensate for any deviation. When I was given my three rounds, I was very nervous. I had rehearsed the procedure to sight the bull's eye at the tip of the front sight, to breathe out slowly, never inhale during the shot, and to squeeze the trigger and not jerk it. The men in the pit, two hundred yards away, would pull the large target down after each shot, inspect it, and patch the bullet hole with either black or white tape. They would raise the patched target and hold a white disk exactly over the bullet hole. This indicated to the man firing where he hit the target so he could calibrate his sights to compensate for any tendency of the rifle to fire to either side or above or below the point at which he aimed.

But, when I fired my three calibrating rounds, they were all dead center — in the middle of the bull's eye, an eight‑inch black circle, at a distance of two hundred yards. Since the circular white disk covered the bull's eye exactly after each shot, the sergeant was thus notified that I was a potential expert. Most men were off target, many even missing the entire target, so he ran over to the lieutenant and said something like, "Lieutenant, we got one. Looks like an expert." The men, many of whom were experienced in the use of rifles and shotguns since childhood, peered at me jealously, since they knew I was merely a college kid from New York.

Several weeks later, before we were to leave for overseas duty, we all were tested for our final qualifying score. The minimum acceptable score was "marksman," then "sharpshooter," and finally, the almost unattainable, "expert," which meant almost no misses. Before qualifying, we were given two practice clips each containing eight 30‑caliber shells. When all eight shells in a clip were fired, the empty clip was automatically expelled so another clip could be rapidly inserted, enabling continual firing at the enemy.

The rapid‑fire target was a black, frontal, head to chest silhouette of a man and we had to fire all sixteen rounds at it in 30 seconds. After the first clip was expelled, we had to load the second clip and fire the final eight rounds. At the signal, I fired my eight shells, the clip sprang out, and I tried to load the second clip — but no dice. It didn't fit in, and despite my efforts to force it, it never went in, so I had fired only eight of the sixteen shells.

When the men in the pit pulled my target down there were only eight holes, all direct hits; but since they were looking for sixteen holes, that indicated eight total misses. A red flag on a large pole, called "Maggie's drawers," was waved once for each complete miss. For a close miss, a black circular disc was held over the hole to show where the miss went. But if one missed the entire square yard target, Maggie's drawers were waved. Woe unto the man whose misses were thus advertised, for he would be the butt of jokes for weeks.

Since I was unable to fire one entire clip, Maggie's drawers were waved eight times, to uproarious laughter: "Hey Winston, you couldn't never even hit the side of a barn." I tried in vain to explain that the clip didn't fit, but they guffawed for days at the lousy shot from New York. I was upset and vowed that would never happen to me again. Not only was my reputation as a marksman at stake, but if I couldn't get the clip into the rifle, it might prove fatal during combat. So to ensure that all my clips had perfectly aligned shells, before insertion, I would tap the bullet tips against the wooden stock of the rifle repeatedly. The result was numerous dents in the stock, but the shells were perfectly aligned and would enter the rifle properly.

On the day of qualification it was snowing hard, but I had to test. I made a check of my clips for the tenth time and was ready.

Johnny Wheeler, the Tennessee boy, grinned and asked, "How many Maggie's drawers this time?" But I said that this city boy would beat him. And that's what happened — I attained the second highest rifle score in our company of 180 men, the equivalent of 40 of 44 possible bulls‑eyes, and was rated "expert," the highest rating. The city boy who had hardly ever seen a rifle, had beaten them all. I did swagger a bit, because the ability to shoot a rifle was what qualified one as a man in their minds. That performance must have been the reason the company commander said I was to be the weapons sergeant. Unfortunately, however, because of factors unrelated to my abilities, my achievement had very little beneficial influence on my future success in the Army.

Sir Sidney

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The philosopher's response:

The Japanese soldier was a very formidable enemy. He was daring in attack and stubborn in defense. At the time of Pearl Harbor there was a standing army of 375,000 men, with 2,000,000 trained reserves.

The Japanese soldier in the great Bushido samurai tradition was trained never to surrender. To become a prisoner was to be dishonoured. The loss of pension rights to dependents reinforced that dishonour. If he died in the service of the Emperor, his family would have pension rights, and the ashes, if possible, would be brought back home and buried at the National Yasekuni Shrine.

The rifle used throughout the Second World War by the Japanese Imperial Army was the 6.5 mm Arisaka Meigi 38 rifle. The Japanese soldier was taught to hold the rifle with the left hand in front of the trigger guard with the sling loose. It was impossible to execute rapid rifle fire as with the British rifle and the American Garand. This was because of the cocking action of the Arisaka Meigi 38 and because the sling was always held loose.

However, the samurai tradition continued. The officers’ swords were not merely ceremonial but deadly weapons able to cleave the body from collar bone to waist in one action. The bayonet was an extremely important weapon to the Japanese soldier, and the rifle was generally carried with the bayonet fixed.

* * * * * * * * * *

A Letter from the boy Ichiro Hatono to his mother Isoko Hatano:

July 21 1945

"At school I saw some of the leaflets that fell at Okatani; in them it said, in good Japanese: `Japan is a beautiful country covered with flowers but after March it will only be a pile of ashes.' Apparently there are other leaflets advising the population to leave so as to escape a future air raid, but these have not got around.... Yuzo was sorry he had not been able to get one; he seems to think these leaflets are just the same as the advertising handouts they give you in the streets of To‑kyo.... The countrywomen hereabouts are as terrified of the leaflets as if they were bad spells; they say that they not only rot the hands but blind the eyes that read." p 98

Mother and Son: A Japanese Correspondence by Isoko and Ichiro Hatano. Translated by Margaret Shenfield from a true story, L'Enfant de'Hiroshima. Les Editions du Temps; Paris 1959.

in humanity 5

there are never distinctions, 7

all our spirits are as one 7 katauta

Hugh Bygott