LOST THOUGHTS OF WAR RETURN: A DIARY OF THE MIND

Tanka 36 to Tanka 46

Fort Belvoir, VA 1943 Sadism Toward the Weaker Soldiers.

Tanka 36

goddam big fat hog ‑‑

comment to a young soldier

by a lieutenant ~

we stared in shock and dismay

his only sin was hunger

Tanka 37

all food was rationed

to provide food for soldiers

but something went wrong ~

we would often be hungry

awaiting food from our homes

Tanka 38

what was the answer?

teach our men not to complain

how ‑‑ by punishment?

but will that stop their hunger

no ‑‑ just their vocal outbursts

Tanka 39

set an example

find a visible symbol,

a kid who whinges ~

then overstuff him with food ‑‑

when he's sick he'll be quiet

Tanka 40

jolly chubby boy

always talking about food

and eating candy ~

unhealthy way to fill up

he was not the only one

Tanka 41

they singled him out

smiled at the easy target

overfilled his tray ~

with a massive quantity

he protested the excess

Tanka 42

they sneered at his plea

ordered him to finish it

in tears he tried to ~

but his efforts were in vain

he begged to leave the mess hall

Tanka 43

stuff yourself they said

their game was still not over

now will you complain ~

sobbing he pleaded to leave

embarrassed before his peers

Tanka 44

get out you fat pig

and never complain again

we will repeat this ~

he skulked out like a whipped dog

hiding his tears from the men

Tanka 45

a short while later

he was not seen by our men

and we don't know why ~

many think he was cashiered

but we don't know why he left

Tanka 46

too soft to take it?

the lieutenant didn't say ~

just a damn fat pig

he taught him not to complain

the Army was better off

These tanka deal with food shortages, something I saw repeated throughout the war, despite the often repeated slogans that the home‑front is being deprived to feed the troops. I recall one morning in Fort Belvoir sitting down for breakfast at a wooden table which held eight of us, and

finding a single, one‑cup cardboard container containing cornflakes next to each seat, but only a single half‑pint of milk for all eight of us.

Since dinners in Fort Belvoir were usually not particularly tasty and somewhat skimpy for young men who were engaged in heavy physical labor, there was a considerable amount of griping about the food among the men. The most visible (as well as audible) was a plump, affable Southern boy about eighteen, who spoke to anyone who would listen about how hungry he was. He, and many others, supplemented their caloric intake with candy bars sold at the PX for some three cents. There was not much else one could do. But one day, Second Lieutenant Piazza, a

strikingly pompous ass who enjoyed strutting around the camp grounds seeking salutes from those of lesser rank, heard him grumbling about how little food we had, and decided to "teach him a lesson." The decision of how his planned educational agenda would diminish this boy's, or

anyone else's, hunger did not rank high on this lieutenant's agenda. Fortunately, I was on KP that day, washing greasy pots and doing other high level intellectual tasks, so I was able to overhear him speaking with the cook, and they both agreed that he was the greatest complainer in the company.

The plot they concocted within my earshot, which they interspersed with adolescent snickering, was to load his tray with an extraordinary quantity of food, which they knew he could not finish, and then berate him for wasting food. How clever of them to teach him that one huge

meal, enough for five men, would now make him realize the error of complaining about how little he had been fed for the weeks prior to this culinary bonanza. The evening meal that evening, which was most unusual in its quality and quantity, was liver steak, with mashed potatoes, green vegetables, bread and butter, coffee, and apple pie, probably the best and most substantial meal that we had while we were in Virginia. And they planned to heap his tray to overflowing. I can still hear the simpering of the two puerile conspirators as they awaited their quarry.

As anticipated, he got on line earlier than most, metal tray in hand, and pleasantly commented on how good the meal was that day. But they were waiting for him, and instead of having mere KPs serve him, the cook elbowed us out of the way to implement their lesson, and took over

while the lieutenant stood there grinning expectantly. The cook thrust his serving fork into three large steaks, and placed them on his tray, positioned in front of the large food receptacles. The boy looked surprised, and told the cook that he didn't want that many steaks, but the lieutenant interceded and told the cook to lay on. As this occurred, he started to get the idea that something was wrong, when four or five large ladles filled with mashed potatoes were dumped emphatically in one of the tray's depressions near the steaks. The triple ladling was repeated for peas, four slices of whole wheat bread were placed on top of the steaks and, finally, two extra‑large slices of

apple pie were wedged onto the remaining space of the tray. He was now starting to show anxiety; he said that he really didn't want all that food and asked them to take most of it back. But, the lieutenant pushed forward and interjected that he was always moaning and groaning about how little food he was getting for dinner, and now he was going to get a full meal so he wouldn't have to cry about being hungry.

The boy looked fearfully at the lieutenant and cook, and slowly carried his tray to one of the tables under the astonished gaze of the other men, who were wondering what this all signified. I was present while the plot had been hatched and wondered when they would finally let up on him, but they weren't going to give up so quickly. He sat there apprehensively, ate some of the food without sign of enjoyment while the lieutenant sidled by and sneered at him, "Getting enough to eat now?" He didn't answer and with tears forming in his eyes, slowly walked toward the 50 gallon garbage drum to empty the uneaten remnants. But Lieutenant Piazza intercepted him and shouted, "No you don't. You aren't going to waste that good food you've been grubbing for like a

goddam hawg. You go back and finish it all; you clean up that damn mess tray, you goddam fat hawg, if you have to stay here all night."

The boy now had tears streaming down his face, and looked around as if someone could help him out of this predicament, but there was no help possible. He slowly carried his half‑emptied tray back to the table, but this time those who had been sitting near him moved away, anticipating some extreme reaction from the lieutenant. He sat down again, looking at the impossible task before him. Meanwhile, the rest of the company had all left the dining room, casting furtive glances in his direction, clearly disturbed at what was happening. After several more minutes of half‑heartedly pushing the peas around, he walked up to the garbage can again, in obvious distress, and looked pleadingly with tears in his eyes at the cook. The cook looked at the lieutenant questioningly, and gestured with a shrug that indicated there wasn't much more they could expect from him. Lieutenant Piazza, offering his final, erudite, heuristic comment, gestured toward the garbage can and announced, "Don't you ever let me hear you griping that you didn't get enough to eat, you goddam fat hawg. Now get the hell out of here."

The defeated boy skulked out, dejected as a whipped dog. It was not too long after being pilloried, that he was transferred out of our company. I don't know why or how that was arranged or where he was sent. There were rumors that the chaplain contacted his mother, who

approached some higher level officer and arranged for the transfer. Some even suggested that he might have been discharged as too immature to withstand typical Army discipline. However, I'm sure that his mnemonic keepsake was an emotional scar that never healed, and my recollection of his mistreatment synchronized with the memories of other abusive treatments a few months later.

Sir Sidney Weinstein

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The philosopher's response:

‘There was a long table in the middle of the barracks room, which smelled of oil and body odour. Beds with straw matting were ranged along either side of the table.

"I am Uchida, your squadron commander." The tanned Japanese staff sergeant clasped his hands beside his back and began to speak. "Your squadron commander is your mother, so you should come to me about any and all matters."

Suddenly, a tall corporal standing beside Uchida barked, "Listen, some of you ain't standing to attention while the squadron commander is speaking! Maybe we ain't been to the university like you, but even before we enlisted we knew the proper stance to take with our superiors. In the army when you listen to orders or instructions from an officer you stand to attention."'

Quoted from `When I Whistle', by Shusaku Endo.

*****

`A banquet was set before them that evening. Besides the rice and red beans and pork stew that could seldom be had back home, sweet bean jelly was bought out. But ‑‑ They'll only treat you well on the first day. The next day it's all over! ‑ their predecessors had told them. So the food did not slip down their throats so easily. "After you've finished eating, each of you, face towards your hometown and bow your head", the squadron commander instructed them quietly. "After that, consider all connections with that world broken."

That night as they closed their eyes for their first night’s sleep upon the straw matting, they heard the long plaintive call of the lights out trumpet in the distance.

They brand new soldiers

How cute they are

As they lie there ‑

Do they cry there?

Quoted from `When I Whistle' by Shusaku Endo, one of Japan's finest novelists.

the baby at the breast,

then the young man bearing arms,

now the mangled body in the tides

Hugh Bygott

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