"This has been a sad time in a lot of ways."

Camp Pendleton, California
December 30, 1943

Dear Girls,

There is so much to say - somehow I’ve been unable to just sit down and scribble off any kind of note - things have been so rushed - “So Little Time” as J. P. Marquand says. And you’re not always in the mood to say things that are tender and loving.

This has been a sad time in a lot of ways. Of course, I am glad that we are at last under way. I am eager to be tempered in the heat of battle. I want to know the result of the last year and a half of work. I’m not sure that battle will show any results at all. I don’t think that it will have as momentous consequences for me, for my way of life and thought, as we of this generation have been led to believe. I think that I subconsciously expect to be shaken down to the marrow of my moral bones, and if battle should be anything less than “all quiet” then its effect should be slight. This is all surmise, of course; I have no way of knowing what battle will be like. The one thing I do want to find - expect to find - is proof of personal courage and competence under fire. I have no qualms about that. I know it will be there when I need it. But still the mind dwells on it. In idle moments now I find myself fighting imaginary battles - leading my men - hand to hand encounters with lone Japs fought desperately, in silence - stealthy night patrols which invariably, though rather childishly, bring me great glory.

It’s hard to explain my state of mind right now… perhaps not even necessary, because it’s so traditional. Take equal parts of nervous apprehension and the most poignant nostalgia, and you have it. Wondering, not knowing, even fearing what is to come, yet glad that it will be soon. Yes, fearing - not bullets or pain, but that through them I may somehow lose the great happiness that I have come to identify with life. For I have had much more than my share - I sing instinctively. Though Daddy and Rusty are gone, I still love them.

I keep thinking of the past - always with longing – Minturn Avenue – Rex the First and his game on the aqueduct after dinner - Gretchen’s white dress with wide, red embroidery - Shredded Wheat in the morning - sawing wood in the cellar - Mother and Daddy sitting on the patio outside my window talking in low tones, all night, it seemed - Gretchen looking for fairies under the Queen Anne’s Lace – Kim throwing spears of dried goldenrod taken from the lot across the street – selling the Literary Digest – the day the girl next door embarrassed me terribly by saying that I kissed her in the library, which I never did do! Tennis with Mike – playing, it seems amazing now, with Mother, and inwardly seething because she beat me. I used to be a Hell of a poor loser. Daddy laughing as he shook the old silver cocktail shaker with the battered spout that you had to hold your thumb over. Grandaddy standing by the radio that stood on the tall white bookcase and telling funny stories Watching Daddy shave in the bathroom when it was painted light blue and arguing about how to spell “promise.” The little love seat that we were all so proud of, and Mother appropriated – her one selfish trick – of establishing as her own the most comfortable chair in our living room. Remember the deck chair that rocked somehow?

The memories pour out – of Carlo, the dog that never slept, but always smelled – Aunt Is laughing about Sistie and Buzzie’s latest antics – the faint musty smell of warm brown shingles in the sun. Aunt Buck’s “grove” down by Broadway of half a dozen trees – Nana buying choke cherries by the cup, and Mother secretly but eagerly filling cup after cup perched precariously up on the roof. All this and volumes more of Minturn alone – before I was eleven - Christmases that were always happy and light-hearted and together, and all red balls and silver garlands… laurel over the fireplace, and presents rewarded by a kiss, however inadequate my blue box of powder bought at Jakobsen’s Drug Store might be - and now we are separated by distance, and more than distance.

And there is so little time to do so much remembering in… for I want to be sure I know what lies in back of me and what it means before I go on.

Now is the time to evaluate the proceeds of a third of a lifetime - to take stock of oneself, measure the capabilities and limitations - though I must be far from mature yet, for I can realize but few limitations in myself so far. I haven’t failed yet - though I haven’t tried to do much. Or was Rusty a failure?

My mind is in a state of uproar at times - questioning purposes, wondering just why I am here today. For I am certainly not fighting for any political theory - they are all too impermanent - not even for a way of life, for I have none that I know of - my only aim in this war is the extremely personal one of securing the safety of two charming women whom I love very dearly. The book says I should have more of a Holy Grail feeling - if that’s good, then I hope I get it.

What did I do on Christmas? – nothing much – I thought of going up to the Wings’, but decided against it, and stayed in my room. Christmas morning I opened my presents as soon as I awoke - shame on you, Mother, for thinking I would do otherwise. And then we got the word that we were to be packed and ready to go completely by noon on Christmas Day - which we did.

Thank you, dears, for your wonderful package - especially the pipe – which I remember asking for as we crossed third avenue going to see Gretchen - and the Bedside Esquire, which I now have to pull out of the grasping hands of one or another of my bunkies every night - and the socks which I shall wear for luck. Uncle Ham and Aunt Kit sent Woolcott’s Long, Long Ago among other things – but best of all, a handful of pictures - of them – us - the Vineyard, and some treasured ones of Daddy as a boy - the old days…. Gone are the Days. Fred with a package of goodies. Howard with some needed handkerchiefs, writing paper, and a volume of Mr. Tutt, lest I forget. Oh, and could you send me more of this paper, Mother, several tablets of it.

I had planned a big box of things for you all – Mexican shawls, perfumes, et al – but when I saw the ring it seemed just right for Gretchen – it is an aquamarine – and gold of course – but it made any further gifts impossible at the time. You’ll only be able to wear it on special occasions, formal afternoon, black dress and high heels, but I think that you could carry it off, dear. And it will accent your very lovely hands.

I’ve been working awfully hard lately - the usual thousand and one details - also I am the company’s loading officer, and have loaded our gear on each maneuver. I know quite a bit about the longshoreman’s trade now - our ships are new, and built for the job they are doing - though the crowded life in a transport is no exaggeration. The other night I figured out that 16 other officers sleep within an arm’s length of my sack. Usually you have to sleep in just your scivvy drawers – not even a sheet. And the ventilating fans and blowers whirr and whistle night and day… you can feel every step in the companionway overhead, and these lights are feeble and flickery.

A sad time in a lot of ways – the ending of almost a year of good times in California, for one thing – a year in which I learned a good deal about what is called fast living – or at least learned enough to know that I don’t care for it, or for the hollow but pretty women you meet – I wouldn’t trade Nan for this whole coast full of them.

Of some things I feel sure - and one is that it will be a fierce but short fight - I like that… a man can take almost anything for 76 hours and not have it affect him too much.

It can’t come too soon now - preparations are over and a deadly period of waiting has begun. I know we will all do well, for we are Marines, but I want to see it - and soon.

It is very late – “I will write more later, dear” quote Mother

Love,
Phil

P.S. I have your Christmas card pasted up in my locker, Gretch. Pinned up, you might say.

Muster Rolls

I've gone over the A Company muster rolls several times now. I'm missing a few months worth (March - May, 1944; August 1944 - January 1945) and some of the scanned pages are illegible (due to rushing on my part, and by ancient microfiche). After a lot of work, I put together a visual representation of the muster rolls.

Company A Casualty Roster.

As mentioned, I'm missing some pages (hopefully the archivists down there will look favorably upon my request to have them scanned and emailed - fingers crossed) and I couldn't enter too many details, but it does give a good sense of who made it and who did not. Included are the names of replacements who joined the company after (and sometimes during) their campaigns. The final casualty rate will likely be quite a bit higher, both on Tinian and Iwo Jima.

(Differentiation between the yellow and orange wound categories: ones marked in yellow were wounded in action, but not evacuated from the front line; orange means wounded and taken to a hospital. Some were returned after a few days, some never returned. DOW means "died of wounds" and indicates the man died after receiving medical attention.)

"The place is cold as the devil..."

New River, NC
December, 1942

Dear girls,

Well, I’m all set – in our hut here, that is, but we don’t start work until tomorrow. There has been so much wild scuttlebutt that you don’t really know what to believe, but from all soundings I’ve been making, the setup sounds very much as I thought it would be. We have a bunch of rookies, I think, though I haven’t seen them yet. And we will probably stay here at least two months training them. In fact, I am giving a series of lectures on chemical warfare – about which I know very little as yet.

The place is cold as the devil, and expensive eating, and way out in the middle of the pine and Spanish moss swamps; but they all seem to like it pretty well – especially for its informality – wear dungarees and boots all the time.

Sabini is shipping out tomorrow. Roy Wood is, strangely enough, in charge of the platoon next to mine. [Frank] Shattuck bunks next to me, but will soon be with his wife. There are for others of us in here, none of whom I knew very well before, but they seem like swell guys.

My train ticket down cost me [$] 6.08. How, I don’t know – but I didn’t get in here until eight last night, what with late trains, standing four hours for the bus and etc. It is late.

Love
Phil

First Letter Home

Yale Law School
Sunday Dec. 7, 1941

Dear Mother,

It’s here at last – all our vague hopes of my being able to stay out are gone; I feel sure I will be called by summer, though not before the end of the semester, certainly. I still refuse to volunteer, though there are some boys here who are going to.

It’s hard on you girls, I know; the delay in my education can do none of us any good. I wish I could be there just to talk it over with you. Needless to say, it leaves me very low – I had been hoping against hope that it would never come; it may well mean the end of much of the world that we knew. But there’s nothing we can do about it now.

My love to you both,
Phil