Page Title

THOUGHTS AND PARALLELS

Written in New Guinea

April 19, 1943

by K. B. Schooley

We have come through a battle. As tough and heartbreaking as any could possibly be. We have lost men, although not as many as expected. Then, too, there have been many wounded--crippled and maimed for life. Others have gone back with malaria fever, and worse, which will affect them as long as they live. Those are the fortunes of war, in all its hideous aspects, and we expected it, but hoped it wouldn't be too difficult.

It wasn't, in a certain sense, because we were at that stage, and in such condition, where emotions played little part in our actions. A man was either dead or alive, and that was the primary requisite. Our pals were killed along side us; we saw them fall, helped them if we could, but went on to accomplish our mission. Through mud, waist deep; over fallen trees, grasping, coiling vines endeavoring to pull us down in the slime; sweating in the stifling heat; cursing the world in general for its stupidity; toiling on to we knew not what.

Everywhere--jungle--jungle--jungle. No breaks; no dry ground; sleeping in water-filled foxholes; fighting off mosquitos, spiders, rats, and maggots from dead and decaying bodies. Dead Japs all around us; live ones yet to be chased down and beaten. Day after day, night after night. Constantly stumbling ahead, looking in every bush and tree, listening for the rustle of movement, always on the alert, kill or get killed.

It was all in the game. Every man knew that and pitted his skill against that of the little yellow devil. We found buddies dead and mutilated beyond recognition, except for their dog tags. Some of the yellow devils even went so far as to remove some of those tags--their owners remaining unknown to be listed as "missing in action". No comfort for those at home--only hope, doubt, fear, and indecision. They couldn't say, "My boy died bravely and for the cause he knew was right." They must say, "I don't know. He is missing in action. Possibly a prisoner, being starved, tortured, or a thousand other things equally nauseating." His comrades in arms know he is dead because they knew what he had in his pocket, his pack, the number of his rifle, but their word is insufficient. They cannot write his loved ones and tell them. It is not official and would not pass the censor. Just hope, prayer, and that faith in the Almighty are the only consolation for his loved ones.

Justice is hard, sometimes mistaken, but ever-present; a necessary thing, but terribly inadequate in situations similar to ours. As I have mentioned heretofore, we knew these things would happen, but dared not meditate too long on their scope. Clear thinking was the most important weapon we had--not to be encumbered by sentiment or grief. Hard, callous? You may think so but definitely a "must".

Now we are recalling every moment. We have come to rest, recuperate, and think back. We have come to look ahead, dream of coming home, desperately hoping it will be soon. Our hearts are heavy thinking of our buddies back there; never to laugh, sing, play, or work with us again; never to see their parents, wives, children, sweethearts, or friends. Dead for all eternity because there is no return. A one-way ticket via the lead express. For Liberty--the most worthy cause on this earth. To preserve our democratic government; the right to live, speak, think, and write as we see fit. Equality of heritage given us by our predecessors who fought and died for the same cause; each generation hoping their battles would be the last.

Their hopes were in vain. Their sons carry on upholding the tradition and fighting for the ideals so dear to us. We are proud of the privilege, be it ever so difficult, and are willing to give our lives too, be it necessary. However, every man has a limit of endurance, both mentally and physically. Ours is reaching the breaking point. We've fought, we've conquered, in our own small sector of the world. Now we are waiting...for what?

We are sick--in mind and body; hearing first this, then a contraction; praying for release to return to our native land and families. Fifteen months away from home, only 450 days, each one an eon in itself. Days on end, doing nothing but training. The same things we did for 15 months before the war. We had our loved ones near us then and didn't mind, but we are alone...they are alone...with a letter now and then to tell us they are well and waiting for us. Precious things, those letters; the most necessary thing in the world to us now.

What can we think? Are we going to remain here another 15 months? No one seems to know. Indecision reigns. Give us the respite we need and have earned. Let us go home, for even a few months, then we can fight again, if need be, and win. Leave us here, make us fight again, and lose. No man would deliberately sacrifice himself or his fellow men, but desperate fighters cannot think or reason and make unnecessary blunders, giving lives needlessly. Only one small consideration... one opportunity to realize our fondest hopes...to go home, is all we ask.

Written permission on file to transcribe and place on-line given to Gayle Mohn Collins, Kalispell, Montana

Transcribed and contributed for use in Flathead MTGenWeb Project by: Gayle Mohn Collins, Kalispell, Montana

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