December 1941 (3 page)

Not that America was ready for it.

Since dissolving its forces after 1919, there was little American military to speak of. The Army Air Corps had only 51,000 trained flyers as of June of 1940. On the other hand, the Royal Air Force had 500,000 pilots, and the German Luftwaffe had a million pilots. Both countries were far smaller than America in terms of population, and the U.S. planes were inferior to boot. American Curtiss P-40s were out-gunned and out-accelerated by the English Spitfires and the German Messerschmitts, and the P-40s couldn't achieve their altitude either.
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Still, the American military was quite proud that their tiny air force operated out of what they called “dispersion fields,” meaning their geographically scattered planes would not be subjected to mass destruction as a result of aerial bombardment.
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They were also proud of their new glider schools.
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Lt. Gen. Leslie J. McNair observed that against Germany, the U.S. Army could “fight effectively but losses would be unduly heavy.” And he lamented about the poorly equipped troops.
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An army draft continued in America, but 1,400 American “boys” refused to report, declaring themselves as “conscientious objectors.” They were sentenced to Civilian Conservation Corps work camps around the country, where they picked up trash, planted trees, and served their time, at least a year and in some cases, more. Most were religious pacifists, including Mennonites.
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The army was also forcing 1,800 uniformed soldiers of the 29
^th
Division out of service. All in excess of twenty-eight years old, they were deemed “over-age.” Maj. Gen. Milton A. Reckord protested that it would take “weeks to build the division back to its peak.”
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The navy was undermanned as well. Enlistments were so poor that Secretary of War Frank Knox mused publicly that he might have to impose a draft for the blue-water service, something that had never been done before. The admirals thought the deficiency could be made up with better newspaper advertising campaigns and by “relaxation of health standards.”
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That might have explained why the navy called back seventy-seven-year-old Jesse “Pop” Warner as a chief boatswain's mate in San Diego. Warner had already served fifty-seven years in the navy, had a recent physical, and with the exception of upper and lower dental plates, was pronounced “fit for sea duty.” He had originally enlisted in 1884.
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Americans were understandably gloomy or indifferent about world affairs, but things were bothersome at home too. The country was still feeling the effects of the Great Depression, and after the economy had made a gentle comeback several years earlier, it had slid back and had only recently perked up again. Unemployment hovered around 10 percent, though war production had begun to stabilize the economy.
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Despite their vow to stay out of “it,” a war effort had been underway for a while now—allegedly only to aid the Allied powers. The “Arsenal of Democracy”
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was reserved exclusively for friends of America, but there was some promising if slightly ironic upside to the early efforts. Just as Germany had pulled itself out of its own depression with a military buildup, so too was the United States. In California, for instance, industrial factories supporting the war effort numbered over 2,000 as of December, and wages were as high as $193 per week, although many employees were still scraping by on less than $40.
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It was a shaky and uncertain recovery. The stock market on December 1 was mixed, and Wall Street was mildly surprised that investors had not reacted more favorably to news of the Russian counteroffensive and of the Japanese desire to continue talks with Washington to try to effect a political solution to their disagreements. The market was at its lowest point since 1938, but there was no market averaging yet.
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Stocks were broken down between railroads and industrials. In 1926, railroad stocks had been trading at over $102 per share, but by 1941, they were at $23 per share.
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Senator Sheridan Downey of California proclaimed that the 2 percent payroll tax was enough to fund the Social Security retirement system, which in 1941 provided a pensioner at age sixty with $36 per month for the rest of his life. With the tax scheduled to go to 4 percent in 1943, the trust fund would have more than enough to pay for the retirement of all Americans over retirement age. But, Downey told a congressional committee, rather than depositing the taxes collected into Treasury bonds, it would be “more humane” to provide pensions for those elderly who were “slowly decaying and starving” on welfare rolls.
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A majority thought the Depression could last another ten years, and only 37 percent thought “that their sons' opportunities will be better than their own.”
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A majority also thought the New Deal would expand and exert ever-more control over the American economy; that same majority also deemed it a good thing. But after thirteen years, the “new normal” of 1941 was to expect that nearly one out of five Americans would be perpetually unemployed, despite the best intentions of the New Deal.

The Roosevelt administration had pretty much run out of ideas and the alphabet content to simply keep throwing money at the problem and hyper-managing the economy through a weed patch of bureaus and administrative departments. No New Deal legislation had been proposed in Congress for over two years. As far back as “the winter of 1938–39, Roosevelt knew, but was not yet willing to say, that the New Deal, as a social and political revolution, was dead.”
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Washington was a bureaucratic mess and no one seemed to know what agency or department was responsible—or irresponsible—for what. The Office of Production Management was fighting with the War Department over metals, as the allotment slated for farm equipment was being sucked up and sent to Great Britain.

The Rooseveltians ran roughshod over business. “For the first time during this emergency, the U.S. government forced the removal of a corporation executive from his own company,” reported
Life
magazine. It seems that one F. Leroy Hill, president of Air Associates, a maker of airplane parts, “had been at odds with the National Defense Mediation Board.” The army “fired” Hill from his own company, without ever appearing before a judge or jury. “When it finds a man that it likes, the Army plans to give the plant back to its owners.”
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The “mighty music” of America—as written by North Carolina's Thomas Wolfe—had been silent for over ten years.
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With all the news coverage of the war and the buildup at home, military and civilian culture mixed easily. The print ads in the nation's weekly and daily newspapers had broad military themes. The topic of national unity was deep throughout many, even in Parker Pen print ads, which depicted men in uniform right alongside civilians.
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The Ethyl Gasoline Corporation's ad told the story of an anonymous delivery man. “He's been delivering the goods for you and the folks next door for years. The lumber, stone, metal, glass of which homes are built. . . . Today, he's got an even bigger job to do—delivering the goods for Uncle Sam.”
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B.F. Goodrich pushed their rubber products via a heavy military thesis.
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So did the automotive business. Plymouth was running ads for their 1942 model but also made it clear that the Chrysler Corporation manufactured “Army tanks, Anti-Aircraft Cannons, Army Trucks . . . shells and projectiles.”
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Chevy did the same thing. In fact, whether it was an Oldsmobile, a Ford, a De Soto, a Packard, a Nash, or a Buick, all their advertising had a martial theme, detailing how each manufacturer was contributing to the war effort.

Even bicycle manufacturers got in on the act. Columbia was promoting the idea of parachuting “leathernecks of the Marine Corps” along with bicycles that folded up and could “hit the silk,” which upon landing “are assembled and ready to speed away on a lightning-fast maneuver.”
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Other manufacturers like Schwinn were just pushing bicycles for the Christmas season.
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But the combination of the war effort and the growth of federal power raised ominous flags as well. The Office of Price Administration warned that cars made after 1942 might be severely curtailed. A generic “Victory” model car was envisioned that would eliminate “double-bar bumpers” and would feature the “substitution of wool and rubber floor mats in favor of linoleum . . . elimination of all unnecessary gadgets such as clocks, cigar lighters, radios, dual tail lights . . . reduction in number of colors and the number of coats of paint.” The OPM had already ordered a 50 percent reduction in the number of cars made for 1942 over 1941 because demand had gone up. It was contemplating prioritization of the civilian population to see who government would allow to own a new car and who did not
need
to own a new car.
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Despite the rough economic times—or more likely because of them—American citizens went regularly to the movie theaters to escape. In every city, hamlet, and town moviegoers saw their favorite actors and actresses in edifices such as the Strand, Paramount, RKO Keith, the Uptown, the Biograph, the Palace, and of course, the Bijou. Many theaters were truly palaces, elaborately designed, with heavy wood, brass railings, spit and shine ushers, dramatically large curtains, and colorful lighting. Uniformed boys and young men complete with caps and epaulettes opened doors, helped customers find seats, and pleasantly greeted all patrons as they entered. These theaters were designed for maximum comfort in order to make those attending feel special. Some were even equipped with the new-fangled air conditioning. By and large, kids went to the same movies as adults, and all forked over the 10 cents to see a movie; a double feature cost from 17 to 21 cents more. Saturday matinees for children usually ran a nickel.
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Americans dressed up in suits and ties and dresses to go to the movies. Everyone wore hats, and they always put on their “Sunday Best” to go to church, out to dinner, to take a train or an airplane. The whole idea was to make people think better of you as an individual. Good grooming permeated the culture, as did helpful advice and tips on landing a bride or groom. Personal hygiene was also important, as consumers could purchase a “prophylactic tooth brush” and “tooth powder” for 47 cents.
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Hair tonics such as Vitalis promised to keep men's hair in place, reduce dandruff, and “prevent excessive falling hair.”
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Men did not go out unshaven, and only old men or psychiatrists had beards—though pencil moustaches, such as those sported by Clark Gable, Errol Flynn, William Powell, and Ronald Colman, were popular with movie actors and those who emulated their style. Women's role models were slim, chic actresses such as Barbara Stanwyck, Myrna Loy, and Greer Garson. Hem lengths were just below the knee, and women wore makeup, heels, girdles, and stockings before even thinking about going out in public.

The most popular movies in 1941 were
Sergeant York
,
The Maltese Falcon
,
Meet John Doe
,
Dumbo
, and the acclaimed masterpiece
Citizen Kane
. Along with
The Maltese Falcon
,
Citizen Kane
gave Americans one of its first tastes of film noir in which morality was ambiguous, human nature base, and all characters worthy of suspicion. These movies foreshadowed a post-World War II disillusionment, when in the late 1940s and early 1950s the traumatic memories of battle and the haunting meaninglessness of the Holocaust provided plenty of fuel for dark and apprehensive films. But for now, such thoughts were only small gray clouds on an otherwise red-white-and-blue American horizon. Indeed many movies in 1941 depicted unadulterated patriotism: for instance,
A Yank in the RAF
,
War Front
,
They Died with Their Boots On
,
Dive Bomber
, and
Buck Privates
starring comedy duo Bud Abbott and Lou Costello.

As with most other years of the era, Hollywood churned out movie after movie, and the average American went to the theater twice a week. While at the theater, moviegoers could also watch serials such as the
Adventures of Captain Marvel
,
Dick Tracy
,
The Green Hornet
, and
Jungle Girl
.

Radio was also important to Americans, particularly the AM dial. Americans woke to farm reports and the weather, listened throughout the day to music and local programming often involving local children in contests, and settled into the evening with nationally broadcast adventure and comedy shows, such as
The Battling Bickersons
, the exploits of Jack Benny, and
Fibber McGee and Molly
. Up-and-comer Bob Hope made millions of Americans laugh, while liberal columnist Drew Pearson and conservative columnist Walter Winchell made them think or simply get angry with their commentaries. Hollywood reporters like Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons satisfied a taste for gossip, while others tuned their ears to the strains of Tommy Dorsey, Jimmy Dorsey, Harry James, Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, Dinah Shore, Peggy Lee, Frank Sinatra, Harriet Nelson, Bing Crosby, and the great “Satchmo,” Louis Armstrong. FM radio was not unheard of in 1941, just very expensive; an FM radio in 1941 could cost as much as $390, more than most people's wages in one month.
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