When Books Went to War (24 page)

Even the council's printers seemed to resent working with the Navy. When the council was forced to change the packaging for the ASEs out of necessity, some naval inspectors threw a fit and took out their frustration on the printing companies that delivered these packages. The situation grew so heated at the Street & Smith printing firm that its manager threatened to “no longer print any books for the Navy because of the general attitude” of one cantankerous inspector. The council had to intervene to pacify all parties involved. Through the professionalism of Stern, these headaches and complaints never slowed the production of the ASEs.

 

As the council intensified its efforts to print books for the Pacific, its ASEs in Europe continued to make an impact. In the summer and fall of 1945, preparations were made for the prosecution of dozens of Nazi Germany's most prominent political and military leaders at Nuremberg. They were charged with conspiring against peace, planning and waging a war of aggression, and committing war crimes and crimes against humanity. The men charged included Hermann Göring, a senior Nazi official, and Joachim von Ribbentrop, Nazi Germany's minister of foreign affairs.

After spending several weeks interrogating war criminals, with a copy of Henry Hough's
Country Editor
tucked in his pocket, one major, who was a veteran of both world wars, finally had a chance to write to Hough in September 1945. Whenever he had a chance, he would read a few pages about Hough's life as an editor and contributor to a small newspaper on Martha's Vineyard. He cherished every page. “When one is far from home and from a past which treasured a boyhood in an old Massachusetts town, the years roll back easily and a mere closing of the eyes brings it all near again.” He especially appreciated being reminded of simpler times, considering the historic task he had just completed.

 

Just two weeks ago at Nuremberg where I was interrogating some of those men who brought suffering to millions of innocent people, von Ribbentrop asked if I were finished with it. Those men are reading books of this type given them by the Red Cross. I wish every one of them there could read
Country Editor
. It tells more eloquently than a recitation of America's strength and greatness—the simple formula that has made us the envied nation of the whole world. The obese and irritable man next door in a plain cell room in marked contrast to his former homes was reading the Bible. Because Göring wears glasses, a guard was in his cell to take them from him when he finished reading.

 

Reflecting on his war experiences and then Nuremberg, this major found himself pondering the question “What makes America great?” He gave his answer to Hough: it was “because there are the people such as you write about in the
Country Editor
.”

TEN

My old division was one of several whose only rest seemed to come when they were waiting for boats to carry them to other lands where the language was different but the war was the same. These amphibious creatures have seen so much action that when they land back in the States they will, just from force of habit, come off shooting and establish a beachhead around Coney Island. There they will probably dig in and fight until demobilization thins their ranks and allows the local partisans to push the survivors back into the sea.

 

—
BILL MAULDIN

 

W
ITH ONE FRONT
collapsed, and the full strength of the Allies bearing down on Japan, those serving in the armed forces began to think about their futures. Over time, the war had stolen from them the details of what home was like, and some men wondered whether it would measure up to the ideals they had projected onto it. As one serviceman explained: “Home had faded from us. Home had become an irreality, a blurred recollection where the names, the faces and voices of all but the closest and dearest ones were lost. They were forced from us by the guns, the planes, the mines and bombs.”
The one place that should have felt familiar did not. Where would they live after the war? What would home be like? Would it be difficult to become a civilian again?

Finding a job was a major concern. When they had joined the Army or Navy, the economy still had not fully recovered from the Great Depression. As late as 1940, unemployment lingered at an estimated 15 percent.
Plus, during the war, women and minorities had entered the workforce, taking jobs that were traditionally filled by white men. There was concern that if these new workers remained employed, there would be few jobs for returning veterans. Some soldiers also wondered whether they could find employment that utilized the skills they had developed while at war. In the course of training, many servicemen enrolled in educational courses and spent long hours studying mathematics, science, and technical books to pass examinations and climb the ranks. They did not want this knowledge to go to waste.

The council began to include in each monthly ASE series practical nonfiction for those mulling over their futures. Several titles that were selected for this purpose were ultimately published after the war ended. Darrel and Frances Huff's
Twenty Careers of Tomorrow
discussed how the war affected employment, and provided information about a range of occupations—including working in plastics, fabrics, recycling, aviation, refrigeration, publishing, television and radio, education, medicine, market research, and the automobile industry. Another useful title printed at the behest of the Army was
You and Your Future Job
, by William G. Campbell and James H. Bedford. This book provided information on how to choose a vocation, with specific advice for those who had become disabled during the war, people who were over forty years of age, and women. For those looking for pointers on how to make money no matter what profession they chose, there was John Wharton's
The Theory and Practice of Earning a Living
.

Almost every soldier on the frontlines was aware of life-saving advances made in the field of medicine. Sulfanilamide, a substance that could be sprinkled on wounds and consumed to ward off infection, was carried by every man. Stories abounded of gravely wounded men who were saved because they used their “sulfa.” ASEs such as
The Story of Penicillin, Miracles of Military Medicine
, and
Burma Surgeon
inspired some men to think about a medical career.

Others dreamed of joining the legal profession. Arthur Train's ASEs about the fictitious lawyer Ephraim Tutt—who was forever rescuing clients from the clutches of a legal conundrum through some novel scheme—inspired many servicemen to go to law school. Still others decided to practice law after reading Bellamy Partridge's
Country Lawyer
, which romanticized the small-town law practice of a likable attorney. For those who wanted to fight crime rather than prosecute or defend criminals, John Floherty's
Inside the FBI
was a book worth tracking down.

Men who studied science and math (such as assault engineers) might enjoy
A Treasury of Science, Science Remakes the World, This Chemical Age
, and
Mathematics and the Imagination
, to name a few. Those who felt an entrepreneurial spirit and dreamed of opening a business might consult
A Small Store & Independence: A Guide to Retailing
. For those interested in making a living through agriculture, M. G. Kains's
Five Acres and Independence: Selecting and Managing the Small Farm
was indispensable, as it provided advice ranging from how to select fertile land to the nuances of keeping honeybees. Meyer Berger's story of a New York correspondent in
The Eight Million
, Ernie Pyle's books describing his experiences as a war correspondent, and Oliver Gramling's
AP: The Story of News
were just a few of the titles that appealed to men who were considering careers in journalism.

It is no exaggeration to say that the ASEs helped create an entire new cohort of readers. The flip side of a new universe of readers, however, is that almost everyone thinks he can be a writer. Ironically, council publishers were soon besieged with book proposals as countless men expressed a desire to publish their war stories. One such man, a private in the Army, wrote a colorful letter brimming with enthusiasm to publish a book about his experiences as an infantryman. He described his life on the front as a tumult of “death, plus rain, bugs, flies, mud, and mosquitoes,” and joked that his line of work (running a women's millinery store in Connecticut) had not prepared him for life in artillery. But he insisted that there was a humor and beauty to the hardships he faced, even in the monotony of digging his 1,054th foxhole (from which he claimed to be writing). Inspired by the ASEs he read by Ernie Pyle, this private hoped to write about his experiences in “a Pyle-ish manner”: “descriptive, frank and human, seasoned with a bit of sympathy and emotion and flavored with humanity.” With his “writing pad soaking wet,” he wrote his letter on sheets cut from a paper bag; he had to “steam” his package of envelopes in order to dry one enough to mail his letter. “War is hell, isn't it?” he stated.

 

The summer of 1945 brought “the most intensive bombardment campaign in the history of war.” With complete devotion to destroying a single enemy, the Allies delivered blow after blow to Japan's navy and its cities. The Allied bases secured in Guam, Saipan, and the Mariana Islands, could now be used to full advantage. As many as eight hundred to a thousand B-29s stood ready from the Marianas alone. Despite the destruction that rained down from these airplanes (as of June 1945, it was estimated that 50 percent of Tokyo had been destroyed, and many of Japan's industrial centers had been neutralized by Allied bombs), a significant portion of Japan's war industry remained unscathed.

In addition to bombs, America's B-29s daily dropped 750,000 pamphlets on Japanese cities, urging an end to the conflict and Japan's unconditional surrender. Premier Kantaro Suzuki defiantly declared in early June that the Japanese would fight to the finish and confidently predicted that Japan “will smash the enemy in a decisive battle on our homeland, which will be quite different from battles on islands.” Yet on June 9, Japan's grip on the Philippines was all but lost, and the Philippine Congress met for its first session since 1941.

 

In the end, Okinawa was the last major battle in the Pacific war. Although plans to invade the Japanese mainland were already in place, and Marine units were preparing for what would surely be a deadly fight, on August 6, 1945, an American B-29 closed in on Hiroshima, an important Japanese port and military center, and dropped a four-hundred-pound atomic bomb. Unprepared for the power of this new weapon, members of the B-29 crew could hardly believe what fury it unleashed. One recalled: “There was a terrific flash of light, even in the daytime . . . a couple of sharp slaps against the airplane,” and then white smoke billowed into a mushroom-shaped cloud that rose twenty thousand feet. Four square miles, or 60 percent of the city, were completely leveled; houses and other buildings outside this radius were damaged beyond repair.

Shortly after the bombing of Hiroshima, President Truman warned that if Japanese leaders did not immediately accept the Allies' terms of surrender, “they may expect a rain of ruin from the air, the like of which has never been seen on this earth.” Yet Japan remained undeterred. Its official news agency, Dōmei, beamed a radio transmission to the United States stating that America's “desire for an early conclusion of the present war of Greater East [A]sia is mere wishful thinking.” Seventy-five hours after chaos poured down on Hiroshima, a second atomic bomb was dropped. This weapon wholly destroyed 30 percent of Nagasaki and left large swaths of the city in ruins. On August 10, President Truman again warned Japan that unless it surrendered, “we shall use the atomic bomb . . . relentlessly” and “bombs will have to be dropped on war industries and, unfortunately, thousands of civilian lives will be lost.” After waiting for five agonizing days, an official announcement was made at 7:03 p.m. (Eastern Standard Time) on August 14 that Japan had unconditionally surrendered.
At long last, the war was over. V-J Day had arrived.

Around the world, celebrations erupted. In New York City, signs in Times Square advertised the news, and a “victory roar” swelled and continued for over twenty minutes as emotions exploded “with atomic force.” According to the
New York Times
, “Restraint was thrown to the winds. Those in the crowds in the streets tossed hats, boxes, and flags into the air. From those leaning perilously out of the windows of office buildings and hotels came a shower of paper, confetti, streamers. Men and women embraced—there were no strangers.” In London, American and British soldiers formed a conga line that snaked through the city; they grabbed a partner and danced and celebrated for hours. In Paris, soldiers and WACs ran into the streets, shaking hands with the French and forming an impromptu parade down the Champs Élysées. A truck driver caught in the ruckus was out to deliver the Army newspaper
Stars and Stripes
—the headline read “Stimson Says He'll Recheck to See if Army Can Be Cut.” “He goddam well better,” the driver bellowed. A war correspondent in Berlin reported that the GIs there were jubilant as peace in the Pacific would save them from more fighting and might speed demobilization. The GIs in Okinawa, who had believed it would be years before they made it home, “slapped each others backs, danced, cheered and shouted: ‘To hell with Golden Gate by '48, we'll be home by September 8.'” In Tinian, where B-29 pilots were being briefed for their thirty-fifth mission—their last one before going home—a group leader interrupted to inform the men that their mission had been canceled. Pure and unadulterated joy swelled as the three hundred men who were about to risk their lives in a difficult daylight mission stood down. In Guam, the news prompted shouting and the shooting of all manner of weapons into the air in celebration; bottles of whiskey that had been squirreled away in hiding places were passed around as the men toasted peace. Back in Hawaii, where the first bombs dropped on the United States had claimed thousands of young lives, pedestrians on the ground tipped their hats as low-flying B-29s passed overhead. It was finally over. On September 2, 1945, Japan signed official documents of surrender aboard the USS
Missouri
.