The Bomb

We had left another Company Commander under a white cross on Iwo, along with other good men, and now it was time to reorganize and get in shape for whatever else was in store for us. We’d just about run out of islands so that Japan itself loomed big on the horizon. We heard all kinds of scuttlebutt that had the Fourth Division part of an Army, with us leading the charge, and frankly I wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect of another landing. In May, 1945, the war in Europe was over yet the Japanese continued to fight on in defense of Okinawa, with suicide planes wreaking havoc on ships of the off-shore American Fleet. It seemed to point to a long and agonizing ordeal ahead unless it could be ended surely and quickly. Thank God it was, with the dropping of the atom bomb on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. Another bomb was dropped on Nagasaki on August 9, with the Japanese finally surrendering on August 14.

Elation was high on Maui, and though we had grown to love the peace and tranquility and beauty of this island, thoughts of home and loved ones couldn’t be denied. A point system identified the order in which we would be sent back to the states, and because I had been with the Division since the beginning and had picked up a medal or two along the way, I was in the first group to be told to get ready to leave. We didn’t need to be told twice and before long we were stepping aboard a “baby” carrier for the trip home. These were ships that had been redesigned by adding a flight deck with refueling and weapon-loading accommodations, and they had contributed mightily to our island-hopping efforts with their air-strike capabilities. The space formerly occupied by the planes and all that was necessary to get them into the air, was now ours to revel in and we loved it. While the war was on, ships had to be blacked-out while sailing at night, but on this trip, the lights were aglow and the flight deck was ours for strolling. It was a glorious feeling.

Interestingly enough, when we were loaded aboard this vessel in the harbor getting ready to sail, the list or tilt of the vessel was evident because everyone was on the dock side, waving to friends or taking one last look at the island. Finally, the voice of the skipper came over the PA system advising us that until half of us moved to the other side of the flight deck, we couldn’t weigh anchor and get underway. Slowly and grudgingly the movement took place and we finally left what had been our home away from home for many months. Understandably, emotions were mixed for there was something special about Maui. We had come back to this paradise three times, bloodied and bruised,  and had been made well each time. We would never forget its beauty and its healing powers.

Once we got back to Camp Pendleton, it was just a few days of doing nothing but relaxing until railroad cars were lined up and we climbed aboard for the ride back to Chicago and the Great Lakes Naval Training Center where we were to be discharged. I can’t remember a thing about that ride back, but my discharge papers tell me that I was honorably discharged from the United States Marine Corps on November 3, 1945, having attained the rank of sergeant and having served since September 18, 1942. My monthly rate of pay when discharged was Eighty-one Dollars and Ninety Cents, and my travel allowance from Great Lakes, Illinois, to St. Louis, Missouri, at the rate of five cents per mile, totaled Fifteen Dollars and Eighty Cents. With a few dollars of back pay, I walked out of there with One Hundred Eleven Dollars and Eighty Cents, a mini-fortune.

I paired-up with another dischargee who would be riding the same train to St. Louis, and because we had a little time to kill, we headed for a bar. We’re still in our dress greens with medals and ribbons and stuff, and we couldn’t buy a drink. Freebies appeared along with pats on the back, and if we hadn’t had to leave to catch that train, who knows what would have happened. This was our introduction to civilian life, and it was kinda’ nice.

What made the ride back to St. Louis special was dinner in the diner. Three years of eating in a mess hall, using a mess kit, made one forget the niceties enjoyed at an earlier time, but it was all brought back when we were ushered to a table with an immaculately-white cloth, and sparkling tableware. An elderly black gentleman couldn’t do enough for us as he served our chicken-pot-pie, which was the finest I’ve ever had. It helped make this first day as civilians a real joy.

Getting back into a family atmosphere takes a little doing after all that time with nothing but guys, a lot of cussin’ and swearin’, no privacy, and regimentation. You’re back with folks you love and haven’t seen for a long time, and they can’t do enough for you, but you’re this battle-scarred veteran who’s played a role in this game of war and now just wants to ease back into life the way it used to be. Of course it happened, but it did take a little work on the part of everybody.