Between the Bylines: A Father's Legacy [1 ed.] 9780823233038, 9780823233014

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Between the Bylines

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World War II: The Global, Human, and Ethical Dimension G. Kurt Piehler, series editor

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Between the Bylines A Father’s Legacy ................ Susan E. Wiant

fordham university press New York : 2011

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Copyright 䉷 2011 Fordham University Press Foreword 䉷 2009 Walter Cronkite Associated Press articles used with permission of The Associated Press. Copyright 䉷 2010. All rights reserved. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher. Fordham University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. Fordham University Press also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in print may not be available in electronic books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wiant, Susan E. Between the bylines : a father’s legacy / Susan E. Wiant.—1st ed. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8232-3301-4 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-8232-3303-8 (ebook) 1. Wiant, Thoburn Hughes, 1911–1963. 2. World War, 1939–1945—Journalists—Biography. 3. World War, 1939–1945—Press coverage—United States. 4. War correspondents—United States—Biography. I. Title. D799.U6W53 2011 070.4⬘4994053092—dc22 [B] 2010033988

Printed in the United States of America 13 12 11 5 4 3 2 1 First edition

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To my father, whose courage, wisdom, and love will inspire me forever

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.. .. .. contents .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Foreword by Walter Cronkite ix Preface xi Acknowledgments xiii

Prologue 1 Chapter 1. A Father’s Legacy 6 Chapter 2. Learning the Ropes, 1918–1932 10 Chapter 3. The Rookie Gets His Break, September 1934–June 1940 23 Chapter 4. Assignment: India, September–November 1942 37 Chapter 5. A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last, November–December 1942 50 Chapter 6. Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant,’’ January–March 1943 72 Chapter 7. From News Droughts to Monsoons, March–June 1943 89 Chapter 8. Hitting the Ball Hard, June–August 1943 111 Chapter 9. Sweating It Out, September–December 1943 132 Chapter 10. Journey through the Jungle, January–April 1944 161 Chapter 11. Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders, April–June 1944 180 Chapter 12. Enroute to Japan, June–August 1944 197 Chapter 13. London Desk Duty, September–November 1944 210 Chapter 14. Back to Battle, November 1944–March 1945 235 Chapter 15. The Curtain Goes Down, March–August 1945 258 Chapter 16. One Day at a Time, August 1945–August 1949 280 Chapter 17. First Things First, August 1949–January 1960 298

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Chapter 18. Crossing Bridges, January 1960–February 1963 319 Epilogue: A Daughter’s Tribute 329 Glossary 333 List of Prominent Individuals 335 Index 339 Illustrations follow page 160

viii : Contents

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.. .. foreword .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. There was no genus correspondentum bellum. War correspondents came in all sizes, shapes, and forms. They came from all walks of life and all corners of the globe. There was no, absolutely no, pattern from which they all were cut. They became war correspondents for many and varied reasons. Some solely because the job seemed preferable to being drafted into the army. Others, on the other end of the spectrum, because they were journalists to the gut and their adrenaline demanded that they be where the action was, covering the biggest of all stories. War correspondents were just like members of the armed forces in one fundamental particular. Some of them saw action and quite a number did not. Of those who did not, some chafed at being chained to a desk far behind the front lines, in London or Paris or Sydney, and others were delighted with what they considered their good luck. I always felt sorry for those who wanted to be out with the troops but who either didn’t have the stuff or, in not a few cases, were such good rewrite men and editors that their offices needed them at headquarters, just as many military men were kept out of action because their particular talents couldn’t be wasted at the front. On the other hand, I didn’t have much use for the other types—the ones who wore the uniform and paraded around the avenues and bistros of London and Paris and never heard, nor wanted to hear, a shot fired in anger. The war correspondents who really deserved the title, who earned their trench coats the hard way, were the ones who sought the action. Even among those there were some notable differences. Some were almost recklessly brave. They were really journalistic soldiers of fortune, some of them fine reporters and writers, but all really there mostly for the hell of it.

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There were others whom I counted really as the most courageous. They were the ones who were scared to death, frequently admitted it, but went into action with the troops anyway, because, well, dammit, they were reporters and that’s where the story was. And then there were the differences that permeate all journalistic enterprise: There were the leg men, the guys (yes, and gals), graduates actually or spiritually from the police beat back home. They were great reporters and that really was all they aspired to be. Some of them could write in a pinch, and really write very well, but in peacetime mostly they called in their stories to the rewrite desk, and in war they sent them back in abbreviated cable lingo or in basic newspaperese. At the other extreme were the writers who turned out the beautiful copy which graced the better newspapers and magazines. Toby Wiant represented the best of all of these criteria—a volunteer for the action, a good reporter and writer. He also, as this book reveals, was a compulsive writer. Beside the reams of copy he turned out for the Associated Press—and press services demand a lot of it, and in a hurry—he ground out long and highly informative letters to his family back home. We can be thankful for that, and for his daughter’s extraordinary mission of love that has unearthed, correlated and annotated that correspondence. Her tender biographical notes have added immeasurably to Wiant’s own words. Her perspective also helps clarify ours. Toby’s collected correspondence gives us an insight to one correspondent’s pain and joy, to his moments of frustration and exhilaration. But it also is a valid reflection of the experience of all war correspondents, no matter in what size, shape or form they came. Walter Cronkite

x : Foreword

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.. .. preface .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. For reasons unknown to me, I found no original letters written by my father to my mother during the years he was an Associated Press war correspondent other than excerpts from his letters that my mother retyped and sent to my grandparents. My father’s letters reflect the thoughts of a son who wanted his parents to be proud of him—perhaps shielding them from truths he might have shared only with my mother. Sometimes my father repeated the same information in different letters to be certain he hadn’t forgotten any crucial details. In most instances, I have omitted only those sections where redundancy detracted from the text. I retyped my father’s letters just as he wrote them, with only minor corrections in punctuation or format to avoid confusing readers. Dad frequently used a double hyphen or a shortened ellipsis instead of a comma or parentheses to indicate a pause in his thoughts. In his letters he liked to spell words phonetically and use slang phrases; I’ve clarified these ‘‘Tobyisms’’ with footnotes. For historical accuracy I have retained my father’s usage of terms such as ‘‘coolie,’’ ‘‘Jerry,’’ ‘‘Kraut,’’ ‘‘Jap,’’ and ‘‘nip,’’ words that today are considered ‘‘politically incorrect’’ (at best) but that were commonly used during World War II. For easy reference I have included an abbreviated glossary and a list of prominent individuals cited in the book. As my father explained to his parents, not all of his stories appeared in U.S. newspapers because of frequent ‘‘hold-downs’’ imposed on less-active war theaters to allow space for frontline coverage. I’ve included as many of his articles as were available and relevant. Although the book focuses primarily on my father and his extraordinary life, it is also a tribute to my mother, Doris Elizabeth Green Wiant, whose enduring love and loyalty were indispensable to my father’s growth—and to my own.

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.. .. acknowledgments .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Between the Bylines: A Father’s Legacy is the culmination of nearly forty years of research and writing. Its publication would not have been possible without the unwavering encouragement and contributions from my colleagues, mentors, friends, and family. I offer my sincere gratitude and deep appreciation to the following people who helped me realize my lifelong dream to honor my father. The late Walter Cronkite, whose gracious willingness to write a powerful tribute to war correspondents—and to my father—is a priceless gift to me. Marlene Adler, Nora Bock, and Julie Sukman, Mr. Cronkite’s assistants, who began this long journey with me in 1972 and were always there to offer help. Kurt Piehler, director of the University of Tennessee’s Center for the Study of War and Society, who believed in the value of preserving my father’s legacy and, as editor of Fordham University Press’s series ‘‘World War II: The Global, Human, and Ethical Dimension,’’ was instrumental in the decision to include Between the Bylines in the series. John Romeiser, professor of French Studies at the University of Tennessee–Knoxville, who introduced me to Fordham University Press and provided excellent direction along the publishing path. John’s acclaimed books on the life of Associated Press war correspondent Don Whitehead, Beachhead Don and Combat Reporter, were invaluable research sources. Fordham University Press, with a special thank you to director Fredric Nachbaur, former director Robert Oppedisano, assistant Mary-Lou Elias-Pen˜ a, managing editor Eric Newman, and copy editor Michael Koch for their patience, understanding, and incredible support.

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Initial manuscript reviewers Dr. Michael Sweeney, Professor and Associate Director for Graduate Studies, E.W. Scripps School of Journalism, Ohio University; and Dr. Nancy L. Roberts, Professor of Communication and Director of the Journalism Program University at Albany, State University of New York, for their recommendations that the Press publish Between the Bylines. My father’s Associated Press colleagues who offered me their firsthand knowledge of the hardships of wartime reporting and whose memories of my father helped rebuild my own: Edward Ball, Robert Bunnelle, Dan De Luce, Wes Gallagher, and Paul Lee. Although they are no longer with us in body, they will always be with me in spirit. Valerie Komor, director of AP Corporate Archives, for her assistance and support. Tracey Horn and Hope Kenoyer of Helken & Horn Advertising Agency (Prescott, Arizona), whose professional talents transformed photographs of my father into lifelike additions to the text. My uncle Howard Wiant and my aunt Connie Green Wick, whose irreplaceable audiotaped reminiscences helped me to ‘‘three-dimensionalize’’ my father. My cousin Don Wiant, whose passion for genealogy led him to create a ‘‘Wiant’’ website that led me to John Romeiser. Amber Kizer, my cousin and the author of Meridian and One Butt Cheek at a Time, who continually inspired me to keep the goal in sight no matter how much fog obscured it. My cousin Rachel Kizer, whose reassurance and phenomenal memory for family events were indispensable to the book’s completion. Adele Britton Meffley, friend, counselor, and the co-author of The Hokey Pokey IS What It’s All About, who gently guides me through the maze of life and reminds me to view it with humor, love, and forgiveness. Katie Fox, my ‘‘best pal for all time,’’ whose belief in me never wavers and whose encouragement keeps me moving forward. Craig Mathews, my spirit-touching soul mate whose editorial expertise and abiding love give me the strength to persevere. Each of you blessed this book with your unique offerings and, in turn, blessed my life. Book epigraph, an excerpt from We Are Still Married: Stories and Letters (Viking Penguin, 1989), reprinted by permission of Garrison Keillor. Copyright 䉷 1987 by International Paper Company. xiv : Acknowledgments

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Columns from the DePauw in Chapter 2 reprinted with permission. Article from the South Bend Tribune in Chapter 2 reprinted with permission. Article from the Indianapolis News in Chapter 9 reprinted with permission. Article from Editor & Publisher in Chapter 12 used with permission of Nielsen Business Media, Inc. Article from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette in Chapter 12 reprinted with permission. Copyright 䉷 2010, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, all rights reserved. Article from the Indianapolis Star in Chapter 15 reprinted with permission. Column from the Detroit Free Press in Chapter 18 reprinted with permission. Unless otherwise credited, photos and illustrations are from the author’s collection.

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We shy persons need to write a letter now and then, or else we’ll dry up and blow away. . . . Such a sweet gift—a piece of handmade writing, in an envelope that is not a bill, sitting in our friend’s path when she trudges home from a long day spent among wahoos and savages, a day our words will help repair. They don’t need to be immortal, just sincere. . . . We need to write, otherwise nobody will know who we are. . . . Sit for a few minutes with the blank sheet in front of you, and meditate on the person you will write to, let your friend come to mind until you can almost see her or him in the room with you. Remember the last time you saw each other and how your friend looked and what you said and what perhaps was unsaid between you, and when your friend becomes real to you, start to write. . . . Probably your friend will put your letter away, and it’ll be read again a few years from now—and it will improve with age. And forty years from now, your friend’s grandkids will dig it out of the attic and read it, a sweet and precious relic of the ancient Eighties that gives them a sudden clear glimpse of you and her and the world we old-timers knew. You will then have created an object of art. Your simple lines about where you went, who you saw, what they said, will speak to those children and they will feel in their hearts the humanity of our times. You can’t pick up a phone and call the future and tell them about our times. You have to pick up a piece of paper. Garrison Keillor

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.. .. prologue .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. More than anything, my father loved to write. From the time he learned the alphabet and how to hold a pencil he poured out his thoughts on paper in prolific prose. Letters were his specialty. In them he shared his life and experiences with family and friends in a way that no other means of communication offered. My father’s letters were like pieces of cloth tied to branches along the hiking trail of his life to show others how to find the real ‘‘Toby.’’ I often wonder what he would think of e-mail and text messaging, the twentyfirst century’s accepted modes of communication that have little regard for the conventions of grammar and style. I think he would marvel at the technology but mourn the loss of the personal connection that letters establish between writer and reader. When I began this journey to know my father, the letters that he wrote to his parents and to my mother were conduits that linked our lives. As a graduate student in English composition I used a collection of my father’s letters and news articles that he wrote during his years as a reporter as the basis for my Master’s thesis. The focus of my thesis was to illustrate the different communication styles of letters (subjective) and newspaper articles (objective)—and to underscore the demise of the personal letter. In those days scanners weren’t readily available, so I retyped each word of hundreds of letters and articles. They were rich in detail and filled with an emotional energy that gave life to the words on the page. As I watched the sentences fill my computer screen, I experienced the unusual sensation of my father’s presence. I read the words that he’d typed or written in longhand, the words found a home in my brain—and then they flowed out of my mind, through my hands, and onto the digital ‘‘paper.’’ My father became my coauthor, there beside me in spirit. For inspiration, I arranged my work area to include his prized possessions: the typewriter that he carried on his back as a reporter during World War II; the Associated Press U.S. War Correspondent shoulder patches that graced his uniform; his favorite stapler; and the Air Medal he was awarded in 1944 by

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President Franklin D. Roosevelt for accompanying the crews of medium and heavy bombers on more than fifteen combat missions to report the war from the vantage point of the soldiers for whom he had tremendous admiration. My father was not a sit-on-the-sidelines kind of guy—he needed to be where there was action. Suffice it to say that his need was met many times over. As I went through my father’s personal papers, I came across many descriptions of what it was like for a correspondent to cover a war. A booklet published by the Associated Press in September 1943 titled ‘‘AP’s Front Line Press!’’ was especially enlightening because it provided not just an overview of how the AP covered global war but also photos and short biographies of the 121 AP editors and reporters who were handling war news in 1943. General Manager Kent Cooper wrote a foreword to the booklet that was followed by the two-page article, ‘‘How AP Covers a Global War.’’ I include them in this prologue because they set the stage for the adversities and triumphs that my father—along with his many colleagues—experienced between 1942 and 1945. From ‘‘AP’s Front Line Press!’’ (Associated Press booklet): September 8–11, 1943 Foreword Mankind’s hope of a better world to emerge from this terrible war rests heavily upon the valiant shoulders of the men who, armed with pencil and paper, brave enemy bombs and shells, death by drowning or flaming gasoline, the rigors of the freezing north and the tropical fevers of the equator. From Alaska to the South Seas, Associated Press men are gloriously fighting for the facts, the military facts of battle, the individual human stories of the soldiers for their home towns, the complex and vital political and economic facts behind the lines. Their ingenuity and heroism, already legendary, reflects their knowledge that there can be no victory with freedom, unless they win their battle. This booklet is issued in connection with the wartime meeting of The Associated Press Managing Editors Association at Chicago, Sept. 8–11, 1943, so that editors everywhere may know who these men are. Kent Cooper ‘‘How AP Covers a Global War’’ [no byline] Reporting this war is the toughest newspaper job on earth—and AP men beg for it! 2 : Prologue

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The Associated Press foreign staff is chosen from a long list of volunteers. A man, to be picked for front line work, must have an unusual combination of qualities—intellectual equipment of highest order, sound newspaper training and experience in The AP, and a physique strong enough to endure the hardships of a regular soldier. He goes to his task without illusions. The casualty rate among U.S. correspondents covering the war since Pearl Harbor has been greater proportionately thus far than that of the U.S. Army. . . . A war reporter or photographer may be sent anywhere on earth. In many countries the living conditions themselves are primitive and dangerous. A man must be vaccinated for smallpox and inoculated for typhoid, typhus, yellow fever, tetanus and cholera. Even then, strange illnesses may pursue him. His family can’t join him. There are no regular hours and he may be on the job for the duration. Yet he feels it’s a chance to cover the greatest news story of all time. . . . ‘‘Soldiers of the press,’’ these correspondents land with invasion forces, live with the troops in the field, sail thousands of miles with the navy, fly on every sort of mission. They are accepted by the Allied fighting forces wherever they go. They get there by long term planning. Even before the war, The Associated Press began the recruiting of its staff of war correspondents, which has been called the finest corps of American trained newsmen abroad. Certain bureaus were strengthened, new ones established, men made ready to hop to the far corners of the world. Getting news and pictures back to American readers is a constant problem of personal endurance, transportation, censorship and communications. Correspondents work under extraordinary difficulties reporting such campaigns as those in Africa and Sicily. They hitch-hike from Army unit to Army unit, writing, as one of them recently reported, ‘‘far into the night by candle light in drafty tents or in bomb-wrecked buildings.’’ The news must be gathered on visits to numerous areas of actual battle and headquarters over roads constantly threatened with strafing and dive-bombing. Frequently, stories are written under threat of aerial attack. Once written, a story begins a long and difficult journey back. Usually it is left at some advanced field base where officers send it along by dispatch rider. The rider may take his life in his hands to deliver the Prologue : 3

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story to a forward air station where it is put aboard the first plane returning to Allied headquarters. There it is censored and telegraphed to The AP in New York. Getting news out of the vast Pacific war theater is the toughest job of all. A correspondent on most jungle assignments can’t take a typewriter to the front. He takes only what he can carry and run fast with. One correspondent had to walk 25 miles without a stop. He tried four times to get a story back—once the man with it was machine-gunned—and he ended up carrying it back himself. In neutral countries correspondents with long training in international politics slice through the web of rumors and intrigue to get the facts, often significant facts and pictures from enemy countries. Correspondents in Switzerland, for instance, in constant telegraphic communication with New York, are virtual prisoners in that small, enemy surrounded country. They cannot leave, nor can they receive mail from the outside. . . . At home an experienced news organization backs up the reporters in the field. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Sundays and holidays, AP’s crack foreign desk staff in New York is on duty clearing these stories to the waiting public, clarifying, checking facts, names, locations, supplying valuable background from their own experience. Many have returned from the foreign field to do this vital editorial job. Another cable desk operating with the same speed and efficiency at San Francisco handles the flow of war news from the Pacific area. Often a bulletin is on its way to AP newspapers in less than one minute after it rolls in on the foreign service printers—faster if it’s a flash. From 25,000 to 30,000 words of foreign news a day are sent out by The AP, many more on the big news breaks. Altogether, it’s a swift-paced, exciting, often dangerous job covering a global war and chances are there’s a good correspondent’s story behind most of the war dispatches. Major General Alexander A. Vandegrift, returning to the United States from the Solomons summed up the situation. He said that a Marine sergeant had remarked to him during an attack on the Japanese: ‘‘I may get it some time, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go out and reach for it like some of those newspaper reporters and photographers.’’ 4 : Prologue

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Although my father rarely took unnecessary chances, there were times when ‘‘reaching’’ to scoop a story almost got him killed. As his words flowed through my hands, I came to know in intimate detail the many facets of a man for whom words were a lifeline—my father, Toby Wiant.

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.. .. chapter one .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. a father’s legacy .. .. I get more pleasure, I believe, from the letters which are written to me than all the wild-hair expeditions that I take. There’s something appealing about a well-written letter. It exposes the character of the author and gives all the idiosyncrasies in intimate detail. toby wiant, November 19, 1929 My father died when I was fifteen years old, but I never really met him until the summer of my fortieth birthday. Our introduction came in the form of tape recordings that he made of my birthday parties when I was a little girl. The old reel-to-reel tapes had been forgotten in the bottom of a cardboard box marked ‘‘Dad’s Stuff ’’ until the summer of 1987 when I found them and transferred them to cassettes. The week before my birthday, I slipped the first tape into my stereo, not knowing quite what to expect. From the soft static came a strong and surprisingly warm voice—the voice of a man accustomed to addressing large groups. This time he was the emcee at my ninth birthday party. I closed my eyes and listened to my father ‘‘interview’’ each of the little girls at the party; suddenly I was back in our red-brick house in Michigan. ‘‘And who do we have here at the head of this birthday table? Why, it’s the birthday girl herself, Susie Wiant!’’ Tears rolled down my face as his voice coaxed long-buried memories to the surface. I spent the entire evening playing those tapes over and over, alternately laughing at the crazy ‘‘radio shows’’ we produced together and crying over what would be the last Christmas he spent with my mother and me. Until then I couldn’t recall much of my childhood, but I remember being embarrassed—as only a nine-year-old can be—by his tape-recorded invasion of my birthday party. If only I had known then how precious those fleeting moments on tape would become.

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Thanks to the tapes and a collection of letters Dad wrote to his parents when he was an Associated Press (AP) correspondent during World War II, I began a journey into my father’s past that left me with feelings of pride, compassion, and sadness: pride when I discovered that he marched alongside Generals Joseph W. Stilwell and George S. Patton Jr. and that he received the Air Medal from President Franklin D. Roosevelt; compassion when I learned of his twenty-year struggle toward recovery from alcoholism, and subsequent battles with heart disease and cancer; and an overwhelming sadness when I realized that I would never have a chance to talk with him about these lifelong struggles and triumphs. But at least I had those letters—pieces of his past that held the key to my own. When I was a little girl, my father made me write thank-you notes to friends and relatives who gave me gifts for my birthday or Christmas. I remember feeling angry that I had to spend part of a precious Saturday morning sitting at my desk, trying to think of a way to thank my grandmother for a new dress she had made for me. ‘‘Don’t just say ‘thanks for the dress,’’’ my father admonished. ‘‘Tell your grandmother what you like about it and where you’re going to wear it. A letter should tell people something about you.’’ Years later my father’s words came back to me in unexpected and poignant ways that would completely change how I looked at him—and how I looked at myself. It was the fall of 1972, and I was twenty-five years old. My job as an academic advisor at a major Midwestern university allowed me time to travel, and I took advantage of a beautiful Indian summer weekend to visit my grandparents in Columbus, Ohio. My father—their oldest son—had died of cancer nine years earlier at the age of fifty-one. Staying in touch with my grandparents had become even more important, and I looked forward to spending this quiet weekend with them. The visit was enjoyable, but all too soon it was over. As I packed my suitcase for the return trip, my grandmother and I reminisced about my father. ‘‘You know,’’ my grandmother said suddenly, ‘‘there’s something I want you to take home with you.’’ She left the room, and I heard her rummaging in the attic. She returned with an elaborately embossed vinyl box tied securely with brown twine. The box contained more than 150 letters that my father had written to her and my grandfather throughout his childhood, during World War II when he was assigned overseas as an AP correspondent, and as his advertising A Father’s Legacy : 7

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and public relations career flourished. Along with the letters, my grandmother gave me three large scrapbooks filled with newspaper articles that my father had written before and during the war, articles she had carefully clipped out and pasted onto each page. She wanted me to have them, she said, because she felt it was important to keep my father’s memory alive. It was nearly 9:00 p.m. when I arrived home, and I was exhausted. I unpacked the car and piled everything in a heap on the floor of my spare bedroom for sorting the next day. As I started to turn out the light, the vinyl box caught my attention. I opened it and picked up the first letter, thinking I’d just glance at it. Six hours later I was still reading. It’s difficult to describe my feelings as I pored over letter after letter, reading my father’s words, visualizing the people he had met, the places he had visited, and the horrors of war he had witnessed. On those pages was a man who in many ways was a stranger, a man close to my own age who had interviewed movie producer Michael Todd, former President of the United States Herbert Hoover, and the notoriously outspoken General Patton. To us ‘‘baby boomers,’’ the shortages, sacrifices, and trauma of World War II were simply assignments in our history books or stories told to us by our parents—if we chose to listen—that emphasized how lucky we were to have so much. For our parents, World War II represented a united effort by the American people to overcome a baneful threat to our nation’s future. There was a pulling together that was difficult for us as the children of a more peaceful time to comprehend. With the outbreak of war in Vietnam, however, this World War II group spirit disappeared. For many Americans, gone was the common goal that had motivated soldiers during World War II. In its place a growing dissension developed against our involvement in the war and the country’s leaders who had orchestrated it. As a college student in the 1960s, I certainly was aware of the war, but because I was in no danger of being drafted and no one I knew personally was fighting in Vietnam, it was oddly removed from my daily life. Newscasts and body counts became part of a secondhand horror that those of us at home found difficult to grasp. Since those early morning hours in 1972, I’ve studied the newspaper articles that my father wrote. The difference in tone between his news dispatches and his personal letters was striking, and it was this difference that intrigued me. His reporter’s eye focused on the people who were fighting the war, not just on battles and body counts. But in the ‘‘Dear 8 : A Father’s Legacy

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Mom and Dad’’ context of his letters home, his real feelings about the war and his role in it were revealed—feelings that encompassed both jubilation and despair. From 1942 through most of 1945 my father spent his days and nights reporting the victories and atrocities of war. Only now, after reading his news articles and letters, can I appreciate his intention that day long ago when he urged me to share something of myself in the letter to my grandmother. Unknowingly, because he’d had the courage to share something of himself in the letters that he wrote and in the syndicated articles that appeared in more than 1,000 newspapers around the world, my father left me a priceless legacy. The bespectacled, occasionally stern man from my childhood became a three-dimensional human being whose admitted failings, stubborn dreams, and well-earned accomplishments continue to serve as strong motivators for me. The ‘‘Toby’’ preserved between the bylines of his news articles and in the signature of his personal letters is more than just the story of a man whose vision of life as an adventurer came true. It is the unique story of a son, a brother, a husband, and a father—my father.

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.. chapter two .. .. . ........................................................... . .. .. .. .. learning the ropes, .. .. .. .. 1918 –1932 Someday, I fear you will be pleasantly surprised with my work—for I’m sure I’m just as good as the next person. . . . toby wiant, July 1930 Life was far from easy for a Methodist minister’s son growing up in rural Lagro, Indiana. There were two choices for children whose parents were pillars of their community: become a shining example of correct social and religious behavior or break every rule in the book. From the time he was born on April 23, 1911, my father fell into the role of rule breaker, perhaps as a result of physically fending off schoolboy taunts over the unwieldy name that his parents bestowed upon him in honor of two Methodist bishops. ‘‘Thoburn Hughes’’ soon became ‘‘Toby,’’ and, much to Warren and Myrtle Wiant’s chagrin, their oldest son’s behavior was anything but commendable. He left that responsibility to his younger brother, Howard, who became a Methodist minister like his father.* Long before he became an Associated Press war correspondent, Dad found many opportunities to hone his journalistic skills by writing to his parents and grandparents. As part of his ministry, my grandfather traveled frequently; when his father was out of town, Dad wrote him letters that described what he and Howard were doing to help their mother at home. His first attempts at correspondence were less than brilliant; fortunately for newspaper readers, his punctuation and writing style improved with age. In 1918, when he was seven years old, he composed a rather terse note to his grandparents. Dear Grandma and Grandpa I go to school every day. My teacher put me in 2A. I like my new teacher. It is raining today. We are all well. Thoburn Wiant *See photo section.

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Two years later he demonstrated a neophyte’s flare for politics that would eventually land him the job of Indiana statehouse reporter. His punctuation, however, still had a long road to travel. Nov 3 1920 New Castle, In Dear Grandma How are you I am right Are you glad I am. How is Grandpa I go to the East building now. Mother is all right. Are you for Cox. Hurraah for Harding.* Yours truely Thoburn H Wiant When he was fourteen, Dad graduated from a pencil to a typewriter. Mishawaka, Ind. April 1923 Dear Dad, We washed down the bathroom today. It is no easy job. Did you get to Kokomo all right. At noon today the temperture stood at 60 degrees. It is raining now. What is the temperture at Kokomo. I just got done making the fire for the night. We didnt make hardly make any fire today. I took your record to the office and Miss Hudson wasn’t there but she got it all right. I also went uptown and got 4 lb. of rump steak so mother didnt have to go uptown. I skated up town. I fixed my skate and it goes good. (I’ve helped mother a lot today.) I washed mothers hair and she said I rubbed to hard although I thought I didnt rub hard. Thats about all I can think of. From your ornary son Thoburn Wiant (Esq.) P.S. Please excuse the writing. And dont show this to anyone. They will die of heart failure. *In 1920 the uneasy political and social climate was marked by dissension against the policies of Democratic President Woodrow Wilson, a recession, and a society recovering from World War I. The candidates in the presidential election that year were the Democratic governor of Ohio, James M. Cox (who chose Franklin D. Roosevelt as his running mate), and Ohio Republican Senator Warren G. Harding. Both men were newspaper publishers. Outspending his opponent and campaigning on a platform of returning the country to ‘‘normalcy,’’ Harding won the election by a landslide.

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My father’s interest in the newspaper business was pre-ordained. His maternal grandfather, Simeon Henry Jones, was the correspondent for his hometown paper in Tremont City, Ohio, and helped to organize the Correspondents League of the Urbana Daily Citizen in 1909, the first league of its kind in Ohio. When Simeon Jones died in 1913, his wife, Rachel, continued as an active correspondent for the Springfield Sun and the Daily News for over thirty years until her death in April 1943 at the age of ninety. In 1925, my father and his family moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana, where he enrolled at Central High School. It was here that my father’s interest in journalism began to crystallize. His history teacher, who was also advisor to the weekly school newspaper, the Spotlight, asked him if he could write sports articles. ‘‘Of course,’’ Dad answered. The truth was that he’d never written an article in his life, but he wanted a good grade in history. To that end, he read all he could find about sports writing and interviewed every local sports writer who would give him the opportunity. He soon discovered that he had a genuine talent for reporting, and from 1927 to 1928 he served as the editor-in-chief of the Spotlight, which won several national high school journalism awards, including ‘‘1924 All American High School Newspaper.’’ After Dad’s high school graduation in 1928, the family moved to Indianapolis, where my father enrolled at DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana, and began writing for the school’s paper, the DePauw. He pledged Beta Theta Pi fraternity, which both helped and haunted him. Dad was proud to be affiliated with a fraternity, but the emphasis that Greek life placed on the consumption of alcohol at social functions, coupled with his rebellious attitude toward his strict Methodist upbringing, was the beginning of a nightmarish double life that would last nearly twenty years. I learned much more about my father’s early struggles with alcohol from Howard’s taped recollections of a visit to DePauw when he was fifteen years old and my father was nineteen: In 1930, Toby was in college. It wasn’t until then that I had any knowledge that my brother was drinking. I caught suggestions of it here and there, and I eavesdropped on a conversation that my mother and father had with him, warning him about it and cautioning him to not do it. He was drinking more and more as he progressed in college. I remember we were together on Friday night. On Saturday morning he showed me around the school and then took me back to the fraternity house. He said he had some things to do before the football 12 : Learning the Ropes

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game. He didn’t return for lunch, and he wasn’t around after lunch. Then pretty soon I heard somebody say that he was upstairs in his room. I went up to the room and he was in bed. Apparently someone had brought him home and plopped him down there. He was drunk. I went back home with no lasting anger toward him. I still admired him and loved him very much. What my father later recognized as alcoholism rarely interfered with his early professional life, and during his years as a reporter he managed to file his stories on time. But his personal life was a private hell. With the unwavering help of Alcoholics Anonymous, a corps of caring family and friends, and his own courage, he would eventually turn his life around. During the summer of 1930, my father left Greencastle and accompanied his friend Les Everson to San Antonio, Texas, where Les had a summer job with the San Antonio News. Dad’s sophomore year at DePauw had been difficult for him academically, and he welcomed the change of scenery to help him decide whether he should return to school in the fall. In enthusiastic letters to his parents, he shared his excitement at being in a new city and his admiration for people he met there—writers such as Monte Barrett, a well-known novelist and creator of the syndicated comic strip ‘‘Jane Arden’’ that chronicled the adventures of a woman reporter. Wednesday morning [June 1930] Dear Folks: What perfect weather . . . Texas is the state of all states to my mind! Somehow, I never believed in this ‘‘southern hospitality,’’ but since I’ve been exposed to it for over a week, I’ll say there’s nothing like it. Monday morning Les called Monte Barrett, the nationally known novelist and comic strip artist. Monte was a Beta at DePauw about 12 years ago, and we thought he might be able to get us a job. Monte took us out to lunch that day; we ate in one of the most exclusive establishments in San Antonio. Then he took us out to his beautiful Spanish villa, where we spent the entire afternoon talking about DePauw and journalism. Barrett has written many newspaper serials, and I believe one is starting in the Indianapolis News or Star very shortly. But let me tell you why we are here right now. Les has a job on the San Antonio News which starts in two weeks, the 14th. In the meantime, Monte is looking around to see if he can find me a job, and we are staying in his camp to save expenses, etc. . . . Learning the Ropes : 13

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I’m sorry I had to wire home for some money, but I had to have something to live on until Les and I start to work. Gee, just the fact of being near these famous people makes one want to do things, to write, write, write! Then, when I think how Monte Barrett has become noted overnight for his many books and stories, as well as his comic strip, I thoroughly believe it isn’t impossible for me to do the same thing. I’m determined to go back to school somewhere next year. I must finish my college education so that I can start working on a paper or start writing. All of these noted artists and writers have a college education. . . . This is an education in itself to be associated with these artists and writers. Never have I spent such a profitable summer. I’ll certainly have lots to tell you when I get back to Indiana. If I don’t write every day, don’t worry for from now on I’ll be quite busy with everything around here. As ever, Toby Friday morning [July 1930] 230 Avenue E San Antonio, Texas Dear Folks: Am working at the Blue Bonnet hotel, one of a chain of three very modern hotels. Started to work yesterday and like it very much. If everything goes all right, I should make from $20 to $30 a week—that remains to be seen! As ever, Toby Saturday morning [July 1930] Dear Folks: Quite typical of my spasms of coma, I went to the picnic last night— forgetting to mail your letter! . . . Dad, I received your letter this morning. Maybe it would be better to go back to DePauw. However, I can’t see that last year’s record was so terrible, although it wasn’t commendable. It would simply be a matter of ‘‘digging,’’ and I’m confident that I can do that if necessary. Someday, I fear you will be pleasantly surprised with my work—for I’m sure that I’m just as good as the next person—this may sound conceited, but I don’t mean it that way! . . .

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I could write on for hours, but I must stop. Being in San Antonio is an education in itself—and being associated with Monte provides acquaintances of the best sort. Love, Toby His successful Texas summer bolstered my father’s faith in himself, and he decided to return to DePauw. He continued writing for the university newspaper, and in 1931 he became its editor-in-chief. Things went smoothly for him until, with only six months remaining before graduation, a controversial incident threatened to destroy his future plans. Instead, it actually paved the way for his eventual success. As editor of the DePauw, my father published a weekly student-opinion column on a significant campus issue.* As his brother recalled, Dad procrastinated selecting a topic for that week’s column, and instead decided to take his steady girlfriend, Betty Green (my mother), to the movies. He and Betty returned to her dormitory several minutes past the strict curfew and started to kiss each other goodnight on the front porch. Suddenly the window above them flew open and the housemother, Katherine Alvord (who was also the dean of women), loudly berated Betty for improper conduct on school grounds, implying that Betty’s actions were akin to those of a streetwalker. Angered speechless, my father left Betty standing on the porch and raced to his office at the newspaper. He had the perfect topic for his column. Written by my father but signed with the initials G.A.B., the following commentary appeared in the DePauw the next day. November 2, 1931 It has been consistently repeated that the purpose of college is to make individuals more broadminded. The professors, in as much as they can, preach the doctrine of a wider viewpoint. They are handicapped, however, by certain evident travesties of this teaching on the part of their colleagues. All of which makes the student rather leery of trusting anyone’s judgment. This is especially true in the manner in which women students are treated by those in charge of their disciplinary problems. Psychology, a phase of a college education, has taught us that abuse and insult are not good factors for producing a healthy change. Yet for a number of *See photo section.

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years, the women have been treated in terms to which no selfrespecting person should be asked to submit. While there may be more to the problem than is evident, it does seem both useless and absurd to call all girls who have committed some minor infraction of college rules and have committed no moral sin ‘‘women of the streets.’’ A mental attitude that expects wrong is not conducive to a clear concept of behavior. Naturally any woman dislikes the idea of having a misdemeanor read into an innocent action. There is danger of the woman through suggestibility taking an immoral position, since she feels that whatever she does will be taken in that light whether it is true or not. If such incidents were not multiple and were not known outside the university, there would be no need of calling it to the attention. But when it comes to the point that women must, because they are students of the university, submit to tirades of insult and that knowledge of this has been thrown out to prospective students, there should be a change. No article of criticism would be worth the reading if it did not offer some constructive solution to the problem. It does seem to the writer that matters of discipline could be handled in a more mature, more understanding manner. The disciplinary officer should attempt to find out what causes a misdeed and sympathetically go about to condition those stimuli so that the action may not reoccur. Abuse is apt to make any culprit surly and unresponsive to aid. Too, moral theories have become so changed from those of the last generation. For that reason, criticism of conduct should not harken back to hoop skirts and corsets, but should use the modern approach. —G.A.B. Not content to let the matter drop, in the next issue of the DePauw my father and his colleagues published another column. This one, written by senior Ben Deming (but signed only with the initials ‘‘I.L.S.’’) in support of G.A.B.’s letter, bluntly called for Dean Alvord’s dismissal. November 4, 1931 . . . if ever a dean of women deserved to have a student body turn upon her and drive her from the campus, that woman is Dean Alvord. Her incompetency, her inability to exert the slightest positive influence on our women students, her total lack of capacity to understand and help women placed under her authority are so well known and widely admitted as to render argument superfluous. . . . 16 : Learning the Ropes

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. . . this year and for years past . . . a girl summoned to Dean Alvord . . . has appeared only to hear . . . herself likened to a streetwalker. . . . This has gone far enough. . . . I urge the dismissal of Dean Alvord in the name of the student body whose trust she has abused. I urge it in the name of DePauw University whose character she has dishonored. . . . —I.L.S. Word of the columns quickly reached the university’s Board of Control, which decided that my father had exceeded his editorial boundaries and maligned the character of the dean of women. The Board removed him as editor and placed him on probation to await the return of the university’s president, G. Bromley Oxnam, who was attending a conference in Japan. State and national newspapers had a field day with the event. From the South Bend Tribune, November 11, 1931 (no byline): PRINCIPALS IN FUROR ON DEPAUW CAMPUS GREENCASTLE, Ind., Nov. 11—A battle for the emancipation of the DePauw co-eds and for the freedom of the college press has embroiled the entire campus of this famous Methodist university here. It all started when the DePauw, student newspaper, published in its ‘‘student opinion’’ column an attack by Ben Deming, age 21, a senior of Fort Worth, Texas, against Dean of Women Katherine Alvord. Deming charged that the time had arrived to put an end to what he terms the autocratic rule of Dean Alvord, whom he accused of attaching a lascivious significance to technical violations of her campus social rules by co-eds. He alleged the dean of women likened infracting girl students to street walkers. Publication of the article has caused a furor on the campus. President Bromley Oxnam is in Japan and will not be back until December. Dr. Henry B. Longden, acting president of DePauw, immediately summoned the board of control of the student newspaper into session. The board quickly removed Thoburn Hughes Wiant, age 21, a senior of Indianapolis, as editor-in-chief of the student journal. This in itself was a sensation as Wiant is the son of Rev. W.W. Wiant, pastor of the fashionable North Methodist Church of Indianapolis, and a member of the board of trustees of DePauw University. The feeling among the students has been heightened by the order of Dr. Longden prohibiting the staff of the DePauw from publishing any Learning the Ropes : 17

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further ‘‘student opinions’’ unless they bear faculty approval. He appointed Prof. George L. Bird, head of the journalism department, as censor of the paper. The following editorial by Wiant was suppressed by the censor: ‘‘It has been the practice of the DePauw to offer the ‘Student Opinion’ column to any expression of student feeling about campus problems. It has been the belief of the editors that the DePauw is a student publication and that the students should have unmolested control of what is published in its columns. ‘‘In the last issue of the DePauw, a student made accusation against the dean of women. Whether or not the student was justified in the attack on the administration of Dean Alvord is not the principal issue at stake. Irate administration officials have declared that such an opinion should not have been published, regardless of the truth or untruth of the accusations. In other words, they advocate the suppression of student opinion, and thus would abolish the only mode of expression afforded the student body. ‘‘The issue is clearly defined. It is up to the administration to decide upon their policies. It is equally appropriate for the student body to decide upon its policies—whether it will meekly accept any decision of the administration or whether it will rally to the defense of the most sacred of all of its rights—the right to express its honest opinions.’’ Dean Alvord is widely known in Indiana scholastic and social circles. My father was devastated by this turn of events and found it difficult to believe that such harsh action was being taken against him. Afraid of what his parents’ reaction would be (especially because of his father’s position on DePauw University’s board of trustees), Dad nevertheless told them about the board’s decision, hoping they would understand. Fortunately, my grandfather Warren was a personal friend of President Oxnam’s. Though Warren was disturbed by the incident (complicated by Dad’s infraction of the ‘‘no alcohol on campus’’ rule), he recognized that Dad had written and authorized publication of the opinions believing that freedom of the press would protect him, and he intervened on his son’s behalf in three successive letters, each one pleading for leniency. December 16, 1931 My dear Doctor Oxnam: This is a personal word concerning Thoburn’s situation at DePauw which you no doubt are familiar with by this time, or at least will be on your arrival. 18 : Learning the Ropes

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We so very much regret the whole affair, for you already have sufficient burdens to bear without having still more added to them. The boys thought they were within their rights, under the principle of the freedom of the press, but they were wrong in their judgment. Thoburn has been hit a hard blow, but we feel that possibly it will be a good experience for him in the long run. He was counting much on taking the paper back following his suspension which was up the first of December, but he could not do it while still under probation. Of course you will dispose of his case as you think best, but we are asking that, if it is at all possible, the boy be given his chance to finish his education elsewhere should the decision be that you do not want him there. Thoburn’s experience at DePauw has not been a happy one. We urged him to go to DePauw, feeling that he would be much better cared for than he would at Indiana, where he wanted to go. It is an experience that weighs heavi1y on your heart, after you have put into a lad your dreams, your prayers, your sacrifices and your love, and then feel that somewhere along the way someone, possibly we ourselves, failed to lead him into the right paths. Again I say that we are much distressed and are only asking that whatever is done, that the boy might be given his opportunity to complete his work and get his degree. Sincerely yours, Warren W. Wiant January 2, 1932 My dear Doctor Oxnam: It is with a bit of hesitation that I write you this additional word regarding the pending decision that is to be made in Thoburn’s case. . . . However, as a father, when the career of his son is so seriously at stake, you dare to do things that otherwise you would not do. Regarding the rule concerning drinking, it does seem that in our Christian schools where the infractions of the rule occur, there should be first an interview and a personal warning that any future offense would automatically sever their relations with the institution. Of course, I know that in your statement before the men in the University, such a warning was given definitely and the men should have understood it. . . . I am not trying in the least to condone the offense. There is nothing that may ensnare any man or woman in a controlling habit that I fear like the use of intoxicating liquors. But it does seem that if there could Learning the Ropes : 19

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be some way found whereby that those guilty of this offense might be given a second chance, it would be well worth the trial. . . . Of course, you know that it is all a hard blow to us. Whatever is done, how we would appreciate it, if there could be no personal newspaper publicity given to it. With kindest personal regards, Sincerely yours, Warren W. Wiant January 8, 1932 My dear Doctor Oxnam: I confess again my reluctance to intrude upon your time, knowing a little of the stress and strain under which you labor these days, but I want to give you this additional word if possible, before you render a decision in Thoburn’s case. The only plea we have to bring is on the merits of what this may mean to the boy and of our feeling that if he could be given a chance to go on, that he will prove worthy of the trust. He has made no plea to us to intercede in his behalf at all. The boy recognizes his serious offense and that is what must happen. . . . I do not want Thoburn to in the least feel that when he gets into difficulty that he can count on us to bring influences to bear that will get him out. All we want is to feel that there are changes in the lad’s outlook and that there is forming within him those traits of character that will carry him through like circumstances, if they come in the future, with the spirit of victory. . . . These are very critical days for Thoburn, really a crisis. If the lad were given his chance now and then later on did prove unworthy then one thing is sure, he could never say that the University, his President or his parents did not give him his opportunity. We believe that this has changed the boy all about. His spirit is different than it has ever been since he went away to school, and it goes without saying that we shall do all within our power to keep in close touch with him and be of whatever help we can. With many thanks, Dr. Oxnam, for your patience and kindness, Sincerely yours, Warren W. Wiant Dr. Oxnam finally replied to his long-time friend. January 11, 1932 My Dear Doctor Wiant: I am giving this whole question of drinking on the campus the most careful consideration. Confidentially, I hope to adopt some plan 20 : Learning the Ropes

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whereby most of the boys may stay. I want to keep Thoburn by all means if it be possible. Do forgive a short note now. I found it necessary to interview a large number of students, and this, with the board meeting and a number of lectures, is keeping me at it almost every second. With all good wishes, believe me. Ever sincerely yours, G. Bromley Oxnam Two weeks later my grandfather received word that Dad and the other students involved in the editorial incident would be allowed to remain at DePauw, though they would be on probation. He thanked Dr. Oxnam for going out of his way to help my father. January 26, 1932 Dr. G. Bromley Oxnam President, DePauw University Greencastle, Indiana My dear Doctor Oxnam: Your letter of the 22nd at hand. It brought mighty good news to us . . . that you are permitting the boys to stay in school. Certainly you have gone the ‘‘second mile’’ with them and I believe that your attitude and decision will go a long ways towards helping these lads back into the paths of manly living. I know that Thoburn deeply appreciates the chance that comes to him in this decision. Your influence over him has been so beneficial that we are deeply grateful—more than we can ever express. The matter of probation seems only just. You could do nothing less. Somehow we have the feeling that these may be the best days . . . that Thoburn has faced in his college career. . . . Again with thanks and kindest regards, Sincerely yours, Warren W. Wiant Never one to quit while he was ahead, my father wrote to Dr. Oxnam to ensure that a professor’s inaccurate posting of class ‘‘cuts’’ was rectified. February 23, 1932 President G. Bromley Oxnam Greencastle, Indiana Dear Dr. Oxnam: I do not think it necessary for me to take any more of your time in conference, for goodness knows I’ve had more than my share. I do appreciate your interest more than I can tell you. Learning the Ropes : 21

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Just a word about Professor Graves. I learned that he turned in 30 cuts for me last semester. Upon inquiry, I discovered that he gave me lab cuts, in spite of the fact that I was given permission to make up my work whenever I had a free hour. I reminded him of this fact, and he wrote an explanation to the Registrar. Should I give this letter to Miss Worth, or should I keep it until the end of the semester? Frankly, I want to keep such a letter in Graves’ handwriting in my possession, for it is difficult to prove that he made such a statement unless you have it in writing. Although I feel that other mistakes have been made, I’m quite willing to forget about them. There are more pleasant past-times, I have discovered, than ‘‘grinding an ax’’ constantly! My courses this semester are very interesting, and I wish to make the most of them. Sometime, I should like to talk to you about some problems, concerning not only the students but the faculty. When I was editor of the DePauw, I had some very ambitious plans; but I guess they were too ambitious! Best wishes! Sincerely, Thoburn H. Wiant Cutting classes, it seemed, was my father’s undeclared college major. In response to his letter, Dr. Oxnam—in no uncertain terms—put Dad in his place: My father had exceeded the permitted number of cuts, had failed to declare a minor, and would be granted no leniency. With outside tutoring, my father eventually received his liberal arts degree in June 1932, although he was not permitted to graduate with his class. News of my father’s dismissal as editor of the DePauw continued to appear in many local and state publications. Suddenly Dad became a standard bearer for freedom of the press. Partly as a result of his notoriety but also because he was a competent writer, Dad was offered a job with the Indianapolis News in October 1932, where he would serve as a reporter for the Indiana statehouse, police, city hall, courthouse, and sports beats. It had been a tumultuous year for my father, but with good connections and considerable luck he had managed to land on his feet.

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.. .. chapter three .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. the rookie gets .. ..

his break, sept. 1934–june 1940

I feel that this is the turning point in my newspaper career. I’m either going to shoot up in a hurry, or slide down AP’s very slippery banister. but i’m in no mood for sliding. toby wiant, August 2, 1939 The employment application is dated September 19, 1934. I picture my father sitting at his desk, hands poised above his typewriter, trying to find the right words to convince the Associated Press to hire him. After two years with the Indianapolis News at $22 a week, my father, at age twenty-three, was ready for more—the AP was his goal. He had completed postgraduate work at Butler University and was enrolled in the evening program at Benjamin Harrison Law School. But when asked to list his ‘‘special ambition’’ on the AP application, he wrote, ‘‘To go as high as possible in newspaper work.’’ Dad described why he wanted to be an AP man. My position with the News is not in jeopardy. I am convinced I can stay as long as I wish by continuing the present standards of my work. However, I wish to make a change to a field of opportunity such as that offered by the Associated Press. I feel qualified to make application because of my wide reportorial and copy desk experience. I regularly cover the city hall, the federal building and the courthouse one day each a week. Two days a week I handle general assignments. My general experience includes all types of stories. For a month this summer I was an assistant city editor during the vacations of two men. Prior to advancement to the city staff, I was on

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the copy desk. I began as a city copy reader and read state and telegraph stories before asking for a change to the city staff. I believe my legal training would be of value in covering any story of law or legislation. I have had courses in contracts, elementary law, criminal law and procedure, property, partnership, equity, torts, bailments and carriers, domestic relations, etc. I have clean, regular habits and only ask for a chance to prove my abilities. Thoburn H. Wiant The AP hired him as state news wire editor on December 9, 1934, at three dollars a week more than he was making at the News. Four months later he got the opportunity for which he’d waited—a chance to prove that he wasn’t just another cub reporter. April 17, 1935 At the apartment Dear Mom and Dad: You have often heard me say that a newspaperman has to get the ‘‘breaks’’ before he can get ahead in the racket. A newspaperman may have had all the experience in the world, but if he does not get the chance to display his talent, he will not find opportunity for advancement knocking at his typewriter. Sunday afternoon there came to me the ‘‘break’’ that every newspaperman hopes for, dreams for, and seldom gets. Whether or not my handling of the break will bring immediate promotion or a pay increase, I do not know. I am rather prone to think that it will mean something in the future, for it made New York* sit up and take notice. But I’ll start at the beginning. As I have told you, Sunday afternoons at the office are very dull usually. Last Sunday, Bill Madigan, one of my roommates, and I were sitting at my desk talking. The phone rang, and a very excited kid said he was at the Purdue University airport at Lafayette and that Wiley Post, the stratosphere flyer, had just been forced down there. There had been no hot stories so far that Sunday. I knew Post’s attempt to set a Burbank-to-New-York record was the story of the night. *AP headquarters.

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I put on my first flash (which is a bulletin of major importance) at 3:59 p.m., just 14 minutes after Post had landed and about five minutes after the kid called. From then on until 7:00 p.m., I worked as hard as I ever hope to work. When the story broke, I was the only AP man outside of the teletype operator in the office. Everything depended on me. Right after the flash, the Chicago photo office called long distance and asked if I could charter a plane for our photographer and get pictures to Chicago by 7:00 p.m. I didn’t know whether I could or not, but said, ‘‘sure, we’ll get them there.’’ I wrote about 800 words. . . . It seemed like everything happened at once, and I had to do a thousand things at the same time. Pictures, long-distance calls, more calls, messages from New York, messages from Chicago, etc. But I came out way ahead. United Press was twenty minutes behind me on the flash, and then they said, ‘‘Post was reported to have landed at Half Year, Indiana’’ (which was a shot in the dark that was wrong). The International News Service was at least a half hour behind me. New York came through with this message after I had sent the flash and the bulletins: ‘‘Looks like the Post story is all yours. Thanks for the prompt flash and excellent work.’’ I suppose you understand that, after I put on the flash and the bulletins on any story, I must get more facts and then write a ‘‘lead all,’’ or the final story, which covers the entire happenings in more detail. Ochiltree* and the rest of the staff were in the office by this time, and I was afraid Sam might turn the final story over to a more experienced head. But he said, ‘‘You’ve done damn good work so far, you know more about Post’s landing than anyone else, so go ahead and write the final story, and remember this office has to make good on this yarn.’’ Our office gets about one or two flash stories a year, so you can see what it meant. After I was all through and dead tired, Sam said ‘‘Go in and see if the yarn is all right on the trunk.’’ I gave one look and saw he had put my byline on the story, which meant that my name went above the best story of the night all over the country and, what’s more important to me, New York was sure to see ‘‘By Thoburn H. Wiant.’’ *AP Indianapolis bureau chief Sam Ochiltree.

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New York has complimented us over the wires, but I’m anxious to see what they will say by letter or in the weekly resume of work the various bureaus have done. Paul Miller, telegraph editor of the Star, told me that Sam said, ‘‘That kid sure did go to town on that story. It was a sweet piece of work.’’ So I’m hoping these compliments will eventually bring something more tangible. As ever, Toby From the Terre-Haute Star, Monday April 15, 1935 (Associated Press article): POST LANDS AT LAFAYETTE AS SUPERCHARGER FAILURE ENDS STRATOSPHERE FLIGHT Flyer Sets Winnie Mae Down on ‘‘Belly Skid’’ at Purdue Airport without Injury, Terminating His Third Attempt to Span Continent at High Altitude—Averages 231 M.P.H. by Thoburn H. Wiant Associated Press Staff Writer LAFAYETTE, Ind., April 14—(AP)—Wiley Post’s third attempt to crack the transcontinental airplane speed record by way of the stratosphere ended here late today when, plagued by supercharger trouble, he brought the Winnie Mae down to a ‘‘belly landing’’ on the Purdue University Airport [field]. His sleek monoplane came to earth at 3:40 p.m. Central Standard Time. Streaking away from the Burbank Union Air Terminal at 5:27 a.m. (Pacific Coast Time), Post hurtled through the thin air at speeds which approximated 300 miles per hour. Over this college community the sturdy ship, which has set aroundthe-world marks, failed him. After circling the university field four or five times, the flier came down on a six-foot skid attached to the bottom of his plane’s fuselage in what airport attache´s termed a ‘‘sweet landing.’’ Post had dropped his landing gear just after his California takeoff to cut wind resistance to a minimum. ‘‘Get my hat off,’’ were Post’s first words. He was wearing a visored aluminum helmet and a sixteen-pound rubber fabric suit in which he received oxygen. ‘‘Will you try again?’’ he was asked. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Post answered. ‘‘I don’t want to talk about it at all.’’ 26 : The Rookie Gets His Break

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Post made an average of 231.48 miles per hour in his 1,900-mile flight from Burbank to Lafayette. On his second record attempt, he averaged 279.36 miles per hour from Burbank to Cleveland. Post told those who helped him out of his heavy flying togs that he was somewhere between Cincinnati and Cleveland when the trouble in the supercharger developed. He turned back intending to land at Chicago, then remembered the Lafayette airport. He became a little confused when he failed to find the old Shambaugh Airport southeast of the city, at which he had landed two or three times, but soon located the new university field. A crowd of more than 150 Purdue University students and townspeople jammed around the plane. Souvenir hunters displayed bits of paint they had scratched off the ship. Within a short time a traffic tangle developed, which required hours to unravel. Post said that a clutch on one of his superchargers was stripped. He remained at the field for some time superintending the placing of wooden skids on the wheel-less ship so that it could be towed into a hangar. He indicated he would remain there awaiting the arrival of landing gear to be fitted on the ship. The erstwhile Oklahoma farm boy who established two around-theworld marks carried no radio-sending equipment in his plane and was not heard from or seen from the time of his takeoff until he was forced down. He flew through the stratosphere at an average altitude of approximately 33,000 feet. He depended mainly on a radio receiving set for plotting his course 900 miles by tuning in broadcasting stations en route. The flight was designed to test the feasibility of superspeed air mail and express flights across the continent above weather disturbances. Col. Roscoe Turner set the present West-East transcontinental record of ten hours and two minutes in September 1934. Post was forced down February 22 in the Mojave Desert 125 miles out of Burbank by motor trouble which later he alleged was caused by sabotage. On his second attempt to set a coast-to-coast record, he came down at Cleveland because of depletion of his oxygen supply. He had hoped to make the third trial in seven or eight hours. Amelia Earhart, noted aviatrix, was at the Burbank airport to bid Post farewell. She is preparing for a speed flight to Mexico City. Laura The Rookie Gets His Break : 27

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Ingalls, who has been waiting for favorable weather to attempt to break the woman’s transcontinental air record at normal heights, was not present. Post said flying conditions today were unusually bad. Deeply tanned and wearing a gray double-breasted suit, he appeared dejected over his third failure. Despite a barrage of questions thrown at him continuously, he refused to comment on anything except to say he probably would stay here three or four days. On his trip, Post carried 150 pounds of mail. The Winnie Mae’s two superchargers enabled the Pratt & Whitney engine to maintain its full rating of 550 horsepower up to 30,000 feet. Above that there is a gradual falling off in power. The stratosphere, in general, is a dry, rarefied layer of atmosphere within which the temperature decreases very little with increasing altitude, and there are no storms. Post believes, because of this freedom from atmospheric disturbances found at the lower levels, future aviators will fly to great heights to reach a maximum of efficiency. Post was offered all the facilities of the one-year-old Purdue airport by Captain Lawrence Aretz, manager, and Captain George Haskins, head of the aeronautical division of the university’s engineering school, proffered assistance in fixing up the ship. As Dad hoped, his first flash would indeed give him the break he coveted. In those days a Methodist minister’s son would have been expected to marry in the church—preferably in his father’s church. But my mother and father decided to elope. The fact that my grandfather’s closest friend, a minister himself, performed the ceremony smoothed over some of my grandparents’ disappointment at not being present at their oldest son’s wedding. Wednesday, June 19, 1935 Dear Mom and Dad: I did not intend to write this letter to you until July 15. But I did not realize beforehand how infinitely happy I would be and how much I would want you to share my happiness. I want you to be the first to know that Betty and I decided, after much thought, to do what we have wanted to do for months and were married Monday in Kokomo. The Reverend Clyde G. Yeomans (I believe you know him!) performed the ceremony in Grace Methodist Church at 8:15 p.m., with Pearl Yeomans the only other person present. 28 : The Rookie Gets His Break

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Betty and I were certain (and now positive) that we wanted each other and a home. We talked about our marriage from every conceivable angle before our final decision. There was no question about each other being the ‘‘one’’ person. We had gone together for almost five years. We had our disagreements, as any two people will, but through it all, I always thought of Betty as the girl I wanted to marry ultimately. Betty thought the same about me. We used reams of paper figuring out whether marriage for us was financially possible at this time. Our calculations revealed that we could manage, although the margin would be slim. The time of our marriage, then, was our only other problem. Betty was not happy at home without me; I was not happy at the apartment without her. We felt, as a result, that the sooner we could marry and have a home of our own, the better it would be for both of us. A honeymoon of any length of time was out of the question because, as you know, I am not eligible for a vacation this summer. Betty received a two-week vacation and began the second week Monday. We believed Monday was the logical time to get married, for then we would have the day, night, and Tuesday until 4:30 p.m. together. So, Monday noon, we obtained the license here, drove to Kokomo, were married, drove to Anderson and spent the night there in the Hotel Anderson. We did not tell a soul about what we were going to do. According to the plan Betty and I drew up on paper, it will be impossible for us to move into an apartment until July 15. We want to be established at our own address before making the marriage public. However, after talking about keeping it entirely secret, we felt we wanted to tell our parents and no one else until July 15. No one here, of course, knows anything about it. Since I had covered the courthouse while on the News, it was easy to keep the marriage license notice out of the papers by having the clerk ‘‘forgetfully’’ fail to record the application where the newshounds might pounce on it. So now you, the Yeomans, and the Greens are the only persons to know why we are so happy. We hope you, too, will help us keep our secret until we have our apartment. I received a letter from Kent Cooper, the AP general manager, last week in which he notified me that, beginning July 1, I will get $20 more on the month. This raise will help us quite a bit. Betty is going to continue working for awhile at least. The Rookie Gets His Break : 29

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Although Betty and I may be hard pressed for sometime to come, we are both willing to sacrifice everything else for each other and believe we can win out in the end. We sincerely hope that you will not feel we were selfish in not having a large wedding or having you present. Under the circumstances, we were convinced we were doing the right thing in going by ourselves. Wish us a lot of luck, for we’ll need it! As ever, Toby and Betty My father was the proverbial Jack-of-all-trades at the Indianapolis AP bureau. His assignments included mine disasters, train wrecks, and political upheavals—and annual coverage of the 500-mile Indianapolis Motor Speedway race, at the start of which he rode in the official pace car. In the summer of 1939, my father was promoted to the AP New York office. In capital letters, he declared his intentions to rise to the top of the AP news ladder. Wednesday, August 2, 1939 Dear Mom and Dad: I assume you received my telegram telling you about my thrilling transfer to New York, effective August 13. Pete Henderson, the acting bureau chief, telephoned me just after I finished my letter to you yesterday morning and read me an air mail letter from Alan Gould, the executive assistant to the general manager, telling me to report for assignment at midnight, Sunday, August 13. From that, I assume I’ll work from midnight until 8:30 a.m., the ‘‘graveyard trick.’’ But I won’t mind in the least because my ambition has been to get to the big time and see what I could do. I was nervous as a cat all day after getting the good news. In fact, I wasn’t able to eat any lunch. I’ve thought and dreamed about the New York office for more than two years, hoping for the break that I was afraid wouldn’t come my way. Then, all of a sudden, it happened out of a clear sky. Frankly, the shock was almost too great. As I’ve told you before, New York is the springboard in AP. From that office, a man can climb swiftly into the big jobs, provided he has the ‘‘stuff.’’ Open to a man in New York, more so than in any other office, are foreign service jobs. In fact, the possibilities are unlimited, if a man works hard and turns out the right kind of products. 30 : The Rookie Gets His Break

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It will be tough going for awhile, but I’m confident I can hold up my end. I’ve had thorough training in nearly every phase of newspaper work. I feel prepared for the opportunity that has come my way, and now it’s up to me to prove to Gould, Price, and Cooper, AP’s ‘‘Big Three,’’ that their selection of me to fill the New York vacancy was a good one.* I simply can’t put into words what this transfer means to me. It’s the kind of a break that some men work 15 or 20 years to get. Then, most of them don’t get it. I feel that this is the turning point in my newspaper career. I’m either going to shoot up in a hurry, or slide down AP’s very slippery banister. but i’m in no mood for sliding. My boss, Bennett Wolfe, was in New York last week on vacation, and he apparently completed the deal for me then. Gould’s letter to Henderson, informing him of the transfer, said in part, ‘‘There is an opening on the New York early editorial staff for which T.H. Wiant has been recommended. As you know, he has expressed keen interest in a transfer to a larger bureau, and we hope he will be as enthusiastic about this opportunity as we are interested in having him develop broader usefulness in the service. Chief of Bureau Wolfe has been advised about the proposal to transfer Wiant and expressed his concurrence during a visit with us here last week.’’ Our moving expenses to New York will be paid by AP. I’m under the impression that our traveling expenses also will be paid, although I’m not sure about that. We plan to leave Indianapolis Thursday, August 10, and arrive in New York sometime Friday. We don’t intend to break any speed records, since the tires on our three-year-old jalopy aren’t so good. We don’t know where we’ll live. We plan to store our stuff here [for] a few days and send word for the moving company to ship it along as soon as we find the right spot. There’s so much to get done in the next eight days that I shudder to think of it, but we’ll pound it out some way. *Alan J. Gould became AP’s executive director in 1941 and supervised World War II coverage. NYTimes.com. http://tiny.cc/Gould994 (accessed May 18, 2010). Byron Price was an AP executive news editor who resigned his job in 1941 when he was appointed director of the U.S. Office of Censorship by President Roosevelt. PBS. http://tiny.cc/Price (accessed May 18, 2010). Kent Cooper (‘‘K.C.’’) was general manager of the AP from 1925 to 1948. New World Encyclopedia. http://tiny.cc/Cooper (accessed May 18, 2010).

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We feel like doing anything now that we’ve received that long-sought break. Love, Toby P.S. The New York office is in the new, air-conditioned Associated Press building at 50 Rockefeller Plaza. The building was just completed in December. March 1, 1940 Dear Mom and Dad: Just a note to tell you I have been promoted into what seems to be a swell job with opportunities galore—and day hours. Two days ago, Jo Wing, head of the AP Feature Service, asked me whether I would like to work for him. I said it all depended on the job. Then he disclosed he wanted me to succeed Jack Stinnett, one of our outstanding writers, who has been the Feature Service’s Broadway man. Betts and I talked it over from every angle. I talked with everyone in importance in the office, and without exception they told me it was a great chance to become a ‘‘name’’ writer, etc. etc. I finally accepted Wing’s offer, but before I did so, I talked with Byron Price, the executive news editor, and Charles Honce, NYC news editor, to find out exactly where I stood. They and other ‘‘brass hats’’ said so many nice things about me that I could hardly believe my ears. My skipper for the past seven months, Tom Hagenbuch, confided that Price had told him I had a ‘‘brilliant future in AP.’’ And Honce indicated that a bureau chief ’s job was not far off. I could hardly believe all this . . . s’pose they really were talking about me????? Too busy to tell you more about the new job . . . but later. Toby As AP feature writer and Broadway beat reporter, my father interviewed men and women whose names graced New York theater marquees and whose faces appeared frequently in publications such as the New York Times and Life magazine. Three weeks after accepting his new responsibilities, he found himself sitting across the table from Herbert Hoover. New York, March 26, 1940 (Associated Press article, AP Feature Service— specific newspaper source unknown): 32 : The Rookie Gets His Break

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HOOVER, DREADING A LONG WAR, SEES A CHANCE FOR PEACE He Works a 15-Hour Day, 7 Days a Week, In Handling Finnish and Polish Relief by Toby Wiant AP Feature Service Writer Herbert Hoover extended a warm hand, pushed his swivel chair back from his letter-littered desk and relaxed. He was sitting in his fourthfloor office in a downtown skyscraper. He had been working hard all day on Finnish and Polish relief matters—just as he worked once on Belgian and Russian relief. But, although he was busy, his greeting was cordial and his smile friendly. This was Hoover, the man. Not Mr. Hoover, the former President of the United States. His cheeks were glowing and his eyes sparkling. He is 65. He looked 10 years younger. He spoke softly, but the words poured out in a steady stream. He was as easy to talk to as Joe down at the barber shop. He works 13 to 15 hours a day, seven days a week, but he didn’t show any signs of strain. ‘‘My complaints,’’ he said, ‘‘are economic, political and moral. They take too long to tell. I have no physical complaints because I received physical discipline when I was a boy. Like every other boy, I couldn’t see then why I should eat certain foods, get so much sleep every night and abstain from things that weren’t good for me. But family discipline was in force, and I have benefited ever since.’’ Hoover came from sturdy stock, and that has stood him in good stead. His father was a village blacksmith. He was orphaned when seven years old. While in his teens, he toiled in truck gardens and as an office boy. He knows what hard work means and he is not afraid of it. This is the way he outlines his work day: He arises promptly at 7 a.m., has breakfast, reads a morning paper and shows up precisely an hour later at one of his three offices in the same building here (they are offices connected with the relief work and certain educational foundations, the American Children’s Fund and the Boys’ Clubs of America). He works steadily until noon, takes a little time off for lunch, works until 5:30 or 6:00 p.m., then returns to his apartment. He eats dinner, summons a stenographer and his secretary, Lawrence Richey, who has been with him many years. They pitch into the mail until 11 p.m., or sometimes until after midnight. At 7 he is up again. That goes on seven days a week. The Rookie Gets His Break : 33

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All his work has to do with charitable activities or his trusteeships in several educational and scientific institutions. ‘‘I have no business office,’’ he explained. He spoke at 180 meetings last year and had 40 days at home in Palo Alto, California. But he has not been home so far this year, although he hopes to leave for 10 days or so soon. He was all smiles when he talked about this-and-that (politics was barred), but his eyes blurred when he discussed conditions in Europe and the privations innocent people are being forced to undergo everywhere. He is interested deeply in actions of the war upon America. In discussing relief, he said the feeding of starving people abroad is relieving our farmers of surpluses. It does good two ways. ‘‘If peace comes quickly,’’ he predicted, ‘‘the world will quickly recover and the effect of the war upon us will not be severe. If it results in removing the burden of arms on the world, it will mean prosperity everywhere. ‘‘But unless peace comes in the next few months, this is likely to be a long war. There is still the possibility of peace. The common people of the world have not wanted this war. ‘‘But modern war quickly flashes from war against soldiers to war against civilians. As time goes on, the blockade of food supplies, the attacks on cities from the air, will take more toll from women and children. Also, as action becomes more violent, the lists of dead stream from the front into every family. From the wrongs and sufferings, implacable hate will sink into every household. When this stage of outrage and bitterness is reached, statesmen cannot carry their people peace without victory. ‘‘At the end of a long war, the world will be greatly impoverished and that will bring a multitude of troubles to America. Our job is to keep out of it and mitigate its effects at home and abroad as best we can.’’ I suggested that I was taking up too much of his time, that he probably had other things to do. ‘‘Yes, there is much to do,’’ he said. ‘‘Sometimes I wonder whether we’ll ever be able to finish it.’’ As I stepped out of his office, I ran into his secretary, Richey. ‘‘The chief,’’ said Richey, ‘‘works twice as hard as the rest of us. He’s happiest when he’s helping someone.’’ 34 : The Rookie Gets His Break

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When he met Glenn Miller, my father, at age twenty-nine, was only a year younger than the renowned bandleader. During their conversation, the two men discovered that, although their respective careers in music and journalism appeared vastly different, they shared a common desire to be the best at what they did. New York, April 11, 1940 (Associated Press article, AP Feature Service— specific newspaper source unknown): IT TAKES A BUSINESS HEAD TO RUN A TOP BAND For Instance, Meet Glenn Miller, Who Smoothed Out Swing by Toby Wiant AP Feature Service Writer The dance band that rides to the top these days must have more than solid musicianship. It must have also (1) a leader who has executive ability and can foresee the public’s desires; (2) musicians who are willing to work hard and think in terms of the whole organization, rather than themselves; (3) versatility; (4) distinct arrangements; and (5) good ‘‘breaks.’’ Glenn Miller’s band has all the qualifications—and it makes its own ‘‘breaks.’’ That’s how it was able to skyrocket from the dim depths to become one of the nation’s favorites, if not the favorite, in little more than a year. Trade polls now rank Miller’s band at the top. Some say he’s the new King of Swing. But Miller doesn’t want to be King of Swing. ‘‘I don’t want just a swing band,’’ he said in an interview at the Hotel Pennsylvania, where he broke all attendance records. ‘‘I want my band to be the most versatile in America, able to play sweet music just as effectively as it does hot.’’ The story behind ‘‘the man who took the rough edges off swing’’ is one of vision, determination, patience and courage. Miller is 30, longlegged, bespectacled. There’s nothing glamour-boyish about him; he looks more like an up-and-coming young business man. He has known what he wanted to do ever since he started tooting a trombone 16 years ago—and he has done it. He first won recognition in the trade as a top trombonist and arranger. And he had done some composing, such as his theme song, ‘‘Moonlight Serenade.’’ People used to ask him why he didn’t organize a band of his own. The Rookie Gets His Break : 35

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‘‘Oh, I’ve thought of that,’’ he would reply. ‘‘I’ve always wanted to lead my own band, but the kind of a band that would mean something. Not just a bunch of musicians with whom I could play all the honky tonks this side of Passaic [New Jersey]. I will, some day, but not until I think I am ready.’’ Two and a half years ago, he decided he was ready. He formed a band that was good, but not good enough. He broke up the band after a year and a half and started a new one. He hand-picked his musicians, whose average age was 22. No stars, just good, clean kids who wanted to get ahead and were anxious to fit into Miller’s pattern. They’re the kids who have gotten ahead with Miller. ‘‘I didn’t just look for good musicians,’’ Miller says. ‘‘I looked for and found nice fellows who knew how to behave, who were dependable and who were willing to work hard.’’ Miller has what few in the business have; that is, executive ability. He would have succeeded if he had started in the insurance business, or banking. He tolerates no drinking among his musicians. He has nothing to do with long-haired ‘‘tramps’’ who spend more time with the bottle than with their music. His music has universal appeal because he plays about fifty per cent ‘‘hot’’ and fifty per cent ‘‘sweet.’’ He concedes that the band won’t be able to stay right at the top forever, but he believes it can stay near the top a long time. ‘‘People never tire of good music,’’ he said. ‘‘They get tired of trick stuff, but we don’t play much of that stuff. As long as we keep delivering good music, I think they’ll like it.’’ Never one to brag about rubbing elbows with stars, my father continued writing Broadway stories with the same boyish enthusiasm he showed in his first story about Wiley Post’s forced landing. It wasn’t long, however, before Dad prepared himself for yet another journalistic adventure: overseas service.

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.. .. chapter four .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. assignment: india, .. ..

sept.–nov. 1942

Quite frankly, I’m no hero, but I don’t fear anything I’ll have to face over there. I have a job to do, and I’m going to give it everything I’ve got. toby wiant, September 26, 1942 Sixty-five dollars a week—good money then—was the salary listed for ‘‘5/18/ 41’’ in my father’s personnel file. He was moving up. Dad left the Broadway beat in the fall of 1941 and went back to writing general news stories. Not long after, he was named assistant to Paul Miller, right-hand man for the general manager in charge of AP membership and promotion, Wide World Photos, and Wide World Features. On December 7, 1941, Japan’s surprise attack on Pearl Harbor catapulted the United States—and my father—into the chaos of World War II. Three months after Miller left in June 1942, Dad found himself preparing for overseas service. Sept. 8, 1942 Dear Mom and Dad: Just a brief note to tell you I have been assigned to India. I have been instructed to apply tomorrow (Wednesday) for a passport valid for Egypt, India, Iran, Iraq, Turkey, Palestine, and other countries enroute to India by way of Cairo. John Evans, chief of AP’s foreign service, told me today I would go to Cairo (probably by air) and work there for awhile, then proceed to my assignment in India. I had another typhoid shot this morning and was sick as a horse around noon. I recovered in about two hours, though, and was able to finish the day at the office. I’m to get my last typhoid shot Saturday, then will come the typhus, yellow fever, and tetanus shots next week.

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More details later—when I have more time and feel more like writing. Love, Toby Finally recovered from the battery of vaccinations, my father expressed selfconfidence about his new assignment. Sept. 12, 1942 Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks for your fine letter of September 11, Dad. I fully realize my new assignment is the toughest I’ve ever faced, but I’m supremely confident I can handle it to the satisfaction of everyone concerned. It’s a great opportunity, and I intend to make the most of it. I fear nothing and no one. I’m going out there to do a job to the best of my ability—and I’m determined to let nothing keep me from the achievement of that goal. There doesn’t seem to be any possibility of us seeing each other again before I get away. There’s simply too much to be done here, preliminary to my departure. I consider that I was indeed fortunate to see you both and the Smiths before receiving my traveling orders. This war, though bound to be long, won’t last forever, and we’ll probably be together again much sooner than we think. Yesterday, I received Army credentials in the federal building—an identification booklet containing my picture, fingerprints and vital statistics,* an arm band (green with a block ‘‘C’’ for correspondent), and a manual. I haven’t had a chance to read the manual carefully, but while glancing through it, I saw that I would be required to wear an officer’s uniform [with the rank of captain], sans insignia, while in the field. I applied for my passport Thursday and expect to get it within a week or ten days. It now seems that Don Whitehead,† one of our finest young reporters, will go with me to Cairo. He’s a grand guy, in every way, and *See photo section. †Don Whitehead joined the Associated Press wire service in 1935, shortly after my father did. His journalism career followed a similar path, and the two men became close friends. In September 1942, they left New York for Cairo, Egypt, to cover the Allies’ showdown with Field Marshal Irwin Rommel in North Africa. They shared bylines on several stories, and Whitehead was instrumental in lifting my father’s spirits as Dad waited out the maddeningly slow process of obtaining full accreditation as

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I hope it works out. We probably will fly to Natal, Brazil; cross the Atlantic; cut across the North-Central part of Africa; then swing up to Cairo. Of course, I won’t be able to disclose the exact route or the exact time of departure. As I told you, I probably will work in Cairo for several weeks before going on to India, or elsewhere. I say ‘‘elsewhere’’ because my destination will depend on conditions at the time. I won’t be able to take much with me, just a light suitcase and a typewriter. I plan to pick up a uniform and other equipment in Cairo, where there is an abundance of such stuff. That’s all for now. Glad to hear your operation wasn’t too much of an ordeal, Mom, and hope you are able to feel like your old self soon. Love, Toby My father’s next letter to his parents was filled with excitement at what might lie ahead, although he acknowledged the potential for danger. Sept. 26, 1942 Dear Mom and Dad: This may be my last letter until I reach the other side. We may leave within 48 hours on the next Clipper* to Brazil. If we are forced out of this flight by persons having priority over us, then we certainly will leave around October 1. I’m all ready to go now and fairly itching to get at my new job. a war correspondent. In 1951, Whitehead and fellow AP staffer Relman Morin were awarded the Pulitzer Prize for their war reports from Korea. Whitehead won a second Pulitzer in 1953 for his story about President-elect Eisenhower’s clandestine trips to Korea. During the 1950s, Whitehead was the Washington bureau chief for the New York Herald Tribune. One of his best-selling books, The FBI Story, became a hit movie with James Stewart. In 1959, Whitehead returned to Tennessee, the birthplace of his AP career. He spent the remainder of his life in Knoxville and wrote a regular column for the Knoxville News Sentinel until his death in 1981 at age 72. Whitehead’s life and career are brilliantly chronicled by John B. Romeiser in Beachhead Don: Reporting the War from the European Theater, 1942–1945 (New York: Fordham University Press, 2004) and Combat Reporter: Don Whitehead’s World War II Diary and Memoirs (New York: Fordham University Press, 2006). *The Boeing 314 Clipper, one of the largest planes flying during the early years of the war, was designed for extended, luxury flying and operated by Pan American World Airways. The Aviation History Online Museum. http://tiny.cc/Clipper (accessed May 18, 2010).

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Betts has everything in shape for the movers, who will put our things in storage September 29. If I leave within 48 hours, Betts will head for Indiana September 30. The 35-mile-an-hour speed limit will make the trip a slow one,* and she probably will stop for the night at Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, or Columbus. All of our affairs are in order. We’re in the clear with everyone except the car finance people, and Betts plans to get that obligation out of the way in three or four months. She might decide it’s wise to sell the car after she reaches Indianapolis, and I’ve given her power-of-attorney to enable her to do everything she thinks best. The AP will deposit all amounts due me in our joint account. In the switchover, Betts may be caught a little short, so I’ve told her to call on you, if necessary, for a loan to tide her over until my checks start coming through. We don’t think that will be necessary, but I thought it wise to make some sort of an arrangement, just in case. Enclosed is a copy of my biographical sketch, on file here. Someone may ask you about me sometime, and the sketch contains all the pertinent information. I’ve also sent copies to Herb Hill of the Indianapolis News and Jim Stuart of the Indianapolis Star, for possible use if ever I should do anything deserving of special mention. I don’t want any advance publicity, Dad. The fact that I’m getting an opportunity to cover the war doesn’t seem to me to be newsworthy. It will be a different matter, of course, if I’m able to take advantage of the opportunity in an outstanding way. In other words, I feel I should earn any publicity given me. The AP will take care of the publicity in Indiana, Pennsylvania, and the rest of the country—if and when there’s reason for such publicity. Thanks, anyway, for your offer to be my press agent! Betts will give you the addresses of our Cairo and New Delhi bureaus. Your letters should be written on airmail paper and placed in airmail envelopes. I’ll try to write once or twice a month, but I won’t make any promises because I don’t know how much spare time I’ll have. It’s quite possible that there will be periods of several weeks when you won’t hear from me directly. always remember no news is good news! If the news should be bad, you would hear promptly from our *Because of wartime gas and rubber rationing, a nationwide highway speed limit of 35 miles per hours was in effect from 1942 until August 1945. Ohio Insurance Institute. http://tiny.cc/SpeedLimit (accessed May 18, 2010).

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office here, or from our office in Pittsburgh, where Joe Snyder is correspondent. I’ve never met Joe, but everyone says he’s a grand guy. If ever I’m reported missing, keep in mind the fact that most of the newsmen who have been reported missing have turned up eventually. One of our reporters, Vern Haugland, had to bail out of a plane several thousand feet above New Guinea and was missing for nearly 50 days, but he finally reached civilization. None of AP’s war reporters has been killed so far in World War II. If ever I’m reported captured, remember that I’ll be treated as a prisoner of war and probably will be exchanged eventually. I’ve talked with several of our men who were interned in Germany, Italy, and Japan, and they all said it wasn’t too bad. Quite frankly, I’m no hero, but I don’t fear anything I’ll have to face over there. I have a job to do, and I’m going to give it everything I’ve got. Love, Toby As his journey began, my father relayed his impressions in long letters to my mother. She often retyped parts of the letters and sent the excerpts to his parents. It was difficult for Dad to recall if he’d already shared an experience with my mother or his parents, and as a result parts of some letters are redundant. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: AT CAN’T SAY WHERE October 1, 1942 I’ve never enjoyed anything as much as the trip today. Our plane is larger than a Pullman* and much more comfortable. We flew well above the clouds part of the way and saw many curious formations. The sea and the occasional boats seem odd from an altitude of more than a mile and a half. It’s all new and very interesting to me, as it would be to any other first flighter. The scenery is breathtakingly different and beautiful. We are in a spot quite isolated, but our accommodations are very satisfactory. *The Pullman Sleeping Car, invented by George Pullman in 1857, was considered more comfortable than other railroad sleeper cars. About.com. http://tiny.cc/Pullman (accessed May 18, 2010).

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Excerpt from a letter to my mother: NATAL, BRAZIL October 2, 1942 The ride today was terrific—hundreds of miles of jungle and no signs of human activity anywhere. What a place for a forced landing! But none of us felt the least bit anxious because our bus was big and most reliable. The Amazon River certainly is a sight to see. It took us about twenty minutes to cross it. Natal is some place—our dinner tonight cost 30 cents, and we had all we could eat. It’s tough trying to get around with no knowledge of Portuguese whatsoever, but we managed by using sign language. Don and I took a walk with three other passengers, but there wasn’t much to see. Our transportation has been superlative, so far. In fact, we may be spoiled for the rest of the journey. Our room is nothing to write home about, but we won’t be in it long. A week later my father found himself in the noisy and fly-infested city of Cairo, where he would remain for far longer than he anticipated. CAIRO, EGYPT Oct. 11, 1942 Dear Mom and Dad: We arrived in Cairo October 9 after a 10,000-mile air journey that was highly interesting and entirely without mishap. Back in the States, I had looked at a map and thought I realized it was quite a distance to this part of the world, but now I know just how far it really is! Our status is vague at this writing. Ed Kennedy, chief of bureau here, says he could use both of us here, and that he will so recommend in a cable to our NYC office. As you know, we were slated originally to go to India. Meanwhile, we are taking it easy and catching up on the sleep we lost during the nine-day trip. A reply from NYC should come in the next two or three days. My best guess is that one of us will remain here and the other will go on to India or China. Cairo is quite a city, modern in some respects but ancient in others. Motorists drive with their horns. Nobody apparently believes in screens, and the flies are a source of constant irritation. Don and I got the best 42 : Assignment: India

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room available in the Metropolitan Hotel, but that isn’t saying much—most of the hotels are packed to capacity. We are on the seventh floor, too high for the mosquitoes but not for the flies. Most of the natives speak Arabic and/or French. We have picked up a few words but rely principally on sign language. If I’m stationed here, I’m going to start studying French at once. There are, of course, many things about the trip and Cairo that I can’t describe now. But I’m sure I can say we Americans have a right to be proud of what we’ve been able to do in this part of the world in so short a time. I’m itching for action and hope I won’t have to remain inactive here much longer. I don’t think I’ll have more than three or four days of this, though—in view of present and future developments with which you are probably familiar. I may not be able to find time to write very often, but you know I’ll do the best I can. Love, Toby From the New York Sun, October 12, 1942 (Associated Press article): AMERICANS GET SET IN AFRICA FOR SHOWDOWN WITH ROMMEL Correspondents Find Time and Distance Shoved Aside as U.S. Materials Are Built Into Bases by Don Whitehead and Thoburn Wiant Editor’s Note: Don Whitehead and Thoburn Wiant, formerly members of the Associated Press staff in New York, have joined the Associated Press staff of war correspondents in the Middle East. In their first dispatch, they tell of the United States’ growing power branching from that war theater. CAIRO, Oct. 12 (AP)—America’s armed forces are shoving aside the twin barriers of time and distance to pour a rising tide of men and materials into four vital fronts of the second world war—the Middle East, Russia, India, and China. America is on the move in Africa. That’s what we saw on a 10,000-mile journey by air from the United States to this city in the Valley of the Nile, about 150 miles from the Egyptian desert battlement. Tough, tanned Americans, fresh from battle training and technical schooling back home, are ripping apart jungles and establishing new bases in the blazing heat of the desert in Assignment: India : 43

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preparation for the day when the United Nations forces will move to drive Marshal Rommel’s* armies from North Africa. The movement of men, munitions, tanks, and planes by land, sea, and air has not yet reached flood tide. The desert front is the immediate scene of action, nevertheless United Nations forces are keeping a wary eye cocked on relations between Berlin and Vichy, since there is more than academic interest in Vichy’s attitude. Speed has been the keynote of the American move into Africa. There are many little Americas in Africa—places which have conveniences such as electric lights, running water, showers, ice, and cold beer. These things might be classed by some as unnecessary luxuries, but they are permanent fixtures which demonstrate that the Americans have arrived. At one stop we looked with amazement upon what might have been an encampment somewhere in the United States, yet we were told that its site was wild and totally undeveloped only a few months ago. There were rows of modern barracks, each with electric lights, running water, showers, and good beds, reminding us of college dormitories. Winding through jungles were miles of paved roads. Desks, chairs, tables, and even wastepaper baskets were made of solid mahogany—so plentiful that it was used also in floors, walls, and rafters. The men smoked American cigarettes and there was plenty of American food. The Army does everything to feed the men well, and it is a bit surprising to sit at a mess in a remote camp and be served a good steak, baked beans, green salad, coffee, and cake. We were impressed by the morale of men everywhere we went. We heard occasional griping, but the gripes mostly were those you would hear anywhere along main streets back home. What they want most is action. We found health conditions excellent, every safeguard having been taken on a past, present, and future basis. Before troops moved into any camp, medical officers surveyed the area for miles around and took every known precaution against malaria and other prevalent diseases. Long before a spade was turned, plans for encampments were blueprinted in the United States, but engineers often came up against problems not solved by blueprints. That is where ingenuity played a big *German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel.

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part and when necessary they improvised, often using native methods such as constructing light, airy buildings of native materials which required no priorities. Not a nail was used in some of these structures. Sidewalls, supports, and roof poles were lashed with strong fibers obtained from the jungle. Roofs were thatched. But while they have Americanized their bases as much as possible, with movies for entertainment, most lads still look on Africa as a strange and awesome continent. They were hungry for news from home. These Americans are in Africa to do a job—but they want to get it finished. As one soldier put it, ‘‘I want to stick my feet under Mom’s table as soon as possible and have a mess of fried chicken, hot biscuits, country ham, four eggs sunny side up, and some of her good freckleface gravy. So let’s get going.’’ Excerpt from a letter to my mother: October 16, 1942 I still have no idea of when I’ll be ordered on to India or China. The New York office approved Ed Kennedy’s plan to keep us here at least until Paul Lee* arrives, and there’s no indication when that will be. Don and I have written two stories—on the trip across Africa and Cairo—but have had no other assignments. As a result, we have spent much time in seeing all phases of Cairo, including the Pyramids and the Sphinx. The night after our arrival here, we went to a native restaurant and had some real Egyptian food—most of the places serve French and American dishes. The meat was called kufta, and it was delicious. Later, we went with some Office of War Information men to see ‘‘The Man Who Came to Dinner,’’ a swell show. The theater was sold out a half hour before the picture was scheduled to begin. There were French and Arabic subtitles for the non-English speaking people in the audience. Nearly everyone in Cairo speaks French and/or Arabic. *Paul Lee joined the Associated Press in 1935 and during World War II reported from the battlefields of the Middle East as well as the invasion of Italy. In 1945, he returned to the United States to supervise AP coverage of the Pacific theater from San Francisco. He remained with the AP in San Francisco until 1972, when blindness forced him to retire. Despite not being able to see, Lee became an adviser to San Francisco State University’s journalism department. He died on August 5, 1996, at the age of 85.

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We were interviewed by a French journalist the other day, and his story and a picture of us are slated to appear in Image (a pictorial magazine similar to Parade) soon. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: SOMEWHERE IN LOWER EGYPT October 23, 1942 Tired of having very little to do in Cairo, I talked Ed Kennedy into sending me to this American base—and I’ve had five glorious days here. I’ve never found a finer bunch of boys. They make me glow with pride that I’m an American, too. I’ve been able to dig up six stories, some of which you’ll probably see before you receive this (I haven’t). I’ve made two flights in B-25s. On one, I carried mail and packages to the boys at the desert front. You should have seen their faces light up when I climbed out with my arms full of stuff from back home. Someone yelled ‘‘mail,’’ and they came at me from all directions. On the second flight, we flew in formation, and at times our wing tips were only a few inches apart. What a thrill! In the near future, I hope to be able to go on an operations mission and watch the real stuff splatter the enemy. I feel close to the war now. I’ve talked to many fliers who have fought the enemy from Australia to Lower Egypt. They’re doing a great job. This army is the finest the world has ever seen. Their morale is high and their courage unexcelled. Last Sunday, I had my first break, landing an interview with Brig.Gen. A.C. Strickland, commander of the U.S. Army’s fighter forces in the Mideast. Strickland is a grand guy and gave me plenty of good quotes. I propositioned Kennedy on letting me visit one or more American camps since I was sitting virtually idle in Cairo, so away I went. I had to ride an Egyptian train for several miles and had a compartment all to myself. I landed at this place without knowing a soul, but in a few minutes felt right at home. Two men have been especially nice to me. Major Bill Wilcox of Oskaloosa, Ia., my pilot on the two flights; and Capt. Earle (Preach) Smith of Auburn, Ala. Preach was assigned to see that I got some stories, and he has done a superlative job. You’ve no idea how important a letter from home is until you have been stuck off 10,000 miles from home. One of the pilots here said to 46 : Assignment: India

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me the other day, ‘‘If I were given a choice between a letter from home and $1,000, I’d take the letter from home.’’ And he meant it, too! I’m returning to Cairo with Preach today and turning my stories over to Kennedy. I’m hoping to be able to talk Ed into sending me up to the front for a week or two. There are hundreds of stories in those American camps, and I want to write my share of them. At this writing, it appears the activity will be in this part of the world, rather than in India or China, so I’m hoping to get a desert assignment. The catch is that each news agency is entitled to have only one man at the front, and Frank Martin is up there now for us. I think it’s possible, though, the press arrangements will be changed, giving us at least one other man near the fireworks. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: AMERICAN BOMBER BASE SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDEAST October 29, 1942 I’m with the greatest guys in the world, the guys who bomb hell out of Jerry daily. I wish you could meet them. You’d be as proud of our nationality as I. Their average age is about 23. I actually feel humble around them when I think of what they are doing for me—and you and everyone else in the United States. Their courage is simply amazing, and it is courage because they know full well that the next mission may be their last. They know what they are fighting for and are doggedly determined to fight to the death if necessary. I know something of what they go through because I flew with them on a mission, our target being troop concentrations, tanks, motor transports and whatever else we could hit immediately behind the lines. Ed Kennedy also went on the mission, and we wrote a combined story which you may have seen in the papers by this time. The ack-ack* was very light, so there was little danger. But it was a great thrill, I tell you, when we swooped over the target area and dropped our bombs. I don’t intend to go on many such raids, because it would be pointless. But I did want to go on at least one so I could appreciate something of what these boys experience. *Editor Thomas Parrish on page 4 of The Simon and Schuster Encyclopedia of World War II (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978), describes ack-ack as a British slang term for anti-aircraft fire. The word originated from the World War I British phonetic alphabet where the letter ‘‘a’’ was denoted by the word ‘‘ack.’’

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I’m now on a roving assignment, covering American camps in the Mideast. I’ve already been in two, and it’s more like fun than work. These fellows make me feel at home immediately—and for as long as I wish to stay. Most of my stories have been feature in nature, but most of the spot news is available only through official channels, and I prefer to stay closer than Cairo to the scene of action. Little things mean so much to the boys out in the desert—things like American cigarettes (unobtainable here and 50 cents a package in Cairo), magazines, newspapers, shoe strings, victrola records, shaving lotion, but especially letters from home. Dad reluctantly left the desert when a mix-up over his press credentials forced him to return to Cairo. Nov. 7, 1942 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m back here [in Cairo] after a few glorious days with our forces in the desert. They’re a great bunch of boys and all of us will be eternally indebted to them for what they are doing to the Axis. I had hoped to be able to stay with the Americans indefinitely during the present offensive, but I was ordered back because of a mixup in credentials in which I was an entirely innocent party. Ed Kennedy, chief of bureau here, sent me to the desert and told me to write all I could about the Americans. One day, I went on an operational mission in a bomber over the enemy lines, then learned from General Maxwell’s headquarters I wasn’t supposed to be in the forward area at all, in view of my credentials. Several of my stories were held up, and others went out under the bylines of Paul Lee and Don Whitehead. Very discouraging, but I managed to get two or three of my desert stories cleared after discussing the whole situation with the powers-that-be here. We are trying desperately now to get the credentials situation ironed out satisfactorily, but the red tape is very hard to cut. I really got a bang out of living in the desert. The days are pleasantly warm and the nights cool. Indeed, I slept under at least three blankets and awakened shivering more than once. The desert itself is not as monotonous as you might think. There’s plenty to see—natural, as well as man-made. The food served in the American camps is tops, but there is very little in the way of entertainment. Magazines three or four 48 : Assignment: India

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months old are in great demand. Victrola records are played over and over until they are virtually worn out. There’s little in the way of entertainment available from short-wave radio. Most of all, the boys love to get letters from home, and they read them until they fall apart. American cigarettes are impossible to get in the desert—where are those ‘‘smokes for Yanks’’ we used to hear so much about? I’m anxious for some news about Howard. I know that he’s doing all right wherever he is because he has what it takes. He’s in a spot to do a world of good—I know, after seeing what the chaplains are doing in the desert. Incidentally, one chaplain told me his boys had no worries except those caused by news in letters from home. He said their morale was tops, and I know he’s not exaggerating. They are full of get-up-andgo, yearning constantly for action. They want to finish off this war as soon as possible and return to God’s country. One fellow told me, ‘‘I’ll never gripe about anything, if I ever get back home again.’’ That’s the way I feel, too. I’m not at all satisfied about the way things have worked out for me so far, in view of the credentials mixup, but I’m determined to see the job through and produce the best I can. Believe me, though, I’ll be glad to have Betts with me once again. I realize this arrangement was the best we could work out at this time, but I hope no separations will be necessary after this war. I expect to leave in a day or so on an interesting assignment away from the front, returning to [censored] in a week or ten days. Watch the bylines (if any!) and you’ll know what I’m doing. Love, Toby P.S. Happy Birthday, Dad! Despite his frustration at the tedious credentialing process, my father’s determined attitude gave him strength to face what was ahead.

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.. .. .. c h a p t e r fiv e .. ........................................................... .. .. .. . .. a bird’s-eye view—at last, .. .. .. .

nov.–dec. 1942

Long before you receive this, you should know I went on an operational mission and thoroughly enjoyed watching thousands of pounds of bombs crash into Japanese installations. The group which I accompanied was the largest ever to hit a single target in the China-Burma-India theater, and our mission was one of the longest in the history of World War II. toby wiant, December 28, 1942 My father remained in Cairo longer than he expected. While he waited for full accreditation, the Allies’ amphibious landing in North Africa (code name Operation Torch) on November 8, 1942, provided good story material. From the Indianapolis News, November 9, 1942 (Associated Press article): U.S. GENERAL SEES DRIVE INTO REICH Tells Newly Arrived Troops in Egypt African Victory Is ‘‘Just the Start’’ by Thoburn Wiant Associated Press Correspondent CAIRO, Egypt, Nov. 9 (AP)—Major General Russell L. Maxwell, commander of American troops in Egypt, told newly arrived soldiers Saturday that the smashing of the Axis armies in Africa is just the beginning of an operation which will ‘‘go to the heart of Germany.’’ The victory in the western desert ‘‘is only the start,’’ he said. ‘‘It marks, in no uncertain terms, the turning point in the destinies of the United Nations. ‘‘But we cannot rest until every Axis soldier has been killed or banished from Africa; until every plane in the Mediterranean skies is

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an Allied plane; every ship on its waters an Allied ship—and until we strike with irresistible force at Italy and to the heart of Germany.’’ General Maxwell spoke from a high platform in an open field. Mingled with the soldiers who heard him was a large contingent of American nurses. ‘‘Americans have played a large part in this great battle,’’ the general said. ‘‘Again and again they have taken to the air, bombing, strafing, fighting, destroying with magnificent courage. ‘‘They could not do what they have done and what they are doing without the tireless devotion to duty of those who, without rest, have supported them on the ground. ‘‘Not all of us can come to close grips with the enemy. The front line is not the only test of courage. All of you are soldiers at war. The final victory will depend on how well each of you remembers his duty during every waking hour.’’ Maxwell paid high tribute to the British. ‘‘They have made the sacrifices,’’ he said. ‘‘Let us not forget how much we and all other United Nations have gained as a consequence of what they have done. No one can say for how many years the war would have gone on if Egypt had fallen to the Axis.’’ Richard G. Casey, British minister of state in the Middle East, also welcomed the newcomers, saying: ‘‘We need your assistance in fighting against our common enemy. By cooperating closely, we will make a real contribution toward winning the war.’’ Alexander Kirk, United States ambassador to Egypt, was on the platform, but did not speak. From the Harlan Daily Enterprise, November 12, 1942 (Associated Press article): WAR CORRESPONDENTS FIND CAIRO CITY OF GAIETY WITH WAR AT DOORS by Toby Wiant and Don Whitehead CAIRO, Nov. 12 (AP)—Incredible Cairo is living in the valley of the shadow of war, trying desperately to be gay and normal, succeeding only in being gay. There’s a note of hysteria in the babble of voices, the constant blatting of automobile horns, the restless surge of humanity through the streets. A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last : 51

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We arrived in this ancient city after a 10,000-mile trip from New York expecting to find a grim, gloomy citadel bristling with guns and subdued by the nearness of Rommel’s armies. Instead, we found a never-never land of confused unreality where most of the people are trying to forget or ignore the war—and doing very well except for the suppressed excitement which can be felt with electric awareness. The strange contrasts of Cairo are confusing to the newcomer. The skyline is western, but the heart of Cairo is of the east. And the growing population of British and American doesn’t alter the fact that Cairo belongs to Egypt. We are only minutes by air from the desert battleground, and yet we have no feeling of being close to the actual fighting. There is little to remind us that a war is near. That’s because the people seem so unconcerned. They don’t talk much about the war. They don’t rush to buy newspapers containing the latest communique´s. They appear more interested in the boom that has swept Cairo. Cabarets and bars are crowded, mostly with uniformed men celebrating a few hours leave or just celebrating. They have to drink fast for alcoholic beverages are served only from 12:30 to 2 p.m. and from 6 to 10. You’re fortunate to find a seat in a bar. Movie houses are packed. One theater showing ‘‘The Man Who Came to Dinner’’ was sold out the other night long before the picture was scheduled to begin. Hotels are crammed with lucky people of many nationalities—lucky because they were able to find a room. It takes pull to get a room on short notice. Apartments are out of reach of persons of ordinary means, and profiteers are having a field day. Since the war began, Cairo’s population has doubled. Living costs have soared and still are going up. Simple meals cost $1.50. Beer is 35 cents a bottle and whisky at least 40 cents a drink. Soft drinks cost as much as beer and whisky. American cigarettes sell for 50 cents a pack. There are shortages of rice, corn, and wheat. No meat can be bought three days a week. Kerosene and gasoline are rationed, and automobile tires are as scarce as they are in the United States. A black market, where virtually everything can be bought by paying a premium, is beginning to flourish. 52 : A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last

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At night, it’s an adventure in the realm of involuntary manslaughter to ride through Cairo’s blackout. Dim blue lights cast an eerie glow through which the taxis plunge without slackening speed. Every minute you expect to see pedestrians bowled over, but somehow they escape with a last-minute leap for safety. Thick cement barricades five to 10 feet high have been built before some store and cafe´ entrances to protect customers from flying debris or shell fragments, should Jerry bomb Cairo seriously. Cairo is both primitive and modern. Horse-drawn cabs, taxis of forgotten vintage, military motor lorries, sleek limousines, and assdrawn carts flow through the streets in strange procession. Robed Arabs and veiled Moslem women walk side by side with creations that might have come from Bond Street and Fifth Avenue. From one doorway comes the quavering wail of Egyptian music and from another the hot rhythm of American jive. On the edge of the desert, a motor caravan whirls in a cloud of dust past a camel caravan. There is dirt, ugliness, and poverty alongside cleanliness, beauty, and wealth. There still is a brisk business in tourist trade even if most of the tourists are in uniform. Soldiers on leave from the desert wander through the bazaars and haggle over prices. At the edge of the city where the desert meets the green of the Nile Valley, children clamor about the bases of the pyramids. Only a few of Cairo’s modern buildings have sandbags for bomb protection, but the Sphinx is up to its ear in them. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: CAIRO, EGYPT November 13, 1942 Red tape involving full accreditation has held me in Cairo for several days with very little to do, but now it appears I’ll be able to get into production in the near future. Don just received his full accreditation after a month of effort and has gone to the desert to view the actual cleanup of Rommel’s remnants. Kennedy also is there with another branch of the service and has been writing some smash stuff. It’s quite possible I may go on to India, inasmuch as Preston Grover has been suffering from a recurrence of malaria and Bill McGaffin has been ill from a complication of diseases. There isn’t much doing in A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last : 53

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India at the moment, but something will break there eventually, and I would enjoy being in on the show. I don’t have any way of knowing how many of my stories about the Americans in the desert got into the papers in the States, but I certainly had a wonderful time interviewing and living with those fellows from all over the country. Since I left them, they have moved many miles to the west, and I find myself wondering how they are getting along. One of the fellows, Lt. Lyman Middleditch, was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross recently, a recognition he certainly deserved. He singlehandedly shot down three ME109s,* a feat that no other American has been able to accomplish to date, as far as I know. There are many others deserving of high recognition, such as Capt. Buck Bilby, who has knocked off two ME109s and an assortment of other enemy planes, but their turn is coming. We knew the big push was coming but had no idea our forces would run the rats out of Egypt so quickly. The landings of Americans in North Africa electrified all of us here. Cairo is one of the hardest places to get anything done in existence. For example, I get up between 7 and 8 a.m. Paul and I have breakfast, which consumes at least an hour because of the slow service. By then, it’s 9:30 to 10 a.m. The news centers are far apart, and I lose much time in taxis, going from place to place. I’m lucky if I can see more than two people before 11:30 a.m., when a press conference is held daily. The press conference takes from one to two hours, and then it’s time for lunch. No one works in Cairo between 1 and 3 p.m.—the siesta period daily. All of the stores close during those hours, and no one (except an occasional American) can be found in the offices. Sometimes I can talk to six persons between 3 p.m. and 7:30 p.m., but usually three are all I can manage. Then it’s time for the evening press conference, which consumes another hour. Dinner always takes two to three hours, due principally to what must be the slowest service in the world. I order something, and the waiter has to confer with about six others before he sends his memo to the kitchen. I wait and wait and wait. Meanwhile, I ask for water a half dozen times, which another waiter finally brings. I wait and wait and wait for the food, which finally appears just as I’m about to die of starvation. It isn’t what I ordered, *Messerschmitt Bf 109, a German fighter plane.

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but I’m so hungry I would eat anything. Prices are simply terrific here in Cairo. I had to pay 50 piastres (nearly $2) for a flashlight that wouldn’t cost more than 50 cents in Indiana. Cigarettes bring 50 cents a pack, which slays me. I’ve tried smoking native brands, but find they discolor my teeth rapidly. I can’t get a good meal for less than $1.25—and so on. The inability to get things done in Cairo and my father’s ‘‘Okay, what’s next?’’ approach to life didn’t mix well. CAIRO, EGYPT November 23, 1942 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m still immobilized and out of production here in Cairo, but it now appears I’ll be able to catch up with the war in the next few days. We’ve been informed the credentials system is about to be changed so that any legitimate newsman, such as I, will be permitted to operate with the American forces, at least. This change is being affected by the new command, which is distinctly different from the old. The new public relations officer told me he greatly regretted that I had not been permitted to continue with the Americans, and that he would do everything possible to make it up to me for lost time. Of course, that was music to my ears because I was disappointed (to put it mildly) that I could not continue with the Americans as they advanced into Libya. There’s much more to the story, but those details can’t be discussed here for reasons which you’ll understand. My present chief of bureau, Ed Kennedy, returned from the desert when he heard I wasn’t permitted to continue on with the American fliers and personally went to bat for me. His efforts are slowly producing results, praise be! He told me he would give me several choice assignments soon to compensate—in part, at least—for the time I’ve lost here waiting for the credentials situation to be cleared up. Several other newsmen have been in the same boat with me, and they, too, have had to endure similar periods of enforced idleness. But our day is coming, and we’ll probably get all of the action we want before this war is over. There’s a possibility that I may be sent on to India or China in the next two or three weeks. Two more of our men—Clyde Farnsworth and A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last : 55

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George Tucker*—have just arrived, and we now have more men than there is work. One of us is supposed to go to Russia, two to India, and one to China. Farnsworth probably will go to Russia, but the other assignments have not been made to date. I told Kennedy I didn’t care where I was sent, as long as I could find some action. This particular theater is one of the world’s most important, and I’m not at all anxious to leave, if I can line up the proper credentials. I received two letters in two days from Betts last week, and it goes without saying that I was thrilled to hear from her. She’s absolute tops, and I miss her very much. I’ll be the happiest man in the world when we are back together again, anywhere. We’ve both taken a philosophical view of this temporary situation and believe it was the best course under the circumstances. She’s being a grand soldier in every way. I miss you both and reminisce frequently about our days in Indiana. But this war won’t last forever, and we’ll probably be seeing each other sooner than we think. The United Nations seem to have the enemy on the run throughout the world, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the fighting—in this part of the globe, at least—ceased by 1944. The Americans and the British are cleaning up Africa quickly, but, of course, the toughest job lies ahead. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind about the outcome, after seeing what has been done here. Love, Toby In December Dad got his wish for a frontline assignment when he was transferred to New Delhi. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: NEW DELHI, INDIA Dec. 3, 1942 I arrived in New Delhi two days ago—disgustingly safe and healthy—and have spent the intervening time getting settled and ready for whatever Preston Grover wishes me to do. Our takeoff from Cairo was scheduled for two hours before sunrise, so I didn’t dare to go to sleep that night because I couldn’t trust the Metropolitan to wake me in time. I kept Paul Lee up until 1:30 a.m., *George Tucker was an AP Broadway columnist before the war began. According to AP journalist Dan De Luce, Tucker suffered a serious head injury in a 1944 plane accident in Algiers.

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then read and cleaned up to kill the remaining wee hours. I barely made the grade and went to sleep on the station wagon that took us to the British Airways dock on the Nile. Heavy fog delayed our takeoff for an hour and a half, during which time I caught a few more winks. A launch finally took us to the four-motored flying boat, which was nearly as big as the Clipper on which I crossed the Atlantic. She was stripped down to bare essentials, but still had comfortable reclining seats—no heat, however, and I had to don my overcoat and bundle up in three blankets to keep from freezing. There were only two passengers besides myself during the first leg, so we had the run of the flying boat. Shortly after daybreak, we passed Hebron, Jerusalem, and Bethlehem, all of which I’d like to visit someday, and landed on the Dead Sea not long afterwards. It was so hot by that time I had to shed everything but shirt, slacks, and shoes. Most of our flying that first day was over land. From Miami to Natal two months ago, I flew hundreds of miles over water in a land plane, and I did exactly the opposite on this trip. We landed in Iraq early in the afternoon and several passengers climbed aboard. We started to take off again, but a valve in one of the motors stuck, and we had to return. We were advised repairs would require only a short time, but we wound up staying all night in the Iraquian sticks. I went to bed hungry that night because there wasn’t enough food available to feed our crowd adequately. That crowd certainly was cosmopolitan—American, British, Indian, Armenian, Syrian, and Greek. I was awakened in the wee hours the next morning, and we took off in the dark, landing in Iran for a big breakfast in a fine hotel on the waterfront. It was beastly cold again, and I had only one blanket instead of three. I managed to keep the old corpuscles in motion by walking back and forth in the flying boat several times. Our next stop was in Saudi Arabia, where several Arabs—including an Arabian woman who appeared at least 70 years old—joined our League of Nations. I thought the old woman would fold long before she reached her destination, but she stood the trip and the cold better than some of the others. We landed at an eastern India port late that night, still cold and ravenously hungry. After going through customs and being assigned to our rooms in a so-so hotel, we had a late dinner—so late it was nearly a breakfast. I was delayed a day in that town but didn’t mind the layover because it gave me a chance to see what the Americans were doing there. A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last : 57

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The following morning, I was awakened hours before daylight, and we took off in the dark again. I again went through that freezing routine, but discovered a thermos jug full of coffee in the galley—and drank much more than my share of it. I was impressed, when it became light enough to see, by irrigation projects beneath us. There were countless dams and dikes, back of which were huge lakes of water. Surrounding each lake were fields of grain. The land out of reach of the water was barren, nothing but desert waste. We landed at Gwalior, about 150 miles from Delhi, in midmorning and had to mark time until late afternoon before the train arrived. The train was an hour and a half behind schedule, but I was informed that was not at all unusual. Indian trains don’t have corridors and are made up of compartments, which can be entered only from the outside. Our train was nearly full, but two British officers with whom I had been flying found a compartment occupied only by a British lieutenant-colonel. I expected him to beef about our intrusion, but he turned out to be a good sport and participated in an interesting discussion about India and the war that lasted until we reached Delhi some six hours later. We had a good dinner on the train but had to wait until the train stopped to get up to the dining car. One of the British officers and I taxied to the Cecil Hotel, and I found Bill McGaffin standing on the porch. I recognized him from his pictures back in the NYC files. He said Grover was on a trip to the Northeast and wouldn’t return for two or three weeks. Bill declared I must stay with him in the suite occupied by him and Grover—at least until Grover returned. The Cecil is a gorgeous place, with swimming pool, tennis courts, and flower gardens everywhere (flowers bloom here the year around, I’m told). It reminds me of one of the better country clubs back in the States. The McGaffin-Grover suite makes Kennedy’s establishment in Cairo look like a stable in comparison. They have a living room (with fireplace, radio, Victrola), large bedroom (big enough for three beds in an emergency), dressing room, and bathroom. The living room is tastefully furnished and also serves as the AP office. The Cecil is in old Delhi, about seven miles from New Delhi, which is composed mostly of government buildings. The morning after my arrival (yesterday), I was awakened by Bill’s bearer, or personal servant, who does everything around the place for about $15 a month. When I got my eyes open, I saw a tray of tea, milk, 58 : A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last

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sugar, and cookies beside my bed—a charming custom of the country, I learned. (You see what you’re in for when I return home!) I went into the bathroom and discovered the bearer had arranged all of my toilet articles neatly. When I came out, I found he had laid out my clothes and shined my shoes. And they warned me in NYC of the hardships war correspondents had to undergo! I spent most of yesterday and today meeting Army and Air Force officers, learning how news is handled here and getting winter uniforms. The weather is warmish in daytime but chilly at night—too chilly for the drill uniforms I obtained in Cairo. I received my American credentials today* and probably will be accredited to the British in the next two or three days. I don’t know where Grover will want me to work, but I’m hoping I’ll land up near the Burma border. From the Indianapolis News, December 5, 1942 (Associated Press article): OUR PLANES SCORE HEAVILY IN BURMA Thailand Bases Also Hard Hit in November Raids—5 Ships Sunk by Thoburn Wiant New Delhi, Dec. 4 (Delayed) (AP)—Although the 10th United States Air Force is still ‘‘in knee pants’’ compared with American air units in other war theaters, it did a man-sized job in November, Brigadier General Clayton L. Bissell said today. Bissell, who commands the Unites States air forces in India and China, said his men had made twenty-one heavy raids on Japanese installations during the month, including ten on targets in Burma and Thailand in which 150 tons of bombs were dropped. During the same period not one Japanese bomb fell on this side of the India-Burma border, Bissell said, adding with a smile: ‘‘Apparently they were too busy in other areas.’’ The single foray which the Japanese attempted was turned back thirty miles from the nearest American base, he said. ‘‘We were able to hurt enemy shipping painfully,’’ Bissell asserted, declaring that American flyers had sunk five Japanese ships of from 2,000 to 12,000 tons displacement. In addition two 6,000-ton cargo ships and two naval auxiliaries were severely damaged. *See photo section.

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The China air task force, Bissell said, destroyed thirty-nine Japanese planes during November and probably destroyed or damaged thirteen more. He disclosed that only two American pilots had been lost in China and that the India task force had lost but one heavy bomber. Only three American fighters were reported damaged. The Japanese made three attacks on American air bases in China during November, but damage was confined to bomb craters in runways, Bissell said. Happy to be in India’s more welcoming environment, my father expressed his distaste for the bureaucratic barriers he’d faced in Cairo. Dec. 5, 1942 Dear Mom and Dad: This is my fifth day in India, and I believe I’m going to enjoy working here. The people with whom I have to deal are friendly and cooperative—certainly a welcome change from Egypt, where all newsmen have to battle for everything. Frankly, I’m happy that NYC transferred me to Delhi. I disliked Cairo, principally because of the barriers built by the U.S. Army. Just before I left, a new group of officers took over, and one high personage told me he was going to see that most of the barriers were knocked down. He added, in strict confidence, that he had been sent out from Washington especially to ‘‘clean up this mess,’’ and that nothing was going to stop him from doing it. Love, Toby—Merry Christmas! After two weeks in New Delhi, Dad described to his parents his relatively luxurious life there. INDIA Dec. 15, 1942 Dear Mom and Dad: There’s very little activity in this part of the world, as you can tell from the headlines in your newspapers. I’ve been in India 15 days, but have written only five or six stories—certainly a change from working conditions back in the States. However, the lull is giving me an opportunity to study India and get acquainted with people who doubtless will be valuable as news sources when this theater opens up again. I’m now holding the fort here alone, Preston Grover (the chief of bureau) being in the Northeast and Bill McGaffin having gone to 60 : A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last

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Bombay on a business trip. Both probably will return by this weekend. McGaffin is one of the finest fellows I’ve ever been associated with, and I understand Grover is tops, too (I’ve never met Grover, you know, but have read his stuff for years). My routine is something like this: I get up usually at 7 a.m.—in the dark, because the sun doesn’t rise here until 8–8:30 a.m. The bearer (servant) always has a tray of tea, cookies, and bananas beside my bed, and I dispose of all that before getting dressed. I eat breakfast about 9 a.m. at the hotel, and you should see the menus! Everything from fruit juice to fish, eight to ten selections as a rule. The cost is the same, regardless of the quantity I stow away, so you’ll understand the temptations are great. I usually leave for [censored] between 9:30 and 10 a.m. The Cecil Hotel is seven miles from the nearest news source, and the offices I visit are scattered all over town. Consequently, my taxicab bills are terrific—$6 to $8 daily. I make two rounds each day, returning to the hotel in time for dinner. In the evenings, I listen to the radio, read, or talk to some of the fine people who live at the Cecil. I’ve been away from the States only two and a half months, but it seems twice that long. I’ll have to admit that I’ve gone through some periods of homesickness (which was to be expected, I suppose). I certainly miss you both and Betts, and I hope that it won’t be too many months before we can be back together again. Nothing seems as good as home and the United States when a fella is stuck off in the opposite side of the world. I know I’m going to appreciate my home and friends a lot more as a result of this experience. I don’t know what my assignment will be, but McGaffin said Grover might send me to the Northeast. I really don’t care where I go, as long as there’s some work to do. Mom, this letter will probably reach you around the first of the year, so happy birthday! I wish I could be with you for the celebration—and the cake—but [censored] is a long ways from Pittsburgh. You take care of Mom for me, Dad! I must leave now for [censored], so until next time . . . Love, Toby The ‘‘Censored’’ stamp appeared more frequently on my father’s letters. A doctoral dissertation by Mary Sue Mander on the American war correspondent as a vital link between distant battlefields and home describes censorship during A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last : 61

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World War II and why correspondents’ stories and personal mail were censored.* According to Mander, mandatory peripheral censorship included communications coming in to or going out of the continental United States, and kept the enemy from finding out valuable information. Voluntary domestic censorship of the press and radio prohibited critical details of troop locations, size, and destinations; specific aspects of weather; and information from correspondents’ field interviews and letters home. This censorship focused only on questionable issues of wartime security—never on editorial opinions. Censorship at the source was the responsibility of the military in each war theater and involved public relations officers (PROs) whose job description was the ‘‘welfare and feeding of the correspondents.’’† My father was frustrated with the slow process of sending stories back to the AP’s New York office. Mander points out that press censors working in the battlefield areas would review a reporter’s story copy and if it met with their approval, the reporter then radioed the copy to London. If the volume of copy was too large, it traveled to London by plane or speedboat. With the Allies’ advance into France, more censors and better censorship facilities were set up there.‡ No matter how many censors stood in his way, getting the real story to the people back home was my father’s goal. From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, December 21, 1942 (Associated Press article): BRITISH PUSH FARTHER IN BURMA No Resistance Offered by Japs; Akyab Looms As First Objective by Thoburn Wiant, Associated Press Staff Writer NEW DELHI, India Dec. 20 (AP)—British troops were officially reported advancing at a point less than 60 miles from Akyab tonight in the continuing ‘‘piecemeal invasion’’ of Burma, which must be freed of the enemy to give effective aid to China’s fighting millions. Surprisingly, the communication said, ‘‘no contact was made with the enemy.’’ Presumably the Japanese were falling back on Akyab, a *Mary Sue Mander, ‘‘Pen and Sword: A Cultural History of the American War Correspondent 1895–1945’’ (Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois at Urbana–Champaign, 1979). †Ibid., 162–164. ‡Ibid., 166.

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strategic port city on the eastern side of the Bay of Bengal, as the British pushed southward. The Japanese dropped bombs on Calcutta tonight for the first time in the war. The air raid warnings sounded at 10:17 p.m. and were in force approximately two hours, but the high-flying planes were over the city only about 30 minutes. ‘‘Reports so far indicate that the few bombs dropped were widely dispersed,’’ the communique´ said. ‘‘Civilian casualties were extremely light and damage was slight. There were no military casualties. No damage was caused to military installations.’’ Fighter planes cooperating with the ground troops who now have negotiated more than 40 miles of swamp and jungle country in their southward thrust flew ahead to shoot up Japanese-held buildings and installations in the Akyab area and along the Mayu River. Big bombers also planted explosives on buildings and runways at the enemy’s Toungoo airdrome 250 miles southeast of Akyab. Gen. Sir Archibald P. Wavell’s* re-equipped Indian army began its offensive several days ago after extensive maneuvers designed to test the endurance of the troops, but informed quarters here were quick to warn against undue optimism arising over the developments. ‘‘We want to warn you not to go out on a limb about this operation,’’ these quarters said. They said the campaign was not a major effort to retake Burma, but of course could be considered as the beginning of a piecemeal strategy with the larger goal always in mind. (Chinese sources in Chungking, however, according to United Press, were hailing the British advance as the first step in the promised offensive to reopen the Burma Road. A Chungking military authority was quoted as saying Chinese forces were ‘‘ready to synchronize action in a counter-attack on Burma.’’) *General Archibald Wavell, a British field marshal who grew up in India, commanded the British Army troops in the Middle East during the early years of World War II. In February 1942 he returned to India as Commander-in-Chief, India, where he was responsible for Burma’s defense against the Japanese, who were quickly gaining ground there. In September, Wavell ordered the British Eastern Army to the Arakan front in Burma as an offensive tactic against the Japanese, but because of poor roads the campaign to capture Akyab Island (a port with an all-weather airfield) was delayed until mid-December 1942. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/Wavell (accessed May 23, 2010).

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General Wavell has perhaps 1,000,000 men under his Indian command, but there was no way of telling the size of the present expedition. Informed quarters did not attempt to estimate the number of troops employed, nor to disclose the scope of Allied plans. The terrain problems involved in Burma are stupendous. There were several apparent reasons for the thrust. Possession of Akyab would give the Allies an air base only 350 miles from Rangoon, which must be seized eventually if the Burma Road to China is to be reopened and equipment sped to that United Nations ally. The capture of Akyab also would shorten the present Allied air route to China, and would dislodge the Japanese from a base only 340 air miles across the Bay of Bengal from the big Indian city of Calcutta. The Rangoon-Mandalay railway also would be only 200 miles from Allied bombers operating from Akyab. Even without resistance, the British army’s progress will be slow, informed sources here said. They pointed out that dozens of rivers are spread over the alluvial plains on the eastern side of the Bay of Bengal. These combined with jungle and mangrove swamps impede the movements of troops in a vast land where roads are almost non-existent and available trails do not lend themselves to mechanized warfare. Rugged mountains stand between the Akyab area and the RangoonMandalay-Lashio communication route to China. Excerpt from a letter to my mother—location censored: Dec. 22, 1942 Within a few hours, I’ll be on my way to the Northeast, where I hope to remain several weeks and have a ringside seat for some action. My itinerary is indefinite, purely dependent upon developments, and my ability to travel from one place to another. I hold no illusions about writing much page-one news, although one can never tell. But, at any rate, I’ll become acquainted with a fascinating section of this theater and will make many contacts with people who eventually should be very much in the news. I can’t tell you exactly where I’m going, but they are places which appear frequently in the communique´s. We’ve decided to shift our office to the Imperial Hotel because it is centrally located. The Cecil is much superior, with its country club atmosphere, but too far from our news sources. We’ll be able to save at least a third on our taxicab bills, which were running as much as $10 64 : A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last

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per day for each of us. McGaffin moved into the Imperial today, but I’m staying on at the Cecil until my departure. Grover still is away and we’re holding the Cecil apartment pending his return. McGaffin and Grover would have shifted to the Imperial long before this, if they had been able to get a room. It’s amazing how one comes to depend on these bearers, who work for $15 to $20 a month—full time! I still don’t have a regular bearer but have been using Grover’s. However, Grover’s bearer, Sultan, was ill four days last week, and I was lost. He does everything he’s told to do, even dresses me sometimes! He sews on buttons, darns socks, straightens the room, runs errands, polishes shoes, keeps pants and ties pressed, builds the fire—even plays the victrola at my direction! How I’m going to be spoiled! Ain’t being a war correspondent in [censored] tough? However, I will shift for myself on this trip because most of my traveling will be on planes. If I were traveling by train, a bearer could go along—for a nominal sum—and do all the dirty work. Even privates have bearers here. Two or three will chip in and have one bearer do their personal chores. Whatta life! At the end of the letter my mother had typed, ‘‘more—censored by Mrs. Wiant.’’ On Christmas Day 1942, Associated Press General Manager Kent Cooper sent a Christmas ‘‘card’’ to all AP war correspondents in a radio broadcast transmitted to each Allied nation’s theater of war. Cooper praised the reporters for their excellent work and acknowledged the important role their stories played in the lives of Americans waiting at home for the latest news. From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, December 25, 1942 (Associated Press article, no byline): STAFF WRITERS AT FRONT ARE ACCLAIMED Christmas Greetings Carry Praise For Task Well Done New York, Dec. 24—(AP)—Associated Press war correspondents around the world were sent Christmas greetings today by General Manager Kent Cooper, who told them by radio that their stories ‘‘have put iron into the veins of a fighting people.’’ Cooper said the correspondents ‘‘have the toughest, most dangerous—yet the most cherished jobs in AP’’ and asserted they had ‘‘broken down the great bugaboo of those who stay at home—no news.’’ A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last : 65

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The broadcast was beamed to every Allied nations’ theater of war and was carried over NBC’s short-wave transmission stations WRCA, WNBI, WCW, WGEO, WBOS, WGEA and WRUW. Cooper included a brief message in Spanish to newspapermen of La Prensa Asociada, AP subsidiary, in Latin America. The general manager’s greetings to the correspondents, many of them reporting from the front lines this week, also carried congratulatory messages from many newspaper members of the Associated Press throughout the United States. ‘‘Some of you have been gone a long time and may not know how the rest of us feel about you,’’ Cooper said. ‘‘Others, who have been sent abroad more recently, know that they have joined an illustrious company and they can be proud that they were picked from a long list of AP men who want to be war correspondents. ‘‘Never before has a war been so thoroughly, so truthfully and so colorfully reported on all fronts as it is being done today—every day—by men who share the same risks and the experiences of the fighters in the front lines, and tell the world about them. ‘‘Dispatches from the battle front are doing many things that you may not realize. ‘‘Your stories are breaking down the fearful suspense of waiting mothers. They have put iron into the veins of a fighting people. The morale of entire communities has been raised by your words of how their husbands and sons have fought gallantly, or even how they have died bravely. ‘‘You have broken down the great bugaboo of those who stay at home—no news. ‘‘I certainly do wish you all the best and happiest Christmas that is possible under the circumstances in which you find yourselves. I hope what I have said will convince you that you are in our thoughts and in our hearts. Perhaps that will help. I hope so.’’ From the Indianapolis Star, December 30, 1942 (Associated Press article): HOOSIER TELLS HOW BIG U.S. BOMBERS GAVE BANGKOK TASTE OF FUTURE RAIDS by Thoburn Wiant (Thoburn Wiant, who sent this dispatch to the Associated Press, is a former Indianapolis newspaperman.—Editor’s note.) 66 : A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last

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WITH UNITED STATES BOMBERS OVER BANGKOK, Dec. 26 (Delayed)—Young American airmen gave the Japanese a good taste tonight of what they can expect when the United Nations take over airports closer to the enemy’s home islands. Bangkok was made the example. The largest force of United States heavy bombers ever to attack a single target in the China-Burma-India war theater attacked the Japanese-occupied capitol of Thailand and poured high explosives on the naval dockyard, main railroad station, the arsenal, and the Commaung airdrome in the Bangkok area. The round-trip flight was one of the longest air missions of the war. I had a bird’s-eye view of thousands of pounds of bombs blasting the target with devastating effect. One of five bull’s-eye hits on the arsenal lit up the whole countryside and even illuminated the attacking bomber high above. This was the second United States heavy bomber raid on Bangkok. The first was on Thanksgiving Day, when a smaller force knocked out the electrical system, damaged underground oil pipelines, and hit an important refinery. From what I could see, this raid was even more successful. A few searchlights swung frantically across the skies over Bangkok, but could not locate the American bombers. The exact number of bombers on the mission must remain a secret. Neither may it be told exactly how far they flew, but I can say the total distance was more than a one-way trip from New York to San Francisco (2,568 miles). The nine members of the crew of the bomber in which I flew represented nine states. Dad did his part to make sure that the China-Burma-India front, often referred to as ‘‘The Forgotten War’’ because of the focus on the European and Pacific fronts, would not be forgotten. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: ENROUTE TO NORTHEAST Dec. 28, 1942 Long before you receive this, you should know I went on an operational mission and thoroughly enjoyed watching thousands of pounds of bombs crash into Japanese installations. The group which I accompanied was the largest ever to hit a single target in the China-BurmaIndia theater, and our mission was one of the longest in the history of A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last : 67

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World War II. I went on the mission more or less on the spur of the moment. Darrell Berrigan of UP [United Press] and I were enroute to the Northeast, but had to lay over at this place awaiting plane transportation. We heard of the mission and decided to go along rather than sit idle here. I’m certainly glad I was in on that show, my first night mission. Although we found virtually no resistance, it was thrilling to watch the bombs hit the target with a terrific flash. One bomb which crashed into an arsenal set off a flash that even lighted the attacking plane far above. There is a logjam of people here awaiting rides to the same place we are going, but we hope to get away in a day or so. Meanwhile, there’s nothing much to do except visit with the men at the Officers Club and read anything I can get my hands on, mostly old magazines and newspapers. My plans still are more or less indefinite. Preston Grover, whom I haven’t met yet, assigned me to familiarize myself with the Northeast, of course picking up stories wherever I could find them. NYC previously had ordered us to hold down our volume as much as possible, in view of the crush of war news pouring in from the bigleague theaters, so anything I’ll write will have to be hot—such as that raid story. Berrigan and I arrived at this place Christmas Eve and had to stay in quarters several miles from the main center. Consequently, our Christmas Eve was very dull—and Christmas Day wasn’t much better. Believe me, I certainly was homesick then, more so than ever. We didn’t get any gifts, of course, and didn’t even see a Christmas tree. I hope next Christmas will be different. I don’t want to have to put in another one like this. We had our Christmas dinner at 9 p.m., but the food was mediocre and cold. We had turkey, but only scraps of turkey. I couldn’t help but think about those 14-pounders you used to turn out, with all the trimmings! Business seems to be picking up in this theater, as you’ve doubtless noticed from the communique´s and what few stories we’ve written, but I believe the big show is quite some time away. Meanwhile, I hope to do considerable traveling to the right places, so I’ll be all set when the big fireworks go off. You’ll probably see some of Berrigan’s stories from time to time, so I’ll tell you a little about him. He’s a swell guy, about 30, and a veteran foreign correspondent for UP. He has been out in this part of the world 68 : A Bird’s-Eye View—At Last

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for more than four years—Japan, Singapore, Thailand, Burma, and India. He helped cover the Burma route last year, escaping from Rangoon only a few hours before the Japs took over. He drove with Dan DeLuce* (AP’s staffer) out of Burma in a jeep, winding up in Calcutta in bad physical condition. As you know, DeLuce (now in the States) became seriously ill, lost 30 pounds, and finally had to return to the States. Berrigan and I have become close friends, but we still try to beat each other when we’re on a story—and that’s the way it should be. I’m going to have to break this off now, because a plane has arrived and it seems probable we’ll be able to get away. Through a contact at the AP in 1987, I discovered that Dan De Luce lived in a neighboring town, and I arranged to meet with him. Dan and I, along with his wife, Alma, spent a rewarding day together, with Dan filling in many of the gaps in my research—including reading my original manuscript and making notes in the margins. Another of my father’s AP friends, Paul Lee, lived in the San Francisco area. Although Paul was legally blind by then and had to type short messages on keys he couldn’t see, he and I exchanged frequent letters. His reminiscences helped piece together a clearer picture of wartime life. In the spring of 1987, Paul shared with me the story behind my father’s accreditation snafu. April 28, 1987 Dear Susan, I am alone and growing painfully blind, so please excuse typing errors. I was transferred from AP Columbus, O., bureau to NY city desk in 1939. When Hitler and Stalin invaded Poland, I was ‘‘borrowed’’ by the foreign desk. Toby Wiant arrived in NY a little later. I think he also was on the city desk. At any rate, he and I became good friends. In 1942, I was being prepared to go overseas. Toby decided that he would like similar duty, and quizzed me on what was involved. I was sent to London and then to Cairo, Egypt. *AP correspondent Dan De Luce was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1944 for international reporting he did in 1943; he managed to slip into Yugoslavia and interview the officers of a partisan brigade. Four of the five stories he wrote were released. As De Luce put it, ‘‘I got to all the hot spots at the right time.’’ De Luce died on January 29, 2002, followed eight months later, on August 5, 2002, by his wife, Alma.

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I had been in Cairo only a few weeks when Toby and the late don Whitehead arrived unexpectedly. Cairo Bureau Chief Ed Kennedy was called away for several days and left me in charge. The British Army command was a bureaucratic jungle. It resented all war correspondents, especially Americans, and required special permission to go to the front in Libia. It even refused to let Toby or Don attend the daily briefings. Bored with this, Toby caught a ride with some troops returning to the front, spend a couple of days there, returned and didd a nice story. Immediately, the British cancelled his accreditation and directed that he leave the country. I appealed in vain to the British, the small U.S. liaison office and the American embassy. The Americans said the British wanted to ‘‘punish’’ him. However, the Americans had heard that AP needed someone in India, and the Middle East Command was agreeable to Toby going there. I cleared it with AP-NY, and soon Toby was en route to India, fully accredited and in good standing. Toby proved to be popular in India, and went on the first over-thehump* bombing raid from Burma against the Japanese. Meanwhile, I traveled throughout the Middle East and ended up covering the Royal Navy in the Mediterranean. I damned near starved to death on Malta when it was under siege. When I came home, I had to do a lot of talks for free. Toby followed me later, and I suggested that he should be paid. As I recall, he did several, for as much as $1,000 each, and was a great hit in Detroit. He was hired as a public relations consultant by Packard, and went on from there to a pharmacal firm, Parke-Davis, I think. *After the Japanese seized Rangoon in March 1942, the Allies needed to find a different way to reach the Burma Road, the key artery for getting supplies to troops. The ‘‘Hump’’ was an air route that took American planes 550 miles out of their way across the Himalayas to Kunming. The route was also called ‘‘The Aluminum Trail’’ because of the planes that had crashed along the route, marking a path for other aircraft to follow. Thomas Parrish, ed., The Simon and Schuster Encyclopedia of World War II (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978), 288–289.

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He visited San Francisco many times and was numbered among my dearest friends. If you cannot read this or want omore, let me know. Sincerely, PKL Thanks to my father’s AP colleagues, I was learning more about him each day.

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.. .. chapter six .. .. ........................................................... .. .. . .. .. bombers over burma with ... .. ..

‘‘good luck wiant,’’ jan.–march 1943

These Americans are really tops. They are clean-cut, serious at the proper times, and earnest. They make me prouder than ever that I’m an American, too. Their work is highly dangerous, but they are willing and anxious to do even more than their share of it. The more cracks they get at the Japs, the better they like it. toby wiant, January 2, 1943 To his delight, my father finally saw action on land and in the air during the next few months—more than he expected. He began a tour of U.S. bomber bases that put him in direct contact with the men responsible for massive air raids on Japanese installations in Burma. EASTERN ASSAM Jan. 2, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I have been on a tour of American bases in Eastern Assam since December 23 and now am awaiting transportation to a British camp, where I plan to spend a few days. Eventually, I hope to reach the place where there seems to be the most action in this theater. I’ll probably remain there a week or so, then head back to Delhi and relieve Bill McGaffin or Preston Grover. So far, I haven’t done much writing, principally because there has been very little prime news to cover. Grover suggested that I make this tour to become acquainted with the people and the country, against the day when this theater will get into the ‘‘big leagues.’’ Actually, I’ve written only three stories since December 23—on the bombing of Bangkok the

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night of December 26–27, the raids of American fighters in Northwestern Burma December 31, and the rescue of a pilot who was forced to bail out enroute home from the Burma show. Literally, there are scores of feature stories around here, but NYC has ordered us to hold down the volume of our copy as much as possible for the time being. At present, I’m in the heart of the tea and rice country. Surrounding the bungalow where I’ve been staying with Darrell Berrigan of UP are hundreds of acres of tea. The bungalow previously was a planter’s home. The Americans have taken over many such bungalows with the full cooperation of the planters, who continue to cultivate their estates as best they can under the circumstances. It seems like midnight here when it’s only 8:30 to 9 p.m. Consequently, everyone goes to bed early and gets at least eight hours’ sleep nightly. Entertainment is available only in the simplest forms. About twice a week, sound motion pictures are shown. When there are no movies, the men spend their evenings reading, talking, or playing cards. I’ve found morale high everywhere I’ve gone to date. There’s a minimum of griping, no more than could be found anywhere in the United States. The men are anxious to get this job done and return home as soon as possible. They’re itching for action and are happiest when they can find it. I’m still homesick for all of you and am looking forward to the day when we’ll all be back together. Fellows who have been away from home for more than a year tell me they never have gotten over their homesickness—and don’t expect to recover completely until they return to their families back in the States. These Americans are really tops. They are clean-cut, serious at the proper times, and earnest. They make me prouder than ever that I’m an American, too. Their work is highly dangerous, but they are willing and anxious to do even more than their share of it. The more cracks they get at the Japs, the better they like it. They complain when the Japs fail to offer any opposition. I’ve heard more than one pilot say, ‘‘How can we shoot ’em down if they won’t come up and tangle with us?’’ It’s impossible to beat their spirit. If the morale at home is half as good as it is here, then victory is assured. So far, I haven’t spent much time with the British, so I’m looking forward to a few days with them. When I was in the Western Desert, I spent all of my time with Americans, principally bomber crewmen.* *See photo section.

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They were the same high types that I’ve found in India. It’s going to be interesting to see how the British stack up with the Americans I’ve encountered. I’ll have to sign off now and start to get ready for the next leg of my tour. Love, Toby From the Indianapolis News, January 12, 1943 (Associated Press article): COOLIES HACKING MILITARY ROADS THROUGH BURMA by Thoburn Wiant A BRITISH-INDIAN OUTPOST IN NORTH-CENTRAL BURMA, Jan. 11 (Delayed) (AP)—Strong communication lines are being stretched slowly but surely from strategic centers in India to points in Burma for eventual British-Indian use against the Japanese. By train, trucks, jeep, and foot I traveled a long way over one of these lines to this outpost where workers are hacking their way through dense jungles and over mountains. The details of this tremendous project must remain secret, but it’s an impressive undertaking and few engineering problems are as difficult. The road runs mostly through mountains where no road and few trails ever existed. Miles of roadbed are blasted out of rock on mountainsides overhanging valleys. Parts of the road are above the clouds. The work is being done mostly by coolies, including women. I saw thousands of coolies using methods generations old. They carried dirt on their heads in wicker baskets. They crushed stone one by one with homemade hammers. They slashed through the jungle with long, heavy knives that are also useful weapons. My father intended to return to Delhi within a week, but his bureau chief ’s correct hunch that the full moon would bring more Japanese action gave Dad a coveted scoop on a story. He shared the results of his scoop in a letter, but a censor’s pen deleted the details before his parents received it. Jan. 19, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m still on the tour which I began December 23 and plan to leave within a few hours for the forward areas, where I hope to cover some of the land action. In [censored], as you know, I saw considerable action 74 : Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’

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from the air but never was with the [censored]. Since coming to India, I have seen action from the air over [censored], I trucked, jeeped, and walked into [censored] the other day, but there was no action in progress at the time. Now, I hope to get close enough to see some of the actual fighting. I travel by plane whenever possible, but sometimes it’s necessary to use the trains. And what trains they are! They stop at every jerkwater town for 20 minutes to an hour. There’s no such thing as a Pullman on an Indian train, and overnight passengers must have their own bedrolls, or sleep in their clothes on the seats. Frequently, there are no diners. To guard against going hungry, I carry a supply of canned goods. The other night, I started out for [censored] before dinner. I thought that train would have a dining car, but it didn’t. Three other fellows in my compartment had banked on eating in the dining car and hadn’t brought any emergency supplies. So I opened everything I had, and we devoured it all in what seemed like nothing flat. I’ve been in [censored] since January 11. I had planned to stay only a day or so, but Grover (my bureau chief ) telegraphed for me to remain during the full moon. His hunch was right. The Japs headed in our direction the night of January 15/16, as you read in your newspapers, but one lone British night fighter shot down all three of the enemy bombers speeding toward the city. Soon after the all-clear sounded, I got a tip on the result—[censored]—and I believe I scored a beat of at least two hours in the U.S.A. To date, the Japs haven’t come back, but I’m sure they will try something soon to save their faces. I must stop now and get ready for the next leg of my tour. Love, Toby From the Indianapolis News, February 4, 1943 (Associated Press article): SLIPPERY BURMA JAPS FIRE AND DISAPPEAR IN COVERED FOXHOLES by Thoburn Wiant WITH BRITISH FRONT-LINE TROOPS ON THE MAYU PENINSULA, Burma, Jan. 30 (Delayed) (AP)—I have just climbed a jungle-matted hill taller than the Empire State Building—and it seemed nearly as steep—to a perch where I could clearly see the BritishJapanese front positions separated by a narrow, shell-pocked no-man’s land. Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’ : 75

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The scene below at the moment reminds me of a quiet Long Island beach on a weekday. The opposing positions stretch from the hills near Donbaik 600 yards to the shore of the glistening Bay of Bengal, but the troops are dug in so deeply and camouflaged so expertly that I see no human movement, only a few dugouts. Suddenly, our rear mountain guns open up. Shells screeching overhead pit the Japanese positions below. Our field guns add new notes to the thundering chorus. During a pause in the shell fire, a British officer peering down remarks to me: ‘‘Warfare in this jungled, hilly country is much like that in Buna. Conventional tactics are mostly useless. The Japs are the trickiest, slipperiest blokes I ever saw, but we gradually are beating them at their own game. The only way to defeat the Japs is to destroy them.’’ The officer tells me that the Japanese here fight to a finish and sometimes kill themselves when they see that they are likely to be taken prisoner. Only a few Japanese dead are found because their comrades drag the bodies away. Each Japanese soldier is his own general, the officer says, fighting as a self-controlling, self-sustaining unit with food and ammunition to last several days. He rarely remains in the same foxhole longer than one day, digging a new one each night. The Japanese favorite is a foxhole six feet deep with a sodded lid, difficult to detect even by stepping on it. If necessary, the Japanese soldier can stay there a week. If troops advance past him, the Japanese lifts the lid just high enough to poke out a gun barrel, fires a couple of rounds, then drops the lid. Soldiers who look back in the direction of the shots often see nothing. Ecstatic at receiving a plethora of mail from his family and friends when he returned from a week-long assignment, my father lamented the unreliability of Indian trains and described harrowing nights when he and his colleagues were under Japanese fire. Feb. 11, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: A fat batch of your letters—seven, to be exact—finally has caught up with me. When I arrived in [censored] yesterday at the conclusion of a seven-week tour of Eastern India, Upper Assam, North-Central Burma, 76 : Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’

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and the Mayu Peninsula in western Burma, I found not only your letters but five from Betts and one each from Hazel Sanders and her mother. I had a field day which made up for that long period when I didn’t hear from anyone in the States. The trip from Calcutta to the British-Indian front lines on the Mayu Peninsula, only a few miles from Akyab, was filled with interesting experiences. To get that deeply into Burma, Buddy Briggs of UP and I had to travel by rail, river boat, and truck. The travel alone consumed several days, and we stayed at the front exactly a week. After leaving Calcutta, we had spent time in places which had nightly air-raid alerts, with occasional bombs, but the record was set at a locality further down the line, where we had to leap out of bed and sprint to a slit trench 100 feet away thirteen times in one night. The Japs didn’t drop any bombs, merely gave us the old war-of-nerves business. But, after we had left the place, they returned and plastered the area. You may have heard how notoriously slow and unreliable Indian trains are. Here’s a good example: We were scheduled to leave one place at noon, but the train didn’t pull out until 5:30 p.m. Briggs and I hadn’t brought any food because we thought the train would have a diner, which it didn’t. A British sergeant, however, came to our rescue and asked us to share his bully beef and biscuits. We were so hungry that even such a meager diet was as satisfying as a Thanksgiving dinner. The train crept along at a snail’s pace, then parked for the night at a siding a few miles from our destination—too far to walk with our luggage. We had to sleep sitting up because the compartment was overcrowded. I should have said ‘‘tried to sleep’’ because the mosquitoes allowed me only a few winks that night. I’ve passed the period in which I might come down with malaria, so apparently none of the mosquitoes was malaria carrying. We finally arrived at the place late the next morning, our tails dragging far behind. The scenery along the routes taken by the river boats was simply gorgeous. It was so warm by that time even our shirts made us uncomfortable. We almost drove right into the Japs the night we arrived at the front. We kept asking Indian soldiers how far it was to our destination, and they kept saying ‘‘two miles.’’ Finally, we decided we had gone too many ‘‘two miles,’’ and stopped. A few minutes later, shelling started right ahead. We turned around quickly and headed back, finding our place about a mile in the rear. Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’ : 77

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While at the front, I spent two days in a spot where I could view shelling, bombing, and infantry movements without any need for field glasses. I wrote a story about that experience which may or may not have reached print in Pittsburgh. One night, we had a terrifying ‘‘flap.’’ We were sitting in the dark (the front is completely blacked out) when a sergeant ran into our small camp, shouting, ‘‘The Japs have broken through. Run for your lives.’’ I picked up the first thing I laid my hands on (my water bottle), and dashed at full speed up the road. I was winded after a mile of dashing and trotting, and stopped with about 20 others in an ack-ack emplacement to rest a bit. After a few minutes, the shelling ceased, and the whole area was deadly quiet. Briggs, Bob Cooper of the London Times, and I decided to walk back a few hundred feet and see what we could see. Before we had walked far enough to get too scared, a major rode up and told us, ‘‘As you were; it’s nothing but a flap.’’ We then learned the sergeant had become hysterical under fire for the first time and set off the false alarm, which luckily only a few of us heard. The ‘‘flap’’ was not general, only local. We felt silly in broad daylight the next day. The night before I was scheduled to return to [censored], Briggs and I were walking back from a point about a quarter of a mile from the front. I heard a ‘‘ping’’ and turned to find Briggs on the ground. He said he thought he was shot in the leg or backside, so I pulled him to a hollow out of range of possible snipers. I investigated and—sure enough—he had been shot, a slight wound in the backside. A chaplain summoned two stretcher bearers who carried Briggs to a nearby dressing station. There, a medical officer said the wound would keep Briggs off his feet for only two or three days. I left the next morning as slated, but assume Briggs is back on the job by now. To answer your questions: I listen to the BBC-London broadcasts occasionally (that is, whenever I get the chance). I’ve managed to keep disgustingly healthy so far, although I’ve had to eat in some filthy places and drink questionable water. But I’m knocking on wood! I’m enjoying my work in India much more than I did in Egypt, for various reasons, although I would have given almost anything for one of those French West Africa assignments. One line was censored from your Dec. 14 letter, Mom, and nearly a whole paragraph from your Dec. 16 letter, 78 : Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’

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Dad. Many thanks for the present which you gave to Betts for safekeeping. That’s encouraging news about my stories hitting page one of the Post-Gazette two out of three days. Love, Toby P.S. I may go to China in less than a month to relieve one of our men temporarily. My departure probably will depend on the Gandhi situation.* From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, February 12, 1943 (Associated Press article): U.S., BRITISH GENERALS CONFER WITH CHIANG Complete Accord on Offensive Plans Announced; Wavell Also Consulted by Thoburn Wiant NEW DELHI, Feb. 11 (AP)—Topflight American and British generals have concluded 10 days of conferences in India and China where they consulted Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek† on ways to press home the battle to Japan. A joint communique´ today said ‘‘a complete accord was reached in coordination of offensive plans and signifying the united determination of powers concerned to insure full cooperation and mutual assistance against the Japanese.’’ *Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (Mahatma Gandhi), a major political and spiritual Indian leader, was a strong proponent of non-violence and urged his followers to practice civil disobedience to protest British rule in India. Gandhi began what became known as the ‘‘Quit India Movement’’ in 1942 with the hope of negotiating with the British for India’s independence. The British retaliated by imprisoning over 100,000 people, including Gandhi and most of India’s Congress Party. In protest, Gandhi began a 21-day fast despite his failing health. He was released from prison in 1944 for health reasons. On January 30, 1948, Gandhi was taking his evening walk when he was assassinated by a Hindu radical, Nathuram Godse. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/ Gandhi291 (accessed May 19, 2010). †Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek was the leader of China’s Nationalist party, the Kuomintang. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, China became one of the Allied nations. Chiang and his American-born wife, Soong Mai-ling (known as ‘‘Madame Chiang’’), wielded considerable power with the U.S. military. Chiang was appointed Supreme Commander of Allied forces in the China war zone. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/Chiang (accessed May 23, 2010).

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The presence of war leaders in India and China gave rise to the belief that the Oriental theater would blaze with new Allied offensive action. One immediate result is expected to be an increase in supplies to China. Field Marshal Sir John Dill, British joint staff mission member, and Lieutenant-General H.H. Arnold, United States Army air chief, reached India with their staffs about 10 days ago from the unconditional surrender conference at Casablanca. Representing Prime Minister Churchill and President Roosevelt, they conferred with Field Marshal Sir Archibald P. Wavell. After inspecting military installations in eastern India, Dill and Arnold flew over the Himalayas for discussions with Chiang. In Chungking, the conference was joined by Lieutenant-General Joseph W. Stilwell,* Chiang’s American chief of staff, and General Ho Ying Ching, Chinese minister of war. After leaving Chungking, the Dill-Arnold party returned to India for final conferences with Wavell. The communique´ said that subsequent conferences will be held between Wavell and General Douglas MacArthur. Heavy censorship in the wake of Gandhi’s fast to protest British rule in India temporarily limited my father’s reporting scope. INDIA Feb. 18, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Since mailing my letter of February 11, I’ve received two more letters from you—one a regular airmailer dated Jan. 15, the other a V-mailer† *General Joseph W. Stilwell was the American Chief of Staff of the Chinese Nationalist Army and Deputy Commander to Vice Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten, Commander in Chief of South East Asia. Nicknamed ‘‘Vinegar Joe’’ for his opinionated ideas and intolerance for corruption, Stilwell had an ability to speak fluent Chinese and a knowledge of military tactics that were invaluable assets in the China-BurmaIndia theater. Keith D. Dickson, World War II For Dummies (New York: Hungry Minds, Inc., 2001), 305. †V-mail (Victory mail) was a system for delivering mail during the war. Special Vmail letter-sheets, a combination of letter and envelope, provided a small area for personal correspondence. The V-mail was then reduced to thumbnail size on microfilm. Rolls of microfilm were shipped to specific locations for developing, where facsimiles of the letter-sheets—one-quarter their original size—were created and then delivered to the recipients. According to the United States Postal Service, using the Vmail system allowed thousands of tons of shipping space to be used for war materials instead of mail. National Postal Museum. http://tiny.cc/VMail (accessed May 19,

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dated Jan. 22. Sorry to hear the flu put you in bed last month, Dad. I assume you’re back on your feet and in scrappin’ form by now. Thanks for the word that one of my stories was used on a WLW program. As a rule, I don’t know what happens to my yarns after they are cleared by the censors. Now and then, someone reports seeing, or hearing of one of them. Preston Grover and I have been busy ever since I returned from that seven-week trip Feb. 10. In addition to the usual run of Tenth Air Force news, Gandhi’s fast and Legislative Assembly sessions have kept our noses on the grindstone. Censorship was heavy the first two days of Gandhi’s fast, but lightened considerably after that. There still are some items on the banned list. I met William Phillips, FDR’s personal representative, for the first time Feb. 13 and attended a dinner which he gave last night for the U.S. correspondents at Bhowalbur House. He is getting off to a fine start here—and playing his cards right! Three of the correspondents are leaving for home this weekend. The lucky guys are Arch Steele of the Chicago Daily News, and Frances (NBC) and Peter (CBS) Muir. Arch plans to return to the Far East after a short vacation. The Muirs probably will remain in the States until after we retake France, then go to Paris. Gandhi’s fast is having widespread effect here, especially among the Indians, many of whom fear that he won’t survive. Three Indian members of the Viceroy’s Council resigned yesterday. There are bound to be more repercussions. I’ve met many outstanding Indian leaders, including C. Rajagopalachariar, an amazing little man whose brain is as sharp as a Gillette. This afternoon, I met Field Marshal and Lady Wavell at a tea given for correspondents. I talked to the Field Marshal alone for about five minutes. He was particularly interested in my experiences in the Western Desert, and asked several questions about what I had seen and 2010). The system also reduced the time it took for a soldier to receive a letter by one month—from six weeks by boat to twelve days or less by air. An extensive advertising campaign in magazines and newspapers urged Americans to use the system with ads such as ‘‘Send a V-Mail today. Keep up morale—Home-front news is vital on the fighting front. Write a fighting man today.’’ Duke University Libraries. http://tiny.cc/ Duke_Vmail (accessed May 19, 2010).

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heard. He’s old and has only one good eye, but apparently has considerable pepper left. I’m scheduled to leave again soon—probably in the next three days—for an assignment at a U.S. heavy bomber base. I expect to remain there ten days to two weeks, writing as many stories as I can dig up. That China trip has been postponed for the time being, but I may get up there later. Love, Toby Excerpt from a letter to my mother: February 20, 1943 We had dinner Wednesday night with William Phillips, FDR’s personal representative, along with the other U.S. correspondents. The food was excellent, but the conversation was anything but brilliant. It was just another dinner but it afforded me another chance to meet Phillips, who is playing his cards right in a tough game. Thursday we correspondents were invited to a tea at which Field Marshall and Lady Wavell were honor guests. An Indian band, stationed somewhere out of sight but well within hearing, played U.S. tunes. After downing five cups of tea and at least half a dozen cookies, I met the Field Marshall for the first time and talked to him alone for about five minutes. When I told him I had worked in the Western desert, he asked a dozen questions on what I had seen and heard. He’s an old gent and has only one good eye, but he sees plenty and seems to have a considerable amount of the old pepper left. Yesterday I covered the meeting of more than 200 dignitaries who met to pass a resolution urging the immediate release of the Mahatma. When I climbed out of my taxi in front of the meeting place, I was besieged by about 30 students seeking autographs. I signed autograph books until my fingers were cramped, then made a dash inside. Indian movie cameramen were all around the place. One insisted that I sign the registry while he ground merrily away. Those autograph hunters still were very much in evidence after the meeting, and the other correspondents had the same experience. The U.S., in case you don’t know it, is ranked tops by the Indians—and anyone in an American uniform is a ‘‘friend.’’ I’m leaving for that bomber base tomorrow night by train. I tried my best to line up a plane ride, but couldn’t get space immediately. So I’ll 82 : Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’

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have to bear up under another long haul. These Indian trains are tougher to take than NYC subways at rush hour. Of course, the crowds aren’t as great but the effects are the same. I haven’t seen any snow since leaving NYC—except from a considerable distance (on Mount Everest). It’s too warm here now for even a jacket during the days. At night, I sleep under a sheet and a very thin blanket. Before morning, I usually kick off the blanket. Letter from my mother to her in-laws: Sunday, March 28, 1943 51–01 39th Ave., 噛W-62 Sunnyside, L.I., New York Dear Father and Mother Wiant: I am copying Toby’s letter below. It wasn’t very long for I guess he has been very busy. In fact, as I told you, he hadn’t even written me since February 20. March 2, 1943 In the past 11 days, I’ve written eight stories. Four of the stories were cabled and four mailed. Two of the cabled stories told of flights I made with the heavy bombers over the Rangoon area the night of February 22 and in daylight Feb. 27. The third story probably was stopped, inasmuch as I haven’t seen any mention of the news it contained in the Indian press. The fourth cabled story was an interview with Chaplain Bill Hodd on the high morale in these American camps. That first Rangoon trip was quite an experience. I arrived on the train at a town near the base and learned an operational mission was due to begin within a few minutes. I rushed to the airport just in time to catch the last plane, yelling over my shoulder to a sergeant to put my baggage in his barracks. I didn’t have time to get proper clothing for a high-altitude flight, and nearly froze before we came down to a more comfortable level. Otherwise, the mission was uneventful. I didn’t see any ack-ack, or any Jap fighter planes. My second flight over Rangoon was entirely free from enemy action. I guess I must have been born lucky. Some fellows make only one trip and run into all kinds of trouble. Tomorrow I’m scheduled to go on another mission, then return [censored] for my next assignment. If everything works out all right, Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’ : 83

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I’ll get my first ride in a Flying Fortress.* The Fortresses haven’t been operating from this theater since the evacuation of Burma last summer. This mission will mark the opening of a new phase in the aerial warfare against the Japs in Burma. My mother included a second letter from Dad dated two days later. March 4, 1943 I didn’t go on that combat mission yesterday because the targets were the ones we hit Feb. 27. I had permission to accompany one more mission and decided to hold up until the bombers were assigned to targets more likely to produce a different story. However, I had a double thrill yesterday—I had my first ride in a Flying Fortress, and I flew her for several miles, the first time I ever was at the controls of any plane. It all happened like this. Col. Conrad Necrason, just my age and commander of a group of heavy bombers which regularly plaster the Japs in Burma, invited me to accompany him on a non-combat flight to a new base. We took off about mid-morning. When we were 15 minutes from this field, the Colonel turned to me and asked ‘‘Want to fly her awhile?’’ I thought he was inviting me merely to sit in his seat. But after we had traded places, he said, ‘‘Go ahead and fly her.’’ The copilot took his hands and feet off the controls, and there I was—with a Flying Fortress on my hands. Surprisingly enough, I got along all right, keeping the plane straight and level. Just as I was beginning to feel like I had the world by the tail, the Colonel said he would take over. After we had traded places, I asked him how long I had been at the controls, and he said about five minutes. Confidentially, it seemed like about fifty. I wrote a story on that experience which probably will be mailed to New York. I had a good time at the new base, talking to several fellows I had met previously elsewhere. One of them—a little redheaded guy not more than five feet five—had a steady stream of tall *Flying Fortress was the nickname given to the B-17 bomber, a major force of the United States’ bombing offensives. Its capability to fly more than 2,000 miles coupled with its heavy modifications with more machine-gun mounts during the initial war years made the Flying Fortress a serious weapon for defending against the Axis forces. Keith D. Dickson, World War II For Dummies (New York: Hungry Minds, Inc., 2001), 380–381.

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stories. He declared, for example, he had been six feet two before he came to India—‘‘and just look at what this country has done to me!’’ Of course, camps such as this can’t be compared with home, but they aren’t at all bad, considering where they are and that this is wartime. Here, we have comfortable rooms, each 21 feet long and 12 feet wide, with electric lights, running water, showers and modern toilets. The food is tops, and we have ice cream two or three nights a week. There are always ‘‘seconds,’’ and anybody can have thirds by shouting out. Everybody talks about getting back home, but all realize there is a big job out here to be finished first. I have been somewhat depressed the last two days because two fellows whom I liked very much were killed while on a non-combat flight. The day before the accident, I had spent a whole morning with one of the boys, lining up a story. He had asked me to go along with him on the next combat mission, and I had readily accepted the invitation because, in addition to being a grand guy, he was a top pilot who had fought the Germans and Italians in the Mideast before coming out here. Such is life in wartime. My mother promised to keep her in-laws posted on any news from my father even though she was busy moving into a new apartment. Will write again just as soon as I hear from Tobe. Will be busy next week getting settled. There was a story in the New York Sunday News today by Tobe, and will do my best to get you a copy. Love, Betty My father was in his element as he accompanied heavy bomber crews on their missions, but he acknowledged to his parents that losing friends to enemy fire took a serious emotional toll on him. U.S. HEAVY BOMBER BASE SOMEWHERE IN INDIA March 4, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Please forgive me for not writing as regularly as I did when I was back in the States. Out here—especially when I’m with the American fliers and the British-Indian troops—I’m simply unable to find much time for personal writing. Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’ : 85

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On Feb. 27, I accompanied another combat mission over the Rangoon area, taking off in a bomber from this base. This time, I had enough clothes to keep warm. We dropped our bombs on an important railroad bridge near Rangoon. Other U.S. bombers that day probably destroyed a 7,000-ton Jap cargo vessel. I nearly went with them, but was assigned at the last minute to the bridge target. I interviewed the fellows who scored direct hits on the ship and built my story around their quotes. While at these two bases, I have written several mail stories, which probably won’t get into print until a month from now. You may find at least two of them interesting—one on life at an American air base, the other on my first flight in a Flying Fortress, during which I was at the controls for five minutes. What a thrill! I’m planning to accompany another combat mission over Burma before returning to Delhi this weekend. I was scheduled to go with the ‘‘heavies’’ yesterday, but decided against it at the last minute because their targets were the same ones we had hit previously. A fellow out here has to learn to take a lot of haymakers and get back on his feet again. For example, two of the airmen with whom I had become very friendly were killed the other day while on a non-combat flight. One of them had spent all morning with me the day before, helping me to line up a story. He had asked me to accompany him on the next combat mission, and I had accepted his invitation. He was a top-notch pilot and had fought Germans and Italians in the Mideast, as well as the Japs in Thailand and Burma. He was only 26, just getting started in life. But so it goes. Buddy Briggs of UP, who was shot by a Jap sniper while we were walking home to dinner last month on the Mayu Peninsula front, now is completely recovered, I’m informed by a pilot who saw him yesterday. At first, Buddy and I had thought the wound, in his backside, was only slight. An X-ray later, however, showed a deeply embedded, inch-and-a-half bullet. Buddy had to undergo an operation and spend about two weeks in the hospital. The good Lord certainly was with me the night that Buddy was shot, because I was only inches from where the bullet hit him. If I had moved slightly over toward Buddy, I might have been the recipient! As I wrote in a story the other day, these combat missions over Burma are becoming safer than crossing 42nd Street and Broadway. 86 : Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’

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The Japs seem to be losing their grip. I have flown on combat missions over Burma and Thailand, but never have I seen a Zero* fighter plane. And the ack-ack never has been heavy. I must have been born lucky, because we never had much opposition when I flew over the GermanItalian lines in the Western Desert last fall. Of course, I keep my fingers crossed! My faith in the future of America has been enormously increased by flying, talking, working, eating, and playing with the young fliers at bases such as this. Most of them are in their twenties or early thirties. The commanding officer of this group, Col. Conrad F. Necrason, is exactly my age [32]. I’ve flown with fellows ten years younger than I. It makes me feel like an old man sometimes. They are great kids, and they are doing great jobs. Some of them admit they get scared when Zeros jump them, or when the ack-ack gets heavy. But they don’t hesitate a second to volunteer for the next combat mission. As a matter of fact, they gripe to high heaven whenever they’re left behind. I take my hat off to them scores of times every day. They’re simply unbeatable. Love, Toby From the Indianapolis News, March 8, 1943 (Associated Press article): U.S. SKY GIANTS TAKE HEAVY TOLL IN BURMA RAIDS by Thoburn Wiant WITH UNITED STATES HEAVY BOMBERS OVER BURMA, March 6 (Delayed) (AP)—A large force of United States heavy bombers soared far over Burma today to hit a 7,000-ton Japanese merchant vessel ten miles south of Rangoon, plaster the approaches to the important Myitnge bridge six miles south of Mandalay, and start huge fires at Moulmein. There was virtually no opposition from the Japanese during any of these operations, and all our planes returned safely. One and possibly two direct hits, plus four near hits, were scored on a merchant vessel by Second Lieutenant Melvin Trimpe, 24-year-old bombardier from Cincinnati. Lying on my stomach above the bomb bay, I watched Trimpe’s bombs crash into and alongside a vessel which was heading north in *Mitsubishi A6M fighter plane, the mainstay of the Japanese Navy.

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Rangoon River toward that much-bombed city. A huge cloud of black smoke rose high above the vessel as our pilot, Captain James Baldwin, 23, of Borger, Tex., veered sharply from the target. We saw only three other ships in the whole Rangoon area, and one of these was three-fourths submerged just inside the mouth of the Rangoon River. It was broken in half, apparently by our bombers on some previous mission. The merchant vessel we hit was carrying sorely needed supplies to the Japanese, whose communications are being disrupted by Allied bombers and fighters. The Japanese never will get those supplies because if the vessel didn’t sink, the flames consumed them. The absence of Japanese fighters and anti-aircraft seemed significant because Rangoon is one of the enemy’s most important communications centers. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: YOU-KNOW-WHERE-IN-INDIA March 7, 1943 I flew back to the old stomping grounds this afternoon after a most enjoyable and highly productive two-week visit at U.S. heavy bomber bases. I turned out ten stories during that period, including three describing combat missions over Burma, which I accompanied. They call me ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’ at the bases because no plane in which I’ve been a passenger has been attacked by fighters or hit by ackack. Indeed, at least a dozen of the pilots have urged me to ride with them on future raids. They figure they’ll come out with whole skins if I’m along. Frankly, I wish I could have stayed at the bases at least two more weeks. I’ve never met a finer bunch of fellows. They made me feel like I was one of the gang. Just as I left today, the commanding officer, Col. Conrad F. Necrason, urged me to try to get a permanent assignment to his headquarters. Of course, that’s out of the question now, but I certainly would like to do just that when the big show starts. The chaplain, Capt. Bill Hood, told me several fellows had declared I was ‘‘the best of the correspondents ever to visit the base’’—which, of course, caused my head to swell at least three sizes. ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’ was a nickname that my father kept throughout the war. Whether for his reporting skills or his rabbit’s foot qualities, soldiers and officers enjoyed his company, and his reputation as an honest reporter grew. 88 : Bombers over Burma with ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’

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.. .. chapter seven .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. from news droughts .. ..

to monsoons, march–june 1943

The longer I stay out here, the more I’m convinced I won’t get home until 1944. Things may move fast, once started, but I doubt it. These Japs are tough, stubborn, hard to beat down. It’s going to take a long time to dispose of them. toby wiant, April 4, 1943 My father continued touring American air bases in India during the spring of 1943, but approaching monsoons slowed bomber activity—and a chance to write newsworthy stories. He celebrated his thirty-second birthday and endured intense Calcutta heat caring for malaria-stricken colleagues while they played a waiting game with torrential rains. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: AT AMERICA’S MAIN SUPPLY-MAINTENANCE DEPOT IN INDIA March 13, 1943 I have been here at this busy depot since March 10 and now am awaiting plane transportation to a U.S. medium bomber outfit which I haven’t visited before. Less than a year ago, this place was only a gleam in Uncle Sam’s eye. There was nothing here but sand, grass, cows, and Indians. Now, there are more than 500 buildings (including barracks and smaller structures), a fine airport with runways long enough for the biggest planes, and several thousand persons pushing supplies eastward. I’m staying in a transient camp, near the officers’ mess. Bedding is supplied, so I didn’t have to open my bedroll, which I have to use virtually everywhere else except the big cities. The food is as good as any I’ve found in India—and there’s plenty of it, too. The mess is open

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24 hours a day. Coffee and doughnuts can be had for the asking, any time of day or night. Limeade—and good, too—is on the house, and we drink it instead of water. On the entertainment side, there are movies twice a week, pingpong, pool, volleyball, baseball, magazines, books, and cards. Back home, newspapers seemed ancient to me a few hours after they were off the press. Here, any newspaper from home is fresh and new, no matter what the date. I read a copy of the New York Times the other day. It was published back in October, but I started with the first page and read my way clear through to the last. Last week, I had a great thrill—I was handed a copy of the Feb. 15 Times, just brought out from the States. I sat myself down and didn’t get up until I had read the whole thing, ads and all! March 13 was a letter-focused day for Dad as he wrote to his parents, the second in a long string of notes to family and friends. AMERICA’S MAIN SUPPLY DEPOT IN INDIA March 13, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Since my letter of March 4 to you, I have made another trip over Rangoon, spent three days in New Delhi and started another tour of U.S. bases. This tour will keep me away from New Delhi for at least two months, possibly three, because Grover has assigned me to work in Chungking for awhile. I’m going to spend two or three days at each base enroute, writing mail stories as well as cables. The mailers probably won’t appear in newspapers back home for four to six weeks. My flight over Rangoon March 6 was the third I had made over that area in two weeks. I watched the bombs crash onto the freighter’s stern and knock an ack-ack battery into kingdom come. That battery had fired three bursts at us, but the shells went far wide. As our pilot, Capt. Jim Baldwin of Borger, Tex., banked away from the river, I could see a huge cloud of black smoke swirl skyward—a beautiful sight in wartime! Enroute back to base, we descended to low altitude and strafed enemy installations. Off the record, I had the pleasure of firing about 100 rounds from one of the waist guns. I’ve written two stories about this depot since my arrival March 10 and now am awaiting space on a plane to a U.S. medium bomber base. One story (cabled) rounded up the activities here. The other told how several thousand Indians had been Americanized here during the past 90 : From News Droughts to Monsoons

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eight months (this was a mailer). I may have to lay over a day or so before I can get space, in which case I’ll probably do another story. I was interested in one phrase—a ‘‘speedy victory’’—from your letter of January 28, Dad. No one would be happier than I if we could win speedily. A speedy victory would mean that I could be back with Betts and you soon. That would be heaven on earth. But we must not dream at a time like this. We must look facts in the face. The war—especially the war out here—won’t be won for a long, long time. Some say a year, others say five years. We must remember we have just started to fight. We have regained very little territory compared with that occupied by our enemies. Out here, the Japs give every indication of intending to fight to the bitter end. They are fanatical demons. They can’t be licked speedily. Successful culmination of the war in Europe doesn’t mean necessarily the remainder of our enemies can be mopped up quickly. The war out here, I’m afraid, will be going strong long after the Germans and the Italians have thrown in the towel. I must wind this up and write some other letters. Don’t worry, if you don’t hear of, or from, me for several days at a time. No news always means good news, in my case. Love, Toby Excerpt from a letter to my mother: U.S. HEAVY BOMBER BASE SOMEWHERE IN INDIA March 16, 1943 Grover said the authorization for my plane passage to China had come through, and that I was to proceed there after completing my tour of U.S. bases in India. My schedule now calls for visits at bases for the next week to ten days, a two- or three-day stop in Calcutta so I can stock up on supplies not available in China, more visits at bases in eastern India, then over the ‘‘hump’’ into China. Grover said I probably would be in China three or four months. From the Indianapolis News, March 27, 1943 (Associated Press article): YANKS TRANSFORM INDIA ‘‘PASTURE’’ INTO HUGE, TEEMING SUPPLY DEPOT by Thoburn Wiant AMERICAN SUPPLY DEPOT IN INDIA, March 27 (AP)—Tons of vital war material are flowing into eastern India and China daily from From News Droughts to Monsoons : 91

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this huge American supply maintenance depot which less than a year ago was only a gleam in Uncle Sam’s eye. It will be some time before quantities of supplies large enough for an all-out offensive against the Japanese flow forward, but that time is coming as surely as the monsoons. The stream of war essentials, including planes, trucks, motor parts, ammunition and foodstuffs, is becoming wider, deeper and swifter. A few months ago it was only a trickle. Colonel John L. M. Des Islets, age forty-one, of Berkeley, Cal., commanding officer of the depot, said: ‘‘We are getting into the groove after months of tedious preparations and hard work. Our engine maintenance production is already six times what it was scheduled to be by now—and four times what I thought it would be.’’ In June, 1942, there were only cows, grass, sand and natives. Now there are many hundreds of buildings (including barracks and smaller structures) and a fine airport with runways long enough to accommodate the largest planes. Thousands of skilled workers are on the job day and night. The facilities are being expanded constantly. This depot is a classic example of what Americans can do when they put their shoulders to the wheel. They started from scratch. The caste system was abolished. If an Indian did better work than others higher on the caste ladder, he was put in charge of the construction crew. Many Indians now work alongside Americans in the offices and maintenance shops, leaving soldiers free to do jobs the Indians can’t. The depot construction started last year amid the monsoons. Thirteen native villages had to be removed. The Indians didn’t object because they received money to build better villages. But they balked at cutting down sacred trees, one of which they left between two railroad tracks. ‘‘If you cut down trees, you will be helping to win the war,’’ the Americans contended. The Indians closed their eyes and swung their axes. From the New York Sun, March 29, 1943 (Associated Press article): FLYING SKULLS OVER BURMA Reporter Rides With Group on Bombing Mission by Thoburn Wiant WITH UNITED STATES MEDIUM BOMBERS OVER THE MANDALAY AREA, March 18 (Delayed) (AP)—Japanese stubbornly

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defending Myitnge Bridge got the surprise of their lives today, but few, if any of them probably are living now to tell about it. The largest formation of United States medium bombers ever assembled over a single target in Burma wiped out ack-ack batteries surrounding the bridge, six miles south of Mandalay, then followed through with several direct hits on the span and nearby installations. Explosives left so much smoke and flame I couldn’t see the exact damage to the bridge, but I knew most, if not all the defenses were knocked out. Not even one ack-ack burst came at us as we half circled the area after the attack. All our planes and crews returned safely. Our total damage: two small ack-ack holes in one plane. ‘‘We blew the living hell out of them,’’ declared Major James Philpott, 30 years old, of Kansas City, a former TWA test pilot, who led our formations yesterday and today. ‘‘It was a perfect day for bombing, and our bombardiers didn’t miss a chance.’’ Major Philpott, who was born in Bucyrus, Ohio, was educated at Pomona, Calif. He heads the ‘‘Skulls and Wings.’’ Most members of ‘‘Skulls and Wings’’ are former pursuit pilots, and they fly bombers like pursuits. Some of them helped make the longest mass non-combat flight in history last July when they ferried planes from California to China. They wear white skulls and wings on their flying jackets and have the same insignia on their planes. The Japanese already have good cause to fear that insignia, but the worst is yet to come. ‘‘These guys aren’t afraid of any damned thing,’’ Major Philpott said. ‘‘They’ll fight at the drop of a hat any time of the day or night.’’ I can vouch for that, after flying, eating, sleeping, and fighting with them for two days. I rode in the lead plane with Major Philpott, who has been flying since he was 15 years old. . . . The Japanese apparently got no warning. They barely started ackacking us when tons of high explosives poured from the bellies of our planes like dimes from jack-potted slot machines. Smoke, covering every inch of the huge target area, shot to the sky in gigantic mushroom shapes. Then more waves of bombers came, loaded with big stuff which they disgorged quickly. I hurried from window to window. There was no ack-ack or enemy aircraft anywhere in the sky.

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Excerpt from a letter to my mother: CALCUTTA, INDIA April 3, 1943 I have been going to the U.S. consulate twice daily ever since I arrived here, hoping to find a packet of letters. But no soap, to date, and Grover’s telegram indicates I might have to wait several more days. This is Saturday night, and I’m sitting all alone in my hotel room. It’s hotter than blazes. I’m wearing nothing but my shorts, and the perspiration is rolling off of me in rivers. No foolin’, big drops fall off my forehead onto my typewriter keys! But the worst is yet to come, they say. I hope I can get up into China’s mountains before long. It’s not at all bad there in the summer time, I’m told. I’m standing by here until Grover telegraphs for me to proceed into China. McGaffin may go to Russia, in which case my China assignment might be postponed, or even cancelled. I’ve spent a great deal of time taking care of Frank Martin, who came down with three-day malaria and amoebic dysentery soon after I arrived. He’s well on the road to recovery, but has lost much weight and looks none too good. I’ve just learned another crew of my heavy bomber friends is missing. I certainly hate to see such grand fellows wind up like that. Col. Necrason, with whom I flew March 24, was wounded this week, but not badly. Thirsty for stories, my father expressed his frustration with the news drought and his belief that it would be a long time before he could return home. CALCUTTA, INDIA April 4, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: While I’m waiting for Frank Martin to get dressed this morning, I’ll start a letter and finish it later, if necessary. Within an hour or so, we’re going to get the inside dope on the situation in Arakan. For days, there has been no cable-worthy news from that comparatively minor front. Something seems screwy, and we’re going to try and find out what it is. As I wrote to Betts yesterday, I’m in the midst of a news drought. I’ve been here in Calcutta since March 25, but have turned out only one story. That was a situation in which I said the proximity of the monsoons doubtless would prevent any major effort to retake Burma until the last 94 : From News Droughts to Monsoons

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of September—and it’s quite possible the big show out here won’t begin until the first of next year. The delays in this theater are very discouraging, but quite understandable in many respects. As soon as North Africa is cleaned up, we may get some action. On the other hand, action on a large scale may be deferred until after the invasion of Europe, in which case we’ll be stuck out here for a long, long time. The longer I stay out here, the more I’m convinced I won’t get home until 1944. Things may move fast, once started, but I doubt it. These Japs are tough, stubborn, hard to beat down. It’s going to take a long time to dispose of them. I’m not at all sure direct attacks on the Japanese mainland will knock them out of the running. They are great individualists and will keep in there slugging until the last, no matter where they are. Bombing of the Jap mainland will be helpful, of course, but even that will require time—and lots of it! I’m now standing by for an order to proceed to China. I had planned to remain here only two or three days, just long enough to pick up supplies difficult to obtain in China. But Grover telegraphed that McGaffin might be assigned to Russia, in which case my trip might be postponed indefinitely. I’ve been looking forward to a China assignment and hope it materializes. I could work up there three or four months, then return to India in plenty of time for the big Burma show. I found Martin quite ill when I arrived here. He had done a stretch in Western Burma, where I spent nearly two weeks the first of this year, and developed amoebic dysentery and malaria after returning to Calcutta. He’s now getting back on his feet, but he’s weak and has lost much weight. I’ve felt lousy out here several times, but so far I’ve managed to escape any serious disease. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, however. Martin is ready, so I’ll sign off now. I haven’t heard from anyone in the States since March 15—and those letters were written in February. I’m hoping a packet will arrive in the next day or so. I need ’em. Love, Toby Excerpt from a letter to my mother: CALCUTTA, INDIA April 6, 1943 That China assignment is off, at least temporarily—due to Bill McGaffin’s Russia assignment and Frank Martin’s illness. I’ll probably spend ten days to two weeks at the air bases. Then what? I dunno. From News Droughts to Monsoons : 95

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I finally managed to get back into production yesterday with a story on an air battle over Burma in which Major D.E. Bailey and Col. Necrason were wounded slightly. Today, I wrote a story based on an editorial in the Statesman, India’s largest English-language newspaper, respecting the conduct and progress of the Western Burma campaign. These stories made a total of three I had written since March 29—not good, but the best I could do under the circumstances. This Calcutta is quite a sight: beggars every 15 to 20 feet; hideous witches eating alongside buzzards in the gutters; vendors so insistent they grab ahold of my shirt; ancient taxis that seem certain to fall apart; hundreds of thousands of people in the streets during the days and nearly as many during the nights, despite the blackout; soldiers and sailors everywhere looking for some place to relax—and usually finding it; thousands of tiny stores selling dirty merchandise; people jabbering in many tongues—I’ll take one of the air bases! Excerpt from a letter to my mother: U.S. HEAVY BOMBER BASE SOMEWHERE IN INDIA April 8, 1943 I arrived at this place only a few minutes ago and found everyone ‘‘sacked up,’’ which means taking a midday snooze. So I’ll improve my time until they awaken by starting a letter to you. Just before I left Calcutta, I hit the letter jackpot—eighteen in all, including six from you. Speaking of feeling better, my disposition improved greatly the minute we took off from Calcutta. That place is OK for two or three days, but then becomes maddening for any newshound who wishes to keep producing. From March 25 through April 6, I was able to turn out only four stories, and one of those was stopped by British censors. The last story, written yesterday, told how the British had started withdrawing from some portions of the Mayu Peninsula, where I spent ten days in January with Buddy Briggs. Buddy, incidentally, is back to normal now, but has a horrible scar to show for the Jap sniper’s accuracy. Although Bud was shot in the pants, the bullet was removed from the front. He’s doing a story for Collier’s now, based on about two months of war reporting in Western Burma. As I understand the deal, UP queried Collier’s—and they jumped at the offer. 96 : From News Droughts to Monsoons

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You keep inquiring about what I do after working hours. Of course, I keep alert for stories all the time I’m awake, but there are many hours—especially at night—when there are absolutely no possibilities. Those idle hours aren’t hard to kill at an air base. There’s always a bullsession in progress. Some nights, there are movies and cards. I’ve never been at this base for any length of time before. It’s really out in the wilds, miles from any place. A few feet from me, about 50 coolies are digging a well. It takes 10 coolies to equal the production of one white man. You should see the way they hoist dirt out of the well. There are two ropes to which are attached wicker baskets. Six coolies are on each rope. When the baskets are full, the coolies pull them up—but slowly. Think of the worst WPA project workers you ever saw. These coolies are five times as slow, at least. Excerpt from a letter to my mother: ENROUTE TO U.S. MEDIUM BOMBER BASE IN INDIA April 14, 1943 I arrived at that heavy bomber base the afternoon of April 8 and wrote a story that night on the Jap headquarters raid at Toungoo. There wasn’t much doing the next day, and I was nearly floored when the squadron commander invited me to address his men on the situation in Burma, with emphasis on the land operations. I tried to wriggle out, saying I didn’t pretend to be a public speaker. But he insisted, and I agreed to do the best I could. I surprised myself by speaking fully 40 minutes. A question and answer period followed, and the fellows really put me on the spot two or three times. But I survived—and nearly a score of fliers came up afterwards and said it was one of the most interesting talks they had heard in a long time. Yesterday I started out on a mission over Burma, but we had to turn back after reaching the Burma coast because of weather. So I was cheated out of another mission story. It was the first time I had started out on a mission and been unable to complete it. Please don’t worry about me taking chances, because I’m not. I don’t go on a mission unless they offer new story possibilities. And when I go, I always fly with the best pilots. After I do some medium bomber stories, I’ll proceed to a fighter base in Assam. Then what? Probably I will go back to Delhi for awhile. From News Droughts to Monsoons : 97

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From CBI Roundup (discontinued U.S. Army publication), April 15, 1943: BOMBERS DEAL HEAVY BLOW TO JAP HQ by Toby Wiant, Associated Press War Correspondent U.S BOMBER BASE IN INDIA—Most of the suspected Japanese base headquarters at Toungoo, Burma, was wiped off the map April 4 by United States heavy bombers which blanketed fully two-thirds of the target area with tons of explosives. Many fires were started and one was so large it was visible 20 to 25 miles away. Americans’ craftiness in plotting the course to the target enabled them to catch the Japs completely off guard. Heavy opposition was expected but no enemy fighters and no ack-ack fire appeared. All of the attacking bombers returned safely. Toungoo, halfway between Rangoon and Mandalay on the Burma Railway, has always been important to the Japs but new military construction indicated the importance greatly increasing. The Americans waited until military area work was completed, then blasted to bits in a few seconds [what] took thousands of coolies many weeks to build. Smoke and flames popped out like giant hives over the area about 2,100 feet wide and 4,800 feet long. Lt. Raymond Disher, piloting one bomber, said, ‘‘We thought we would get a hot reception but not even one puff of ack-ack turned up. If there is anything left of that place, I’ll be surprised.’’ Disher knows firsthand about hot receptions. Recently his plane and three others were jumped by twelve Zeros over Burma. The Americans got away with only a few holes in their planes. ‘‘Jumped by twelve Zeros’’ was a serious threat from which Lieutenant Disher narrowly escaped. The Zero was known for its agility and victory in dogfights, to the point where Allied pilots lived by the adage ‘‘never dogfight a Zero.’’ U.S. MEDIUM BOMBER BASE SOMEWHERE IN INDIA April 19, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Nobody out here does much stirring between noon and 5 p.m. because of the intense heat, which seems to drain every bit of energy and ambition from a person. The usual routine after lunch is ‘‘hit the sack,’’ which simply means ‘‘take a siesta.’’ Supper is at 5:30. There’s 98 : From News Droughts to Monsoons

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not much to do afterwards except read, write, or have a bull-session, so we go to bed around 9 p.m. Breakfast is between 6:30 and 7:30. I gather story material (if any is available!) and do most of my writing between 8 a.m. and noon. The routine, of course, varies on mission days. Then, I usually get up when it’s still dark, have breakfast by lantern light, take off at dawn, fly for hours, watch the bombs crash into the target, fly for hours back to base, write my story, and see that it gets on the first plane for Delhi. My job really starts after I return from a mission. Sometimes it’s difficult to get access to the official report, and I lose time running through red tape. Writing the story is comparatively simple. Then, I must have it approved by the base intelligence officer. When I’m far from New Delhi, it’s a knotty problem to get my stories back there. I usually give them to a pilot who is flying there, or in that direction. But, despite my best efforts, my stories sometimes are delayed three or four days. After a story reaches New Delhi, it must be passed by the American and the British censors. They’re not too rough on me, except when I write on certain subjects. I’ve learned from experience what I can—and can’t—write. From New Delhi, the story goes by telegraph to Bombay; from there to London by wireless; from there to New York by cable. Sometimes I marvel that a story ever gets into your papers, considering all it must go through before it reaches New York. The light rains which precede the annual monsoons already have started. They give us temporary relief from the heat, but afterwards the humidity is simply terrific. These rains, usually a shower daily, will continue until around May 25, when the rainy season is scheduled to start. Then, we’ll have rain five days out of every seven. Obviously, the monsoons will greatly decrease operations in this theater, and that means there will be less and less to write about. I’m lucky now if I can produce four or five stories a week. During the monsoons, I’ll probably turn out one or two weekly. I started out on a mission with the heavy bombers on April 13, but a solid overcast forced us to turn back when we reached the Burma coast. On April 15, I was all set to go with the mediums, but our pilot, Capt. Robert Puckett, 26, of Birmingham, Ala., couldn’t get our plane off the ground. Apparently, some moisture had gotten into our magnetos. On April 16, however, everything went off as planned, and I watched the From News Droughts to Monsoons : 99

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mediums lay tons of explosives on the railroad yards and warehouses at Thazi Junction, on the important railroad running from Rangoon to Mandalay. I saw the whole show from the bombardier’s compartment—in the nose of our medium. The bombardier was Master Sergeant Robert Bourgeois, 25, of New Orleans, who helped Doolittle on that Tokyo job a year ago yesterday. Bourgeois told me many interesting things about that raid which will have to go unwritten for the time being. He said he never expected to get out of that mission alive. He nearly didn’t, for that matter. Since Dec. 27, I’ve been on nine combat missions. I hadn’t seen any enemy fighters until that Thazi Junction raid. After we dropped our bombs and headed for home base, we saw two fighters—but they were so far away they didn’t stand a chance of catching us. My roommate at this base, Lt. Forrest Askey, had an exciting experience the other night. He was talking to some nurses in the hospital area, about two miles from our barracks, when a cobra slipped into the room. He fired six times before the thing died. It measured exactly three feet eight inches. One of the nurses told him, ‘‘I’d rather meet up with a Jap than a cobra—any day!’’ That’s the way I feel about it, too. The rainy season is bound to bring out all kinds of snakes, including kraits (which are even more deadly than cobras). Don’t you wish you were here, Mom? I’m planning to leave for a fighter base in Assam tomorrow. That will end my current tour. After three or four days there, I’ll probably move on elsewhere. My future plans are indefinite, but I may run into Preston Grover up there and get my new assignment. I understand he’s either been in China, or is heading that way. He has charge of our China coverage, as well as that in India. Love, Toby As my father noted, sending stories back to home offices was a constant frustration for correspondents. Writing a story was often the easy part—getting it out proved far more difficult. In 1939 there were three primary ways to transmit stories back to the U.S.— radiotelegraph, radiotelephone, or cable. When war broke out that year, the military took over the circuits, and the press had to find other ways to transmit stories to New York and San Francisco. Before the war, a press cable cost approximately 5 cents per word for regular speed and 21 cents per word for highspeed transmission. Once the war began, those costs jumped astronomically, 100 : From News Droughts to Monsoons

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sometimes as high as 400 percent more. Mary Sue Mander notes that one transmission from Germany cost 88 cents a word by the time it got to its destination.* Mobile press centers were first established in Algiers. Reporters in the field wrote dispatches that were carried by motorcycle courier to teleprinters, where they were transmitted back to Algiers. In time, each war theater developed its own system of mobile press centers. Methods of getting stories to press included wireless-aerial units named ‘‘Blue Trains’’ that operated out of vans and tractors that contained transmitters and gas engines; portable transmitters that allowed reporters to send their stories directly from their location back to the U.S.; and waterproof canisters carried by jeeps and press boats.† U.S. FIGHTER BASE IN NORTHEASTERN INDIA April 24, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve covered considerable ground since writing to you April 19. I flew to a heavy bomber base and arrived just in time to catch a plane for Bangkok, Thailand. You didn’t see a story on that mission, however, because we were weathered out. We reached a point only a few minutes’ flying time from Bangkok, but the storm clouds were so thick we couldn’t get over, under, or around them. As a matter of fact, we didn’t know exactly where we were after turning back and flying for more than two hours. That was because we couldn’t see the stars to get a celestial for navigation. But our navigator was one of the best, and we arrived safely back at base. I arrived at this base April 22 by plane. This is the same place I visited last January—located amid thousands of acres of tea plants, within view of a beautiful range of mountains. I’m staying in ‘‘Choda Bungalow.’’ ‘‘Choda’’ means small, but the bungalow is bigger than any house we ever had. Before the war, it was occupied by one of the many British tea planters who lived in this area. Most of the planters moved elsewhere, but the harvesting of tea continues. This is the base which numerous Jap bombers raided last Feb. 25. As you remember, the Japs got a terrific shellacking that day—and haven’t returned since, although *Mary Sue Mander, ‘‘Pen and Sword: A Cultural History of the American War Correspondent 1895–1945’’ (Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois at Urbana–Champaign, 1979), 174. †Ibid., 176.

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we expect them to turn up any day now. If they do, I’ll bet they’ll get a dose of the same medicine, knowing what I do. That China assignment is off for at least a month, possibly six weeks. I saw Preston Grover here for the first time since I left New Delhi March 10, and he told me to continue making a round of the bases until it was time to fly over the ‘‘hump’’ into China. I’ve visited nearly all of the bases, traveling by plane most of the time. By the way, I figured the other day I had flown more than 40,000 miles since leaving the States Oct. 1, 1942, including nearly 20,000 miles of combat flying. I’ve been in 14 countries and flown over many others. I wrote a mailer the other day on a Red Cross worker and 10 Army nurses which probably will be in print a week or so after you receive this letter. They said the fliers were worrying twice as much about their sweethearts and wives back home as they were about the Japs in Burma. That seems to be true elsewhere, too. For example, an enlisted man told me 30 men in his camp—including himself—had received letters from their wives asking for divorces. Apparently, the wives had met ‘‘someone else’’ spending the war on the home front. That, of course, is a lousy situation—one which has a definite effect on the morale over here. These guys are doing great jobs. The very least their wives and sweethearts can do is stick by them. What a birthday I had yesterday! I didn’t tell anyone about it, because they have more important matters to occupy their attention. All I did was to look at a card Betts sent me several weeks ago! Love, Toby From the Indianapolis Star, April 29, 1943 (Associated Press article): FORMER LOCAL MAN RIDES BOMBER IN RAID ON RANGOON (Mr. Wiant is a graduate of DePauw University and was formerly with the Associated Press office here.) by Thoburn Wiant A.P. Correspondent UNITED STATES BOMBER BASE SOMEWHERE IN INDIA— (AP)—I’ve just flown in a United States bomber over Rangoon, and I feel like that man who beat himself on the head with a hammer because it felt so good when he stopped. Heavy bombers aren’t built for comfort. Seven of us were crowded in an area not much larger than a clothes closet. We were all tangled up in each other’s legs and arms. 102 : From News Droughts to Monsoons

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This was a night bombing job. On the way to the target, we talked about everything except what we were to do. Sergt. Elmer Jacks, 24, of Vicksburg, Miss., the radio operator, tuned in some dance music. Soon a bull-session started. Jacks got into an argument with Sergt. Paul Karoules, 26, of East Moline, Ill., over the relative merits of Mississippi and Illinois corn. Chiming in were Sergt. Earl D. Waller, 20, of Tyler, Tex., a gunner; Horace Gonzales, 22, of San Antonio, Tex., gunner; Stephen Ziminski, 24, of Old Cranberry, Pa., bombardier; and James Marshall, 21, of St. Louis, engineer. I learned from Lieut. R.G. Ziegmont, 23, of Chicago, navigator, that this crew had attacked Jap targets in Burma repeatedly, and had sunk two large Jap cargo vessels and probably destroyed a Zero fighter. I went up to talk with Lieut. Herb Wunderlich, 22, of Williston Park, L.I., pilot, and Lieut. Emil Gavlak, 27, of Portage, Pa., co-pilot. They were taking it easy with ‘‘George’’ (the automatic pilot) doing most of the work. Wunderlich has a grudge against the Japs. They shot out two of his motors over Rangoon last summer, forcing him to crash land in the Chin hills. The trip back to civilization, through jungles and over mountains, took 29 days. Finally Wunderlich ordered everyone to put on high altitude equipment and go to their stations. The plane was blacked out, but the moon was so bright I could read my notes easily. My station was on the flight deck. My oxygen and telephone cords were only four feet long, so my maneuverability was nearly zero, particularly as I was wearing a ‘‘Mae West’’ vest in case of a bailout over water. We climbed up and up. Periodically, the pilot would order an oxygen check, and we would count off over the telephone: ‘‘No. 1 O.K.,’’ ‘‘No. 2 O.K.,’’ etc. My fingers became so stiff I couldn’t write. My ears and toes were numb. I felt woozy until I turned on more oxygen. Soon we were over Rangoon. The city was almost completely blacked out, but I saw fires started by bombers which preceded us. Scattered clouds at first obscured our targets—the docks, the central railroad station, and military objectives in the heart of the city. Wunderlich stooged around for 35 minutes. Then Ziminski shouted that he could see the targets. I jerked off my oxygen mask and telephone headset, crawled to the bomb bay, and saw the bombs slip smoothly out of their racks and From News Droughts to Monsoons : 103

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explode with brilliant flashes. The Japs gave us no fighter plane or ackack opposition. It was all over in a few seconds. Forty miles along the return trip, I looked back and saw one of the fires we had started, blazing fiercely. We nosed down to a more comfortable altitude. My eardrums ached. The crew men dropped off to sleep, one by one. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t. I kept telling myself that nobody had told me to make the trip. I probably would feel very much abused if they had. After the bone-chilling bomber raid, Dad returned to AP’s India headquarters, where he held down the fort alone until his colleagues returned. AP’S INDIA HEADQUARTERS May 14, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve been alone at headquarters since May 8—and busy most of the time, although the thrilling news from Tunisia* probably crowded my comparatively insignificant stuff clear out of everybody’s newspapers. We’re hoping the presence of so many CBI† bigshots in Washington means something, but I doubt that anything on a large scale can start out here for many months. I don’t see how the United Nations can swing all-out simultaneous offensives against the European mainland and the Japs in this part of the world. Undoubtedly, our show will have to wait until the European theater is cleaned up, and that won’t be an overnight affair. I think we should be wary of false optimism resulting from our North African successes. We’ve barely started to win the war—and the worst is yet to come! I was interested in what you said April 4 about the Madame,‡ Mom. She’s a good press agent for her outfit. There’s another side to the story. Someday, I’ll tell you. *After the Allies lost a critical mountain pass at Kasserine, Tunisia, to German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel’s forces in February 1943, General Dwight D. Eisenhower ordered General George S. Patton to organize the American II Corps to retaliate against the Germans. Patton succeeded in strengthening the American troops and, with the aid of British General Bernard Montgomery’s Eighth Army, forced Rommel to retreat. Keith D. Dickson, World War II For Dummies (New York: Hungry Minds, Inc., 2001), 199–200. †China-Burma-India theater. ‡Madame Chiang Kai-shek.

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The news about General Andrews and Bishop Leonard certainly was shocking.* Andrews was one of our best leaders—and well liked by everyone. I met him in Cairo before coming to India last December. I had been looking forward to an interview with Leonard, whom I vaguely remember as having seen some time or other. Those accidents are bound to happen occasionally. Some people are lucky, others aren’t. I’ve been in the latter category ever since leaving NYC—and expect to remain there! My last tour of the bases lasted from March 10 until May 8. After Grover returns, I’ll probably take off again for the bases, which seem to have become my regular beat. The next tour probably will be much shorter. Grover still wants me to work for awhile in China, but that assignment will depend upon future developments. Bill McGaffin has gone to Russia, and Frank Martin still is trying to regain his health at Kashmir. Thusly, Grover and I have been handling all of the India news—what there is of it, I mean! I had a telegram from Frank yesterday, saying he planned to return around the 18th. If he does, I may leave before Grover gets back. My assignments so far haven’t given me much opportunity to delve into Indian politics—and I’ll have to admit I’m not too disappointed. However, I had an interesting guest yesterday, N. Sivaraj, president of the All-India Scheduled Castes Federation, who recently returned from several months in the United States. I was glad to get his slants on life and people in the United States, particularly with reference to the average American’s knowledge of, and interest in, Indian affairs. I’m going to be his luncheon guest today and hope to learn more about what you people are thinking about us. Love, Toby As British and Indian troops withdrew from Western Burma for additional training, Dad expressed his discouragement about their lack of jungle-fighting skills. *During the first stages of the war, General Frank Maxwell Andrews commanded all forces in Europe. Andrews was widely known for his strong belief in and championship of air warfare. He was killed in an aircraft accident in dense fog on May 3, 1942, in Iceland. Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland was named in his honor. Arlington National Cemetery. http://tiny.cc/Andrews960 (accessed May 19, 2010). Bishop Adna Wright Leonard I, renowned Methodist bishop from Buffalo, New York, and chairman

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AP’S INDIA HEADQUARTERS May 17, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I was interested in your paragraph on rationing, Mom. You should be over here. We have plenty of everything to eat, although food [is] becoming quite a problem in some Indian areas. Coffee? Not as good as Maxwell House, or those A&P brands, but we can have all we want to drink. I’ll bet my Betts would give almost anything to be where she could have all the coffee she wanted. Our news has been on the discouraging side, I’m sorry to say. The British and Indians are withdrawing from Western Burma, as you’ve probably noted in the communique´s. They simply weren’t able to cope with the Japs in jungled country. They’re being pulled back for further training that doubtless will consume several months. The Japs now occupy much of the territory which I covered during my Arakan assignment last January. Grover returned unexpectedly last night from a trip to Northeastern India. He had planned to stay in that area several days more than he did, but was able to get everything cleaned up in a short time. Frank Martin, who has been recuperating from malaria and amoebic dysentery at Kashmir, probably will report back to work sometime this week. Thus, we are gradually returning to normalcy—for the first time in weeks. That China deal is still a possibility, but please continue using my APO 885 address until you hear from me. Love, Toby Off on another air-base tour, my father struggled with Burma’s monsoon rains—and the heat and humidity that accompanied them. U.S. HEAVY BOMBER BASE SOMEWHERE IN INDIA May 26, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks for your May 2 letter, Mom. You must have been very busy at the time, and it was grand of you to take off enough time to drop me a few lines. The letters which you and Dad write certainly help to buoy of the Methodist Commission on Chaplains, died in the ill-fated plane crash along with General Andrews. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/Leonard (accessed May 19, 2010).

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my spirits and keep me plugging away. No tonic ever was more effective. I started another tour of the U.S. air bases May 23 and probably will be away [censored] six weeks to two months. Heretofore, I’ve found considerable news at each base—features, as well as spot developments—but I’m bound to run into slim pickins this time. The monsoon has hit Burma, and that means a sharp reduction in our operations over that area. I never have experienced hot weather such as this—100 to 125 degrees daily, and not far from 100 at night! The heat has been so intense my lips have cracked and peeled. Two minutes after I put on fresh clothes, they are soaking wet. At night, my sheet becomes clammy a few seconds after I lie down. Day before yesterday, I was at a place where the temperature was 129 in the shade. In addition, we had a dust storm there, and I thought I would suffocate. Some of the fellows poured pitchers of water all over their beds in an effort to cool themselves off. As you know, I’ve always preferred hot weather to cold—but not this kind of hot weather! In New Delhi, I was able to keep fairly comfortable by swimming daily and staying inside as much as possible under huge electric fans, where I could breathe cool air that came through khus-khus.* But out here, there are no such conveniences. All a fellow can do is sweat and bear it. I’m looking forward to going on a mission in a day or so, because we’ll probably fly at an altitude of 7,000 feet or more where the air is cool. In the past three days, I’ve had the good fortune to talk to three bigshots who gave me an excellent picture of what’s happening in other theaters and back home. They were optimistic, but confirmed what I had believed all along—that the war in the Far East can’t be won before the summer of 1945. I’m convinced Italy will be out of the war in three or four months, but Germany will hang on somehow until the fall of 1944. We’re getting more and more stuff out here, but we’ll have to have many times the present amount to polish off the Japs, so it will take a considerable time for us to get going. Glad you liked the pictures which Betts forwarded—they were taken in Western Burma, from which the British and Indians have since retreated. Love, Toby *Screens made from the roots of an East Indian grass.

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From the Indianapolis News, June 7, 1943 (Associated Press article): INJURED YANKS IN INDIA ARE FLOWN TO ARABIAN HOSPITAL by Thoburn Wiant SOMEWHERE IN INDIA, June 5 (Delayed) (AP)—To see how injured and ill American soldiers are being treated, I flew 1,300 miles in a special hospital plane to a general hospital in this Arabian seaport today. Our pilot was Lieutenant Robert Beck, 22, of Long Beach, on Indiana’s Lake Michigan shore, who made the flight in two hops, stopping at noon to refuel and eat. Among the 13 patients making the trip were two bomber crewmen who had experienced amazing escapes from death. The group, including five stretcher cases, left an advance hospital two hours after dawn and arrived before nightfall, little the worse for wear. It would have required several days to make the trip by train. The two who had close brushes with death were Sergeants William Harbes, 25, Johnson City, Tenn., engineer-gunner, and James McAuliffe, 26, Boston, radio-gunner. Their medium bomber caught fire on a takeoff a few weeks ago and crashed. Three other crew members were killed when five bombs exploded. Sergeant Harbes suffered hip and head injuries; Sergeant McAuliffe, a compound fracture of the right ankle. The bombardier got out alive and is back on the job. After preparing to be in the field for a month or more, Dad unexpectedly found himself back at India’s AP headquarters. AP’S INDIA HEADQUARTERS June 7, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: When I left here May 23, I didn’t expect to be back for four to six weeks. But one thing led to another—and here I am. Last Friday, I was in Calcutta trying to hitch a plane ride to Assam. However, planes scheduled for that direction were grounded because of weather, so I changed my plans and headed westward. Saturday, I flew in a hospital plane to Karachi, where I spent the night in an American officers’ club that resembled a maharajah’s palace. I slept outdoors on a porch where 108 : From News Droughts to Monsoons

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I could get the full benefit of the cool winds blowing inland from the Arabian Sea. About 2 a.m., I was awakened by rain. Half-asleep, I managed to carry my bedding and belongings inside just before it began to pour. Even inside the place, it was much more comfortable than any other spot I’ve found in weeks. Sunday, I flew here from Karachi at altitudes which kept all of us coolish. The best way to beat the heat is to get into a plane and climb away from it. The heat here is pretty terrific—above 100 degrees daily. Before long, we’ll be sweating it out at 130 degrees or more! My future plans are indefinite, as usual. I may leave today, tomorrow, or several days from now—I dunno. Newsgathering is becoming quite a problem because there’s no news to gather. There probably won’t be much until after the monsoon, which is supposed to wear itself out sometime next October. By that time, we’ll probably be worn out, too—by inactivity! So far, I’ve managed to do two or three stories weekly, but even that puny production will be hard to maintain in the future. I’ve certainly learned out here how to be patient. Patience will be the thing until our big show starts. Then, we’ll get all of the stories we can handle—and probably more! I’m convinced our show will be the biggest of ’em all, once we shift into high gear. These Japs are tough and tireless. They don’t give up. They either win or commit hara-kiri. I often think of how we were misled before Dec. 7, 1941. Remember those people who said, ‘‘Japan doesn’t dare to start anything against us. If they did, we’d knock ’em out in three weeks.’’ Three years will be more like it. Personally, I don’t expect them to take the count before the fall of 1945. The monsoon has gradually decreased our bombing operations over Burma, as you doubtless have noticed in the communique´s and my stories. When I left here May 23, I went to a heavy bomber base, where I sat six days before a mission was attempted. Then, we started out on a sea sweep, but reached a point only 100 miles southwest of Calcutta over the Bay of Bengal. There, we ran smack-dab into a solid wall of monsoon stuff. We couldn’t get over, around, or under it. There was nothing to do but turn around, which we did reluctantly. That mission was my 13th since arriving in this theater Dec. 1, 1942. It was unlucky only in that we were unable to reach our destination, the sea lanes leading to Rangoon. From News Droughts to Monsoons : 109

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Do me a favor, will ya? I know you’re busy as the devil, but would you take a run up to NYC one of these weeks and make sure Betts has everything she needs? Keep fat and sassy—and I’ll be aseein’ you some one of these years. Love, Toby Although his patience continued to be tested by the lack of newsworthy stories, my father remained hopeful that he would see more action soon.

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.. chapter eight .. .. . ........................................................... . .. .. .. .. hitting the ball hard, .. .. .. .. june–aug. 1943 I’ve had strong arguments with other persons, some holding positions of prominence, about the propaganda emanating from this theater. My theory is that the people back home should be given the bald facts, instead of frequent distortions or half-truths. Their theory is that the facts would be bad on morale. I’ve always believed in telling people the truth—and been confident they could take it and work their way out of any situation. I still believe it. toby wiant, July 31, 1943 Dad spent the summer of 1943 in China doing what he did best: touring air bases and interviewing fliers. The news drought was still in effect, though he wrote stories about an old friend from his ‘‘Indy 500’’ days, World War I flying ace Eddie Rickenbacker,* as well as General Joseph W. ‘‘Vinegar Joe’’ Stilwell, whom he would come to know far better in the weeks ahead. The tone of my father’s letters became tinged with frustration at America’s false optimism that the war would end soon. He believed that the country was being misled by government war analysts and that the American people deserved to know the truth. Reluctantly, he kept within the boundaries set for the press, but he shared as much as he could about the war’s progress. An article he wrote in June was not published until August—it was a ‘‘mailer,’’ a story without an urgent publication deadline. From the Indianapolis News, August 19, 1943 (Associated Press article): CANTON-HONGKONG AREA AT MERCY OF CHINESE, YANK FLYERS, SAYS RICK by Toby Wiant NEW DELHI, June (Delayed) (AP)—Eddie Rickenbacker, round-theworld observer for Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson, told American *See photo section.

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newsmen here June 10 that the Chinese, aided by the 14th United States Air Force, could retake the Canton-Hongkong area any time they chose. ‘‘From there,’’ he pointed out at an informal press conference, ‘‘we could seriously disrupt the Japs’ lines of communications to the Southwest Pacific. We would have a four- or five-day crack at their convoys with our bombers. If we missed them one day, we could go back for them the next. We could force the Japs into the open sea, where our submarines and warships could come to grips with them. ‘‘The Canton-Hongkong area would put us in a springboard position for an attack on Formosa. With Formosa in our hands, we could set up a line of communication with the States that would be only half as long as the one now connecting America and China.’’ Capt. Rickenbacker paused here only a few hours before proceeding by air to Russia. He told of arriving at an American heavy bomber base in China on a day when nine B-24s and ten P-40s were jumped by thirty to forty enemy fighter planes. Twenty-six of the Japs were destroyed. Only two American planes were reported missing. ‘‘You should have seen our fellows when they landed back at base,’’ Rickenbacker exclaimed. ‘‘They climbed upon the wings of their planes and laughed and shouted and thumped each other on the back.’’ He expressed belief the Japs were training cadet pilots in China for service in the Southwest Pacific. ‘‘But lots of them never will see the Southwest Pacific,’’ Rickenbacker observed. ‘‘They’re simply no match for our fliers.’’ Rickenbacker, president of Eastern Airlines, asserted the problem of flying supplies from India over the Himalayas into China wasn’t any greater than that of flying from New York to Richmond, Va., in winter weather. ‘‘Sure, it’s tough,’’ he admitted, ‘‘but the problem can be solved. We need—and will get—more and more planes, shuttling back and forth in flocks across the hump, day after day.’’ From New Delhi, Dad flew to China, arriving there on June 17—his eighth wedding anniversary. The city of Chungking fascinated him, and, faced with a news lull, he spent much of his time sightseeing.

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14TH AIR FORCE HEADQUARTERS June 28, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: When I left New Delhi June 15, I expected to be in China only a few days, trailing Col. Tom Campbell, the Montana wheat king who currently is transportation and maintenance advisor to the U.S. Air Corps. There was nothing doing in the way of news in India, and Press Grover thought Campbell’s activities in China might produce some stories. To date, however, I’ve written only one story about the gentleman—from Chungking. His activities have turned out to be not so interesting. But I’ve been doing some U.S. air base stories which seem to justify the time I’ve spent out here. I arrived in China June 17, my wedding anniversary! I spent two and a half days at the 14th Air Force Headquarters, then flew with Campbell to Chungking, where I stayed until June 25 at the Press Hostel with Spencer Moosa, AP’s bureau chief, and his wife, Nina. Chungking is an amazing place, built atop and inside countless hills. Transportation is at a premium, so I walked my legs off sightseeing. I was struck by two sights: thousands of two-wheeled, horse-drawn carts, all equipped with rubber tires; and the unbelievably astronomical prices. Second-hand watches were priced at $3,000 Chinese dollars; tencent combs, $2,000; pipes, $1,000 each; a small tube of Colgate’s dental cream, $400; a second-hand suit I wouldn’t be caught dead in, $3,000; a small tin of shoe polish, $40; a Chinese-made shirt, $550; toothpicks, $50 a package (small); a small cake of inferior soap, $18—and so forth. The official rate is 20 Chinese dollars for one American dollar, and the black-market rate, where most of us get our money exchanged, 60 Chinese dollars for one American. I met most of the bigshots in Chungking, excepting the Generalissimo, who’s almost inaccessible. The U.S. charge, George W. Atcheson Jr., was especially hospitable. One day, the Moosas gave a buffet luncheon in my honor, and most of the American and Chinese press corps were present. I attended one official press conference. Afterwards, a Chinese photographer took my picture, and he said he would hang it in the press conference room, alongside those of other newsmen who have helped to cover Chungking. I wasn’t able to

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produce much in the way of news in Chungking, because I hit the place during a lull. I returned by plane to the 14th Air Force Headquarters June 25, since which time I’ve written stories on the heavy bomb group’s activities and Major-General Chennault’s press conference. Only two of us, Darrell Berrigan of UP and I, were on hand for Chennault’s conference, his first since he returned from Washington. Consequently, we had the story to ourselves. Most of the other correspondents were with the Chinese army in the East, a trip that seemed unlikely to produce much copy. Chennault, puffing steadily at his pipe, gave us nearly an hour. At first, he talked on dry subjects, and it seemed we weren’t going to get much of a story. Then, I asked him whether he cared to comment on what he had seen and learned in Washington. He opened up and gave us plenty of good quotes, which you probably saw in my story. I enjoy working with Berrigan (‘‘Berry’’) because he’s very likeable and a square-shooter. I’ve worked with him off and on ever since I arrived in India last December 1. By the way, he’s mentioned many times in Jack Belden’s best-seller, Retreat With Stilwell. I obtained a copy of Jack’s book only recently—we’re always months behind in reading out here—and have almost completed it. I met Jack in Cairo before I left, and I must admit I didn’t think he had such an excellent book in him. Berry, who was with Jack a great deal of the time in Burma, says he stuck fairly close to the facts, although the first three chapters were written by ‘‘a friend,’’ whom I suspect was Berry. The correspondents live together in one room here at the 14th Air Force Headquarters. Presently, Berry and I are the only occupants, but Sgt. Marion Hargrove—of ‘‘See Here, Private Hargrove’’ fame—is due back from Chungking any time now.* Hargrove, who cleaned up in a big way with his book and the movie rights, now is a staff writer for Yank magazine. Berry and I plan to remain here two or three days, then proceed to one of the bases in the East. I want to do some stories and go on at least two combat missions before returning to India. Later, I may return to *‘‘See Here, Private Hargrove’’ was a 1944 movie based on the life of Sergeant Marion Hargrove, a journalist who enlisted in the Army to write about his training experiences. Robert Walker starred as Hargrove, with other notable cast members including Donna Reed, Keenan Wynn, and Robert Benchley.

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China and cover the air bases for a month or two, while Moosa and Reilly O’Sullivan take some time off. I hope to take some time off myself one of these days. I’ve been hitting the ball hard, seven days a week, ever since I went to work in Egypt last October. There have been many days in which I haven’t been able to produce any yarns, but that doesn’t mean I was idle those days. As a matter of fact, I’ve worked my hardest on the days that I wound up with nothing. Ever since arriving in India, I haven’t stayed in one place more than three weeks. Usually, I remain only a week and proceed to some other place. I’ve lived almost constantly out of a kit bag. I’ve kept my stuff packed most of the time because I’ve never known when I would have to move elsewhere on five minutes’—or less—notice. Sometimes, I long for a place where I can unpack my things, hang them up in a closet, and settle down for awhile. Both Frank Martin and Press Grover have had time off since I’ve been out here, but their times off came as a result of illness. Frank went to Kashmir after a malaria-and-dysentery attack. Press is up there now after his second malaria bout in six months. Mebbe I’m too healthy! But I’m knocking on wood because I’ve been bitten severely by mosquitoes in the past week. I always sleep under a net, but the mosquitoes here are so fierce they drill right through and go to work on me. I’ve been bitten before, down in Western Burma, where Frank contracted malaria, so possibly I’m not susceptible to the disease (I hope!). Love, Toby From the Indianapolis News, July 1, 1943 (Associated Press article): 14TH AIR FORCE TO WIND UP FIRST (AND VERY BUSY!) YEAR IN CHINA by Thoburn Wiant FOURTEENTH AIR FORCE HEADQUARTERS, June 28 (Delayed) (AP)—The United States army 14th air force, the world’s smallest air force operating in the largest territory, will wind up its first year July 4—a year of thrilling achievements which have surprised everyone, especially the Japs in China, Burma and Indo-China. The birthday will be the occasion for a celebration throughout the theater of operations—by Chinese as well as Americans. Hitting the Ball Hard : 115

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An address by the 14th’s colorful commander, Major General Claire L. Chennault, and fireworks are on the July 4 program. Under General Chennault’s brilliant guidance, the 14th not only fulfilled its first year’s mission of keeping the Japs at bay until reinforcements arrived, but lashed out offensively in close cooperation with Chinese ground forces. The most dramatic demonstration of an offensive turn came recently when American bomber-fighters attacked the Japanese in the Ichang area, enabling the Chinese to recapture important positions. As important as the effect of the American’s bombs and bullets was the effect on Chinese morale. For years the Chinese saw nothing but Japanese planes overhead. When the American planes came, the Chinese cheered and smashed forward. The 14th’s exploits have equaled—in some respects surpassed— those of the much publicized American volunteer group which preceded it. Chennault also headed that outfit. When the United States took over the AVG, the new organization was named the China task force of the 10th air force, and then became the 14th last March. Chennault now has P-40’s, Mitchells and Liberators* in his flying artillery. During the last year the P-40’s rolled up 2,869 missions, comprising 5,325 sorties—a sortie being one plane on one mission. According to official figures they destroyed 206 Japanese planes in the air and twentytwo on the ground, and probably destroyed ninety-eight more. Their losses are listed as fifteen planes lost in combat, fifteen lost by anti-aircraft fire, and eight on the ground. Eight American pilots were killed in combat and one by anti-aircraft fire. Three are missing. Nine P-40 pilots became aces by destroying five or more enemy planes. *The B-25 Mitchell, named in honor of military aviation pioneer General Billy Mitchell, was an American twin-engined medium bomber. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/ Mitchell985 (accessed May 19, 2010). The B-24 Liberator was an American heavy bomber—the most-produced U.S. aircraft of World War II. It wasn’t an easy plane to pilot, and it had a tendency to catch fire because of the placement of its fuel tanks. Still, its longer range and large bomb capacity made it one of the true workhorses of American air power. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/Liberator (accessed May 19, 2010).

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The leading ace was Captain John Hampshire, twenty-five, of Grants Pass, Ore., who destroyed thirteen in the air and one on the ground before he was killed in action last month. He shot down two Zeros before he crashed in that engagement. From Chennault down, the 14th to a man is proud of the record. But as one captain put it, ‘‘We’re going to give the Japs ten times as much hell this year.’’ Chennault, a world-class aerobatic pilot, approached Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek in 1937 to ask permission to bring American flight instructors to China to strengthen the weak and largely unskilled Chinese air force.* Chiang, however, did not agree with Chennault’s proposal and turned it down. In 1941, as Japan’s air attacks began exacting a huge toll on China, Chiang finally admitted that he needed help and gave his blessing to Chennault’s beefing up of Chinese air power. Chennault began searching for young American fighter pilots interested in making nearly twice as much as they made in the Army. To join the American Volunteer Group, or AVG, pilots were required to resign their Army commissions. A higher salary and a $500 bonus for each Japanese aircraft they brought down were hard to resist. Unfortunately, Chennault was unable to find enough qualified young pilots, so he turned to bomber pilots and pilots of submarine-chasers, who were older and had done little, if any, pursuit-aircraft flying. Chennault used a fleet of older P-40 fighters and trained his pilots quickly. One of the pilots, a former Associated Press illustrator, painted a shark-tooth marking on the nose of his plane. Soon all the pilots were asking him to do the same to their planes. The AVG got its first call on December 21, 1941, to intercept a squadron of Japanese bombers headed for Kunming. A 130-mile fight ensued as the AVG pilots demonstrated their ‘‘unorthodox’’ flying skills, tallying at least three kills. Later they learned that only one Japanese bomber returned to its base. The ‘‘Flying Tigers,’’ as the AVG came to be known, had proven their mettle.† From CBI Roundup (discontinued U.S. Army publication), July 15, 1943: RECORD SET FOR NIP INACTIVITY by Toby Wiant, Associated Press War Correspondent HEADQUARTERS, 14TH AIR FORCE—Gen. Claire L. Chennault disclosed at a press conference that the Japs failed to make any air *Donovan Webster, The Burma Road: The Epic Story of the China-Burma-India Theater in World War II (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003), 62. †Ibid., 62–63.

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attacks on unoccupied China during the last week in June. He said, ‘‘I believe this sets a record for Jap inactivity in China.’’ Chennault conceded that bad weather held the American air force on the ground but pointed out that the Japs had failed to take advantage of good weather in many unoccupied Chinese localities. ‘‘It is possible the Japs do not wish to lose any more planes in China for a while because they are needed so badly elsewhere,’’ the general stated. Chennault said that American-trained Chinese airmen have made excellent records. ‘‘They are anxious to participate in the defeat of the Japs and eager for an opportunity to prove it. They are confident they are better airmen than the Japs,’’ he said. From the Indianapolis News, July 16, 1943 (Associated Press article): YANK BOMBERS DESTROY 3 JAP SHIPS IN CHINA by Thoburn Wiant UNITED STATES HEAVY BOMBER HEADQUARTERS IN CHINA, July 12 (Delayed) (AP)—Two waves of American Liberators struck a heavy blow against Japanese shipping today when they sank three enemy vessels, aggregating 14,000 tons, at Hongay and Campha ports. In addition, one wave of the Liberators destroyed the main power plant at Hongay, thirty miles northeast of Haiphong, then dived to an altitude of only twenty-five feet and strafed to pieces a Japanese seaplane tied up to the Hongay dock. The other unit strafed the docks and rail installations at Campha port. All the Liberators and their crews returned safely. No enemy fighters showed up. The Liberators ran into light anti-aircraft fire enroute to their targets. One vessel—a 6,000-ton freighter—was sunk at Campha by a plane piloted by Lieutenant Frank E. Ferrell, twenty-one, of Hurtsboro, Ala. Captain Phil Adler, age twenty-eight, Lebanon, Ind., piloting a plane in the same wave said, ‘‘The freighter was entirely submerged when I flew over the spot ten minutes later.’’ I learned later that ‘‘All the Liberators and their crews returned safely’’ was not a true statement, but the inaccuracy wasn’t due to poor reporting. My father 118 : Hitting the Ball Hard

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and other correspondents were required to report fewer casualties than actually occurred in order to keep morale high among the troops. U.S. AIR BASE IN EASTERN CHINA July 15, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I wish I knew what was happening in Sicily. All I’ve heard, stuck out here in the wilds of Eastern China, is that the Allies have made landings and met considerable resistance. Someone started a rumor the Italians already have capitulated, but that’s too good to be true, I’m afraid. You’re lucky guys to be able to have your newspaper in one hand and your radio in the other, following the operations play-by-play. Out here, news from the outside world is a catch-as-catch-can proposition. Sometimes, if the weather is good and if the Japs aren’t in a jamming mood, we can pick up newscasts from San Francisco. Most of the time, however, we can get only Shanghai or Tokyo—and these broadcasts are so highly colored by the Japs that I don’t believe a word I hear. They certainly can lie a million miles a minute. I know because I’ve heard them tell tall tales about operations which I’ve personally viewed. Once, for example, they claimed they had shot down four of eight bombers which raided a certain place. Actually, all of the bombers and the crews returned safely. On the other hand, we’re permitted to stick pretty close to the truth all of the time, and the American communique´s are usually reliable. If anything, the Americans play down, rather than play up. For example, nine Liberators were jumped by 50 enemy planes over the Ichang area several weeks ago. Our communique´ said we shot down 20 planes. Wreckage of 34 enemy planes was found later. That was a terrific show. One gunner alone got four confirmed and three probables. I flew to this place yesterday through the worst weather imaginable, as rough a ride as I’ve had in about 75,000 miles of flying. I didn’t think we would be able to land because of the fog hiding mountains which dot this area like pimples on a sick kid’s face. But our pilot was one of the best, and he did a superb job of wriggling onto this strip. This is an unbelievable area. From the air, it seems like a tray full of inverted ice cream cones. The mountains resemble gigantic stalagmites, rising hundreds of feet into the air almost perpendicularly from the ground. Some of their tips are hidden by clouds. They are filled Hitting the Ball Hard : 119

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with caves which make excellent air raid shelters. The Japs have hit this place numerous times, but they’ve done very little damage. The warning system is one of the best, and everyone has plenty of time to duck into a cave. One cave, I’m told, is large enough to accommodate 40,000 people. I saw one cave in which a two-story house had been built. I’ve never been in an air-conditioned room that was more comfortable. You may have seen my story on the Haiphong raid by Liberators July 8. It was my first trip over Indo-China, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. To date, I’ve gone on 14 missions over Burma, Thailand, and Indo-China. That leaves Formosa and Tokyo, and I’d give my right arm to see those shows someday. Did Time magazine ever use that story on me which Bill Fisher cabled six or eight weeks ago? It was based on the fact that I’d become the flyingest war correspondent in this theater, a dubious distinction, I’m afraid. I’ve certainly been a lucky guy. I’ve never been in an airplane accident. In 14 missions, I’ve never seen an enemy plane. I’ve never been bombed, although I’ve visited many places which were bombed prior to or following my visits. No plane in which I’ve been an observer has been hit by ack-ack, although I’ve seen ack-ack so thick it resembled a flock of airplanes flying formation with us. On two occasions, the ackack was so close it rocked our plane gently like a mother rocking a cradle. Once, we were hit by groundfire, but no one was hurt, or even scared much. I haven’t been sick a day, and I’ve eaten all kinds of food in all kinds of places. I believe I’m the only correspondent out here who hasn’t had malaria and/or dysentery. I guess I’m too mean and ornery for the bugs. Enclosed is a picture of Lieut.-Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell and me taken the other day at the 14th Air Force Headquarters.* Stilwell is a grand guy. He’s almost 61, but he has more strength and endurance than most fellows 30 years younger, including me. He’s always on the ball mentally. I’ve heard him stumped only once. That was when he walked up to a sergeant during inspection and asked, ‘‘Where are you from?’’ ‘‘From Baltimore, sir,’’ the sergeant answered. ‘‘Do you miss those crabs?’’ the General inquired. *See photo section.

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‘‘What kind do you mean, sir?’’ the sergeant asked. Whereupon everybody, including Stilwell, broke out in belly laughs. Crabs—the itching kind—are plentiful out in this part of the world, but so far I’ve escaped even those. But I knock on wood at least once a day. This is my tenth month away from the States, and it seems like ten years. I’ve become reconciled to the probability I won’t get back until sometime in 1945. I’m convinced we won’t be able to knock out the Japs before then. The Japs are tough customers, tougher in many ways than the Nazis. Don’t let any pot-bellied war analyst who sits in a comfortable armchair back in the States tell you differently! Love, Toby From the Indianapolis News, July 27, 1943 (Associated Press article): U.S. ARMY CONDUCTS TWO SCHOOLS IN CHINA TO TRAIN CHIANG’S MEN by Thoburn H. Wiant A UNITED STATES INFANTRY-ARTILLERY TRAINING CENTER IN CHINA, July 27 (AP)—Thousands of Chinese officers and enlisted men will be schooled in American infantry and artillery practices at two new centers which the United States army has established here in the Hollywoodish setting of the Himalayan foothills. The centers have been operating since April 1. Scores of key Chinese soldiers already have completed courses ranging from horseshoeing to complex artillery calculations and have returned to their units to instruct others. This process will continue until the whole of the Chinese army has been affected. The centers are unique in Chinese military history. They are called centers because from them go trained Chinese who establish smaller schools in all parts of unoccupied China. The centers are symbolic of the spirit of all for one and one for all—to break the Japanese stranglehold. The instructors teach through interpreters. It’s a sluggish procedure, but nobody complains. As one Chinese put it, ‘‘We’re not going to complain especially about inconsequentials no matter what it takes to do the job.’’ Head of the infantry center is Brigadier General Thomas S. Arms, age fifty, of Cleveland. He has spent twenty-seven years in the United States army and his three sons are following in his footsteps. Lieutenant Hitting the Ball Hard : 121

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Thomas S. Arms, Jr., is serving under his dad here in the tactical section. Robert is an instructor in the Royal Canadian Air Forces. William is in the United States air forces officer candidate school back home. Mrs. Arms lives in Carmel, Cal. ‘‘We’re not trying to make experts, but expert instructors, out of the Chinese,’’ the general explained. He said theories taught by the Chinese and the Americans don’t differ much, but there is a big difference in the instructional methods. ‘‘These Chinese,’’ he pointed out, ‘‘have instructed heretofore by the lecture method whereas we go into the field and teach by actual experience under conditions that are as real as possible.’’ General Arms, who served in several infantry schools in the States before coming to China, declared, ‘‘Chinese learn as rapidly as Americans—sometimes more rapidly. They take voluminous notes and frequently are more attentive and better disciplined.’’ On General Arms’ staff are eighty American instructors and sixtytwo Chinese interpreters. The field artillery center is commanded by Brigadier General Jerome J. Waters, age fifty-one, of Springfield, Mo. On his staff are sixty-nine Americans, including Lieutenant W.B. Teeney, Bloomington, Ind. After six weeks in China uncovering more stories than he’d anticipated, Dad prepared to return to New Delhi—and to what he hoped would be a tall stack of mail from home. 14TH AIR FORCE HEADQUARTERS—CHINA July 31, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: My stay in China is drawing to a close. Early tomorrow morning, I’m scheduled to take off with one of my pilot friends, Lt. Charles Harlin of Decatur, Ill., for New Delhi. If everything goes all right, we’ll be there tomorrow evening. That means a hard day of flying, over part of China and half of India, but I’d rather do the trip that way than spread it out over two or three days, sleeping in different beds nightly and eating many kinds of food. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working and living in China for the past six weeks. I’ve found the period quite productive for a theater that’s puny compared with Sicily, Russia, and the Solomons. I’ve been able to turn out 26 stories since June 20, an average of more than one every two 122 : Hitting the Ball Hard

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days. That’s much better than I could have done in India during the same period, I’m sure. Back at New Delhi, I’ll be able to get at that stack of mail which I hope has been accumulating to stupendous proportions. I’ve had no mail whatsoever since leaving AP’s India headquarters June 15. Believe me, it’s no fun to go that long without having any word from anyone back home, because letters are like the gasoline that keeps a motor running—especially in a theater as dull as the one I’ve worked in since Dec. 1, 1942. I find myself inclined to gripe because I’m assigned to a place where little has happened—and little is likely to happen for a long time. Of course, I have considerable reasons for such a gripe, but—looking at the other side of the picture—I’ve managed to pack quite a little action into the past eight months. I think I’ve averaged three or four stories a week, better than many of the correspondents have been able to do. I’ve witnessed 15 bombing raids on Burma, Thailand, and French IndoChina, a record for war reporters out here. Since Oct. 1, 1942, I’ve flown well over 75,000 miles, including 25,000–30,000 miles of combat flying. I’ve witnessed land fighting in Western Burma and jeeped to within a few miles of the Japs in Northcentral Burma. These, though, seem to be oddities: I’ve never seen an enemy fighter or bomber, while on the ground or in the air; I’ve never seen a Jap, dead or alive; no plane in which I’ve ridden has been hit by ack-ack (one was hit by two machine-gun bullets); no plane in which I’ve been a passenger has had even a slight accident; I’ve never undergone bombing, although many places I’ve visited were bombed either before or after my visits. Others have had these experiences—but not me! The other day, for example, I visited two advance American bases in Eastern China. It was as calm at those places as Tremont City, Ohio! Yet, the day after I left, the Japs came over in force—bombers and fighters—and put on a whale of a show. Since July 23, the Japs have made a determined, but highly successful effort to knock out our Eastern bases. Damage to the bases has been negligible, and the Japs have suffered heavy losses—more than 70 planes destroyed, 50 probably destroyed, and nearly a score damaged. Our losses during the period were slight in comparison. Hitting the Ball Hard : 123

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Today I was lucky enough to find a copy of the May 22 issue of Collier’s. In it, I read an article on the war with Japan, written by AP’s former war correspondent, Clark Lee. He was exactly right—the Japs already have won their war; we haven’t really started to win ours. My estimates of the length of the war with Japan increase the longer I stay out here and the more I see with my own eyes. People back in the States don’t seem to realize how much must be done before we’re even ready to start a fight to the finish with the Japs. I try to get the idea across in some of my stories, but you’ll understand why I can’t present a clear-cut picture. I sometimes long to be able to get back to the States and tell the people the facts. They would be astounded. Indeed, I doubt that more than 30 percent of the people would believe me, because they’ve been propagandized so thoroughly. The Americans out here have done splendidly with what they have—but they’ve had damned little! There are many reasons for them having so little, of course—such as the invasions of North Africa and Sicily. But there are other reasons. I’ve had strong arguments with other persons, some holding positions of prominence, about the propaganda emanating from this theater. My theory is that the people back home should be given the bald facts, instead of frequent distortions or half-truths. Their theory is that the facts would be bad on morale. I’ve always believed in telling people the truth—and been confident they could take it and work their way out of any situation. I still believe it. Until the people back home know rightly about conditions out here—and multiply their efforts many times—we’re not going to be able to defeat the Japs. The longer we postpone multiplication of effort, the better the Japs are going to be able to entrench themselves. They’re becoming stronger and stronger, despite any impressions to the contrary you may have received. They’re a long ways from being licked. I used to say that Japan would be knocked out in 1945. Sometimes, I now think that estimate is far too conservative. Love, Toby The next day my father flew back to India, where no good stories were waiting—but thirty-seven letters were.

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10TH AIR FORCE HEADQUARTERS—INDIA Aug. 8, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Here I am, back at the old stand, sweating out some news—and not being able to find any! I arrived a week ago today. The return flight was perfect—took off in China at dawn and landed here at dusk. However, I should qualify that ‘‘perfect flight’’ phrase. It was ‘‘perfect’’ in that we got to where we were going. But the two engines on our transport were long overdue for changes—about 300 hours overdue, to be exact! Once, over the world’s roughest terrain, our left motor started spitting and coughing like a man with TB. The spasm didn’t last long, only a second or two, but it seemed like a mighty long time. When we made our first stop for gasoline, I asked our pilot, Lt. Charles Harlin of Decatur, Ill., whether he was worried. ‘‘Just about twice as much as you were,’’ he admitted. Later, the engine cut up a little again, but we were over territory where we could have made a safe forced landing. I certainly was lucky to get a ride direct from the 14th Air Force’s Headquarters to this place. Ordinarily, the trip requires two or three days, in easy stages. There were only four of us passengers and no freight, so it was like having a private plane at our disposal. There was no one at our office when I arrived, but I spotted what I had been looking forward to for days—mail, 37 letters all told. The next day, four more were plopped down on my desk. So I really had a field day, making up for the six weeks when I didn’t have any mail at all. I get a bang out of the blackouts back in the States. The closer I get to the front out here, the fewer blackouts I see. Arch Steele of the Chicago Daily News, just back from the States, said the other day we were much better off here than most cities in America, as far as food and living conditions were concerned—unbelievable as that seems. I had a pretty good spell of writing in China—26 stories from June 20 through July 31—but I’m not surprised you didn’t see many of them. The news breaking in this theater is puny compared with what’s happening in Sicily and Europe. I’ve become reconciled to the fact we’ll probably remain on the back pages for many, many months to come. . . . I’ve just learned three of my friends are helping to cover the Sicily show—and I’m green with envy. Don Whitehead is with the British

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Eighth Army; Hal Boyle, with the American Seventh Army; and Paul Lee, with the British Mediterranean fleet. I’d give almost anything to handle a big story—for once! My future plans are indefinite, as usual. Press Grover is due back in a day or so from Kashmir, where he has been writing a book. Frank Martin is here with me now, but he hopes to be able to get out into the field as soon as possible. That probably means I’ll remain here for several days. We’ve just been informed another AP staffer is coming out here—Clyde Farnsworth, with whom I worked in New York and Cairo. I don’t know what we’ll do to keep busy when he arrives. There isn’t enough to keep us occupied now. Love, Toby P.S. Here’s a picture taken when I was in the jungle on the IndoBurma border several weeks ago. At the left is Robert Martin of UP; at the right, Bob Bryant of INP.* Boredom was the status quo for most of August. Dad was impatient for the European ‘‘show’’ to begin. A 1,600-word article he wrote in early August wasn’t published until August 31 because of its non-priority status as a ‘‘mailer’’—a story sent back to the States by mail or boat instead of by cable. 10TH AIR FORCE HEADQUARTERS—INDIA Aug. 15, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I got a big bang out of your July 26 letter and its enclosure, Dad. The Post-Gazette certainly did all right by the Wiants, with a two-column picture of you and Howard, in addition to a good interview. Howard hit the nail on the head when he said mail comes even before food at the Army bases. The same is true out here, of course—true the world over, for that matter. I was interested in hearing about Mike Benedum’s optimism with respect to the end of the war. If he wishes to be optimistic, more power to him. But personal experience has convinced me the war out here can’t be won before the end of 1945. We don’t have the stuff, first of all. Besides, the Japs are much tougher than the Germans. As you know, the little yellow bastards are fanatical. They fight until everything is lost, then commit hara-kiri. The Germans, on the other hand, are realists. If *See photo section.

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they can’t win, then they surrender—as any sensible soldier would. It will be an altogether different war out here than the one now being fought in Sicily. I’m in the midst of an extremely dull period. I’ve written only two stories—a 1,600-word mailer on the U.S. Air Service Command and a 400-word cable on Major-General Bissell’s last press conference—in the past two weeks. Heretofore, I’ve been able to average three or four stories a week. News conditions probably will remain dull until after the European show. Then, we’ll have our hands full, no doubt. I’ll probably be here for three to four weeks. Martin has gone to the East, and Press wants to make a swing around certain parts of the country. Thus, I’ll be the goat for awhile. So don’t be surprised if you don’t see many stories by me. Love, Toby From the Indianapolis Star, August 31, 1943 (Associated Press article): 3 HOOSIERS IN ‘‘ARMY BRAT’S’’ GROUP THAT KEEPS ’EM FLYING TO BLAST JAPS by Thoburn Wiant UNITED STATES AIR SERVICE COMMAND HEADQUARTERS, India, Aug. 1943 (AP)—Bombers and fighters of the 10th and the 14th Air Forces have been getting most of the headlines, but the biggest story now in the China-Burma-India theater concerns the rapid growth and the extensive operations of the United States Air Service Command. Nine-tenths of this war—as in past wars—involves logistics. The Air Service Command, commonly referred to as ASC, is handling the logistical end of this fight to the finish with the Japs. Logistics, a puzzling word to laymen, means supply and movement. The definition is simple, but ASC’s job in this theater is unbelievably complex. Not only must supplies and men be brought from halfway around the world, but equipment must be maintained under all sorts of trying conditions. ASC’s sparkplug in India is Brig. Gen. Robert C. Oliver, 41, who said in an interview that ‘‘In June, 1942, a half dozen of us started building up ASC out here. The assignment was by far the toughest we’d ever faced. Our priorities were low. We did the best we could while other theaters got most of America’s production. Hitting the Ball Hard : 127

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‘‘But now there are several thousand of us. By the end of the year, our organization will be more than tripled. During 1944, we expect to have the highest possible priorities.’’ Black-haired, brown-eyed Oliver swung around in his chair and pointed to a slogan above a map on which pins denoted American air installations in the CBI theater. It read ‘‘that they shall fly again.’’ His gesture carried volumes of meaning. A former basketball and track star at West Point, Oliver bubbles over with energy, enthusiasm, and friendliness. He’s as quick mentally as physically (he used to do the 440-yard dash in less than 50 seconds). He’s unusually democratic—likely as not to walk into a room, stick out his hand to a buck private, and say, ‘‘My name’s Oliver. What’s yours?’’ He’s an ‘‘army brat’’—the first American boy born under the American flag in Manila. His father served in the Philippines during the Spanish-American war. He was graduated from Western High School in Washington, and West Point before starting an army career in his father’s footsteps. He gained experience in field artillery, infantry, flying, air tactics, and general staff practice before coming to his present post. His wife and 7-year-old son, Robert T. Oliver, live at Montgomery, Ala. Oliver, who has rolled up 3,600 hours as a pilot, went to North Africa in October, 1941, with a U.S. Air Force mission. He was an observer in the Western Desert and flew on several raids with RAF fighter planes. He didn’t see many Germans but got some bursts into one before coming to India early in 1942. Oliver’s organization has the responsibility of seeing that supplies reach fighter and bomber groups not only in India but China as well. In addition, ASC repairs and rebuilds planes, frequently under severe conditions—jungle, desert, heavy rainfall, steaming sunshine. If ASC men don’t have the proper parts, they make them. ASC men out here are noted for their initiative and perseverance. One day, a heavy bomber crash-landed in a rice paddy field miles from a road or any means of easy access. A party slipped through hip-deep mud and water to reach the spot. They probed with shovels and rods until they ascertained the plane was a complete washout. They decided, however, the 1,000-pound bombs aboard could be salvaged. So they went back for more men, then slaved until the job was done. A few days later, the bombs were sent to China—and dropped onto the Japs. 128 : Hitting the Ball Hard

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ASC men have undergone untold hardships in desolate parts of the country to bring back planes or parts of planes considered complete losses. The parachute department at one depot developed a container for dropping life rafts from aircrafts, constructed so they would inflate themselves while being carried down by parachute . . . . An impromptu press conference with five U.S. senators who were touring battlefronts helped break the monotony for my father. 10TH AIR FORCE HEADQUARTERS—INDIA Aug. 29, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m back here at the old stand after flying to the West Coast and meeting five U.S. senators who are whirlwind-touring the world’s battlefronts. I had hoped to hitchhike a ride with them into China and back, but the S.R.O. sign was up. Besides an abundance of baggage, they had special fittings in the four-motored transport designed for their comfort. So John Morris of UP and I hastened back here after filing brief stories. We arrived several hours in advance of the senators and were among the first to greet them at the airport here. The following day, we cornered the senators long enough for a press conference. You may have seen my story, based principally on Senator Henry C. Lodge’s observations in Sicily. I spent most of the day the senators were here trailing them around. I had breakfast with Senators Richard Russell, Ralph Brewster, and James Mead. They gave me offthe-record stuff that helped greatly to put what’s happening elsewhere into focus. The senators sped from one place to another here, not hesitating long enough at any place to learn much about it. In the evening, Senators Lodge and Russell went to Duration Den, the Red Cross Club for enlisted men, where they were on the griddle nearly two hours. The Gee-eyes* (anybody below second lieutenant) asked them scores of questions, such as ‘‘When are we going home?’’ ‘‘When are the WACs *During World War II American men and women serving in the armed forces were referred to as ‘‘GIs,’’ a name that originated from the term ‘‘government issue.’’ Later the name was considered demeaning by some military personnel, but its continued use today emphasizes the courage and dedication displayed by those who defend American freedom at any cost. Colin Powell, ‘‘The American G.I.’’ (The Time 100, June 1999). http://tiny.cc/GI969 (accessed May 19, 2010).

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coming over?’’ ‘‘Why doesn’t Congress do something about guys like John L. Lewis?’’* and ‘‘Is this the forgotten theater?’’ News pickins were slim for me the first of this month, but I began to get back into the groove during the latter part. I wrote several stories, mostly mailers. I wrote a cable yesterday that I would have given almost anything not to write. It was about the accidental death of a friend of mine, Bob Rand, Calcutta director for the U.S. Office of War Information. Bob was killed along with eight others riding in an RAF transport plane, which pancaked from about 100 feet. I’d seen Bob the night before the accident. I’d been with him several times in Calcutta. I don’t know why he chose to ride in an RAF transport plane; I never do. But, of course, such an accident could happen to any plane. I’ve become more or less fatalistic because I’ve lost so many friends out here. One day, I see them—the next, I don’t. That’s to be expected in war time, of course, but I hate to see so many fine young fellows signing off so early. Bob Rand was only 25, with a brilliant future ahead. The appointment of Mountbatten† as commander-in-chief of the Allied forces in Southeastern Asia was most favorably received here, in American as well as British circles. As the Gee-eyes put it, Mountbatten is a ‘‘fightin’ sahib’’—and anyone who wants to fight and get this war with Japan finished is a most popular individual in these parts. Mountbatten is only 43. He led the commandos at Dieppe and has had a colorful naval career. All of those facts are appealing to Americans here. I haven’t met Auchinleck yet, but he’s getting away to a good start. It will be interesting to see how Wavell fits into the Indian picture as viceroy. He certainly didn’t do much out here as commander-in-chief. His only offensive action was the Western Burma campaign, and you know from my letters and stories what a miserable failure that was. The 10th Air Force is in the process of reorganization, preparatory for that big day to which we’ve looked forward so long. That big day, however, is a long way off, despite the optimism in the States. I still think Italy *John L. Lewis was a well-known labor leader who helped organize millions of industrial workers in the 1930s. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/John_L_Lewis (accessed May 19, 2010). †Vice-Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten (a cousin to the King of England) was appointed Supreme Allied Commander (SAC) over Allied forces in the CBI theater by Winston Churchill in October 1943. Barbara W. Tuchman, Stilwell and the American Experience in China, 1911–45 (New York: Macmillan, 1971), 383.

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will be out of the war in 1943, Germany in 1944, and Japan in 1945. That Japan estimate is conservative, rather than liberal. Don’t ever forget that the Japs are going to be tougher to lick than the Germans. I don’t subscribe to the theory that the Japs are supermen, but they are tough little monkeys who have scrambled into places best suited for their type of warfare. Even though we defeat the main Japanese forces in 1945, guerilla warfare certainly will continue out here for many years—10 to 15 years, in fact. Another AP staffer, Clyde Farnsworth, has arrived from the Mideast, and I’ve been helping him get set for an assignment in China. Prices in China are prohibitive, so anyone going up there always stocks up on everything possible. Farnsworth will work awhile with the 14th Air Force, then proceed to Chungking. The plan now is for me to follow Farnsworth to China in a few weeks and work there on a more-or-less regular basis. He’ll probably handle Chungking, and I’ll cover the air operations at the various bases. One of our men now in China, Reilly O’Sullivan, has been abroad five years and hopes to get home leave soon. Love, Toby Unfortunately, my father wouldn’t see home leave for a long time.

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.. .. chapter nine .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. sweating it out, .. ..

sept.–dec. 1943

I learned today I had been recommended for an Air Medal, usually awarded to fliers who record more than 100 hours of combat flying. To date, I’ve rolled up 135 hours and 35 minutes over Burma, Thailand, and French Indo-China. If the recommendation is approved, I’ll be the first correspondent in this theater to be so honored. Indeed, I may be the first correspondent in any theater to receive that particular medal. It makes no difference to me, one way or the other. I went on the missions (16, all told) because I enjoyed them and because I was able to write a better story by seeing exactly what happened. toby wiant, September 9, 1943 My father hated forced idleness, and his return to India in the summer of 1943 promised more of the same. Luckily for him, he was sent into the Burma jungle two months later, where he reported on an Allied offensive designed to push the Japanese across the Chindwin River. While there, he waged a war of his own against tightrope-walking rats that ate nearly all of his clothing. In December, Dad interviewed comedian Joe E. Brown (who was touring air bases); cornered Generalissimo and Madame Chiang Kai-shek for an interview at an American-Chinese training center; underwent a series of fourteen rabies shots after an encounter with a dog; and spent a second Christmas away from my mother. On December 26 a news article confirmed that my father had been recommended by the U.S. 10th Air Force as the first correspondent in the CBI theater to receive the Air Medal.* From the Indianapolis Star, September 7, 1943 (Associated Press article): *See photo section.

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U.S. TENTH AIR FORCE ENCOUNTERS LITTLE JAP OPPOSITION OVER BURMA by Thoburn Wiant A UNITED STATES AIR BASE IN INDIA, Sept.4.—(Delayed)— (AP)—I flew today with the ‘‘Skull and Wings’’ medium bomber squadron over northeastern Burma, where the United States 10th Air Force is methodically knocking out Japanese communications and supply bases. Bridge by bridge, locomotive by locomotive, boat by boat and warehouse by warehouse the enemy targets are being checked off. These are not easily replaced in Burma because the Japanese are up to their ears in fights elsewhere. To me this was the significant fact about today’s raids on rail centers from Mandalay to Lashio—the Japanese let us bomb as we pleased. I saw no enemy planes in the air or on the ground. Only two bursts of anti-aircraft were fired at us during the three hours we were over enemy territory. This was the 11th round trip I had made over Burma. Without exaggeration, Burma seemed as peaceful as a remote Iowa farm. There were no boats on the Chindwin and Irrawaddy rivers, no motor transports on the roads, no planes on the airdromes, no trains moving on the railroads. Lieut. Dave Fleming, 26 years old, of Wichita, Kas., who led the squadron, said: ‘‘The Japs barely give us any opposition any more. These runs are becoming as monotonous as walks to the corner drugstore back home.’’ The consensus of persons to whom I talked the past month is that the Japanese have moved most of their planes to the Southwest Pacific and China, where they are more urgently needed. The ‘‘Skull and Bones’’ squadron swept the railroad from Lashio to Hsipaw, while other Mitchells harassed the Japanese from Hsipaw to Mandalay. After a close call on a bombing mission over northeastern Burma, Dad was glad to be back on the ground at AP’s India headquarters. AP’S INDIA HEADQUARTERS Sept. 9, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I returned here a few hours ago after an 11-day field trip. I left Aug. 30 and met the five U.S. senators in Calcutta, where I wrote a story on their observations in China and predictions about the future. Sweating It Out : 133

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(Previously, I had interviewed them at a West India airport and here.) From Calcutta, I flew to a U.S. medium bombardment headquarters, where I saw many old friends. On Sept. 4, I went on a medium bomber raid over Hsipaw, on the railroad midway between Mandalay and Lashio. We bombed as we pleased that day without any opposition from the Japs, either from the ground or the air. Then, I flew to the U.S. heavy bombardment headquarters, where I feel more at home than any other place in India. Soon after I arrived there, the fliers brought out batches of clippings showing my stories had been used, if only on a regional basis for the most part. On Sept. 6, I went on a heavy bomber raid over Rangoon. If you saw my story, you know I had all the excitement I’d ever yearned for. Our target was a large freighter anchored in the Rangoon River. Lying prone above the bomb bay, I saw two of our bombs squarely hit the vessel—a huge circular flash of flame, then huge clouds of angry black smoke swirling skyward. Other planes in our flight also hit the freighter. Still other planes destroyed another freighter and hit a cargo vessel. Large fires were started in the dock area. Just after we completed our bombing run, 15 to 20 Zeros and I-45s (twin-engine fighters) jumped us—and the next fifty minutes seemed like fifty years! The sky was black with planes, ack-ack, smoke, and bullets. The Japs made pass after pass at us. I thought they would never give up and go home. One piece of ack-ack knocked out the windshield of our plane. I was standing between the pilot and co-pilot, watching a Zero come at us from the right and an I-45 from the left. We were showered with flying glass—and scared almost to death! The Japs, though, were lousy shots, and we got away without further damage. At least five of the Japs went down in smoke and flame, nine were probably destroyed, and one was damaged. Not bad for a day’s work! I’ve had enough excitement for quite awhile. Hereafter, I’ll stay on the ground and interview the fliers when they return; that is, I’ll stay on the ground until we have a really big raid, such as the one on Tokyo, or even Formosa. We were thrilled beyond description today by the news of Italy’s capitulation.* Of course, the battle of Italy isn’t over, by any means. The *Italy, under the dictatorship of Fascist Prime Minister Benito Mussolini, originally joined with Germany and other Axis forces against the Allies. The Italian military,

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Germans still are there, and they’ll continue to fight as long as possible on Italian soil. But I don’t think anyone should become overly optimistic about an early end of the war. Italy’s heart never was in the fight, but Germany and Japan are different beasts. They have everything to gain and nothing to lose by fighting to the finish. I still don’t expect Germany to be out of the war until late 1944, and Japan, 1945. I’ve talked to several fellows fresh from the States, and they’ve told me of the wave of optimism sweeping the country. Such optimism is based on ignorance, or wishful thinking. Germany still is deep in Russian territory and battling hard. We haven’t even started to fight out here in the Far East. No one has any doubt about the final outcome, but we’re a long way from the wind-up—and don’t forget it! I’ll probably be here for two or three weeks this time. Press Grover and Frank Martin are planning to leave in a week or so for Bombay and Marmagoa.* An official of All India Radio, the network which serves stations throughout India, asked me today to do a 15-minute broadcast Oct. 5 on the American press. I don’t know exactly what he wants his audience to learn about the American press, but I certainly should be able to talk 15 minutes about a business in which I’ve earned a living the past 11 years. Please keep the following confidential for the time being: I learned today I had been recommended for an Air Medal, usually awarded to fliers who record more than 100 hours of combat flying. To date, I’ve rolled up 135 hours and 35 minutes over Burma, Thailand, and French Indo-China. If the recommendation is approved, I’ll be the first correspondent in this theater to be so honored. Indeed, I may be the first correspondent in any theater to receive that particular medal. It makes no difference to me, one way or the other. I went on the missions (16, all told) because I enjoyed them and because I was able despite Mussolini’s optimistic belief in its capabilities, fought halfheartedly, and, under pressure from the Fascist party, Mussolini conceded his position to a new Premier, Marshal Pietro Badoglio, in July 1943. Badoglio initiated clandestine peace talks with the Allies to remove Italy from the war, and on September 3, 1943, an agreement was signed. In retaliation, Hitler attacked Italy’s naval fleet and, in turn, Badoglio’s new regime declared war on Germany on October 13, 1943. Keith D. Dickson, World War II For Dummies (New York: Hungry Minds, Inc., 2001), 202–203. *Marmagoa, in the small Indian state of Goa, was the site where Japanese and American prisoners were exchanged in October 1943.

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to write a better story by seeing exactly what happened. But such an honor would mean much to AP’s promotion department! Love, Toby Still skeptical that the war would be over soon, my father cautioned his parents not to be lulled into false optimism. AP’S INDIA HEADQUARTERS Sept. 17, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve done little lately except, as the fliers put it, ‘‘just sweat it out.’’ By that, I mean ‘‘sweat out’’ some stories, of which there have been dawggoned few. Since going on that hectic raid over Rangoon Sept. 6, I’ve produced exactly four yarns—two mailers, one on the ‘‘Photo Joes’’ of the Tenth Air Force, and the other on the organization of SNYFBIC, meaning ‘‘State of New York Forces in Burma, India, and China’’; and two cables, one on the first communique´ announcing ground operations in Northern Burma, Chinese vs. Japs, and the other on fighter and bomber raids Sept. 15 and 16, in which I hinted at the new Burma Road and told how the tempo of air operations out here was increasing steadily. Business is picking up hereabouts, and more and more people are joining us. They’re bringing along stuff which we greatly need. The appointment of Mountbatten was enthusiastically received here, but I still don’t look for any large-scale action until next year. There will be some activity, of course—possibly in Northern Burma—but that won’t be the big show for which we’ve been waiting for so long. I don’t expect the war in Europe to be wound up until late next year, and ours can’t begin on any big scale until men, ships, and planes from that area come over here and help us win the ball game. As I’ve written before, don’t let any ignorant optimist in the States sell you on the idea that Japan can be licked some morning before breakfast. After we really get going out here, the Japs will fight for at least a year before throwing in the sponge. So, as I’ve predicted right along: ‘‘Italy will be out of the war in 1943 (as it was); Germany, 1944; and Japan, 1945.’’ Russia certainly is making it hard for her allies to cooperate. No one I’ve talked to knows what Russia intends to do—and I seriously doubt whether Roosevelt and Churchill do, either. Such an attitude, added to several things about which I’d better say nothing presently, certainly 136 : Sweating It Out

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discourages confidence and good feeling. The Reds are doing a good job of whipping the Germans, but I think the story will be different later. The Nazis aren’t as weak as they appear, and I expect them to take a stand soon, possibly along the Dnieper, and refuse to budge. It will take a lot of TNT, as well as a lot of time, to blow them out of that position. Thanks for the report on how my Eddie Rickenbacker story was used. He called Betts the other day, as he had promised, and relayed my love. I’ve known Eddie for more than 10 years, starting back in the days when I began covering his 500-mile Indianapolis Motor Speedway races. I agreed with most of his ideas about the future of the war out here. Howja like my new stationery?* I should have had some long before this, but didn’t get around to it. Also, I’m having some calling cards made. They’re quite necessary when dealing with the British, Chinese, and Indians—especially the Chinese. Love, Toby From the Indianapolis Star, September 24, 1943 (Associated Press article): ‘‘PHOTO JOES,’’ RELYING ONLY ON SPEED, ARE EYES FOR AIR FORCES IN BURMA by Thoburn Wiant A UNITED STATES AIR BASE, INDIA, Sept. 23.—(AP)—Armed only with an ability to attain high altitudes and outspeed any plane the Japanese possess, single-seated American aircraft fly over Burma daily photographing enemy installations and shipping which American bombers and fighters rip apart a few hours later. These aircraft are called ‘‘Photo Joes.’’ They are the eyes of the 10th United States Air Force. The young men who pilot the ‘‘Photo Joes’’ are busier than a onearmed paper hanger with the itch. They sit in one place—unable to squirm more than two inches in any direction—for as long as nine hours. They do their own navigation. They take their own pictures. When over enemy territory they scan the sky constantly for Japanese fighter planes, in addition to keeping constantly alert for juicy targets. *Dad had just received his official AP stationery with The Associated Press of America— Toby Wiant, U.S. War Correspondent imprinted at the top.

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Commander of the ‘‘Photo Joes’’ in India is Maj. Dale L. Swartz, 39, of Spokane, Wash., who has been flying all types of aircraft since 1928. Swartz shuns personal publicity, but jumps at any opportunity to praise ‘‘the boys.’’ ‘‘They are doing the toughest kind of flying in the world, and I think they’re just about the best in the world,’’ Swartz declared. ‘‘The boys have photographed virtually every inch of Burma. In addition, they have ‘shot’ pictures of important objectives elsewhere.’’ The ‘‘Photo Joe’’ pilots each fly over Burma two or three times a week. They seldom are intercepted by the Japanese because they flash past long before the enemy can get into the air. ‘‘The Japs fired some ack-ack at me one day,’’ said Lieut. Robert Martin, 28, of St. Louis, ‘‘but I didn’t know about it until I landed back at base and found three holes in my plane.’’ Capt. Don P. Webster, 25, of Cleburne, Tex., who graduated from the University of Texas in 1939, told how he was intercepted over Rangoon one day. ‘‘I looked up from my instrument panels and saw a Zero on my right and one on my left. I pushed the throttles forward and dove. The Zeros couldn’t keep up. They followed me many miles, but didn’t have a chance of catching up with me—thank God! The only way they can get us is by surprising us—and we don’t surprise easily.’’ Lieut. Russell Miksch, 24, of Visalia, Cal., said he had been flying over Burma a year without interceptions. ‘‘Sometimes, just to break the monotony, I wish the Japs would try to catch me,’’ Miksch said. ‘‘I’d like to show ’em up.’’ The ‘‘Photo Joes’’ fly in all kinds of weather, even when bombers and fighters turn back. ‘‘The weather over the area which we wish to photograph may be good, so we plough through and see,’’ Miksch explained. . . . As he began his second year as a war correspondent, Dad was feeling good about his work and gave himself a pat on the back for a successful talk on an All India Radio program. TENTH AIR FORCE HEADQUARTERS Oct. 8, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve been alone here several days and thus have found plenty to keep me occupied. Preston Grover is in Marmagoa, arranging for our 138 : Sweating It Out

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coverage of the internees’ exchange, and Frank Martin is somewhere in Eastern India, preparing for a trip that may develop into an excellent story. Martin will be away for quite a long time, but I expect Grover to rejoin me before the end of the month. I’ve written several stories recently which you may have seen: (1) Lt. Guy Spotts wins Silver Star for gallantry in Aug. 16 Rangoon raid, mailer written Sept. 25; (2) Twenty killed in transport crash at Calcutta, cable written Sept. 28; (3) Brigadier-General Davidson says Japs will have hard time defending Burma, cable written Oct. 2; (4) Tenth Air Force steadily increasing pressure on Japs, cable written Oct. 6; (5) Mountbatten arrives, cable written Oct. 7; and (6) Chief topic at Mountbatten’s Chungking conferences probably will be supply lines to China. In addition to that work, I’ve pounded out several business letters and done considerable spadework for stories which may develop in the near future. Also, I made a 15-minute talk over All India Radio Oct. 5 on ‘‘The American Press.’’ I had a slight cold, but when I heard the recorded playback, I decided no one noticed it. Frankly, I surprised myself in that broadcast. I was afraid I’d get the jitters, but didn’t—and rather enjoyed the experience. All India Radio promptly asked me to reappear Oct. 26 and tell about the experiences I’ve had in 16 bombing missions over Burma, Thailand, and French Indo-China. I get only ‘‘cigarette money’’ for these appearances—25 rupees (about $7) apiece—but the experience is valuable. Mountbatten’s arrival electrified all of us. He looks like a Hollywood star—impeccably groomed, handsome, tall, smiling, young. Everyone is confident he’ll turn out to be an aggressive, skillful leader. His arrival, of course, doesn’t necessarily mean anything big will get underway at once. I still stick by what I’ve said all along—that the big show won’t start until sometime next year, although there may be some localized action before the end of this year. Mountbatten didn’t grant us an interview immediately, although we were within 15 feet of him. However, we’ve made arrangements to see him later, possibly after he returns from Chungking. . . . My future plans are indefinite, although I expect to remain here at least until the end of the month. I’ll probably have to cover the arrival of Wavell before I take off for parts still unknown. I’m starting my second year abroad. The first was tough, in scores of ways. I’m optimistic about the second. After all, it couldn’t be as bad as Sweating It Out : 139

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the first! But I won’t get over missing Betts—ever. I’ll never be happy until we’re back together again. Love, Toby From the Indianapolis News, October 14, 1943 (Associated Press article): 3 WACS CAPTURE ARMIES IN INDIA by Thoburn Wiant New Delhi, Oct. 14 (Delayed) (AP)—Three WACs* finally have arrived at ‘‘the end of the line’’ and are causing more excitement than the top-ranking generals who have been conferring with Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten. Captain Elizabeth Lutze, of Sheboygan, Wis., former aid to Col. Oveta Culp Hobby, head of the WACs, was the first WAC ever to set foot in the China-Burma-India theater. With her were two sergeants— Therese March, of Chicago, and Louise Hull, of Smithport, Pa. The three are the vanguard of a sizable contingent expected in the near future. Captain Lutze, a five-foot-four brunette wearing a snappy tropical worsted uniform, spent the first afternoon in New Delhi posing for news pictures. Major Fred Eldridge, age thirty-two, of Los Angeles, public relations officer who arranged the picture shooting, demonstrated how glad everyone was to see the WACs by shining Captain Lutze’s shoes before the photographers went to work. Social events honoring the departure of the Viceroy of India, Lord Linlithgow,† introduced my father to Indian royalty and high-ranking military officers. One event, however, didn’t meet Dad’s expectations. *Women’s Army Corps. †Victor Alexander John Hope, 2nd Marquess of Linlithgow, was a Scottish statesman who served as India’s Governor-General and Viceroy from 1936 to 1943. In the first elections under the Government of India Act of 1935, which Lord Linlithgow helped to establish, the Indian National Congress Party prevailed. Although the party leaders didn’t agree with all aspects of the Act, Linlithgow convinced them to assume office. When World War II broke out, Linlithgow declared India to be at war with Germany without consulting members of the Congress Party. The Congress Party leaders resigned, widespread civil disobedience occurred, and the party leaders were imprisoned. In 1943 Lord Archibald Wavell succeeded Linlithgow as Viceroy. Yahoo! Education. http://tiny.cc/Linlithgow (accessed May 19, 2010).

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REAR ECHELON USAF, CBI, INDIA Oct. 17, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: The past week has been a busy one—for a most welcome change! I churned out seven cables and two mailers, besides attending social functions held in honor of Their Excellencies, the Viceroy and Marchioness Linlithgow, who soon will be replaced by the Wavells. The Linlithgows’ farewell party at the Viceregal Lodge Oct. 13 was amazingly boring. Jim Shepley of Time, Walter L. (Buddy) Briggs of UP, and I taxied to the huge pile of marble, expecting to enjoy the affair, which we didn’t. It was my first visit to the Lodge, which is as big as allout-of-doors and ornate to an extreme. We walked through blocks of corridors before we found the party, which then consisted of a 100-yardlong line of people in front of tables, drinking tea and munching cakes. We followed suit. The first hour was exactly like the first minute. We stood in front of a table drinking tea and munching cakes. The Linlithgows were nowhere to be seen. The guests, definitely including us, were getting jittery and tired and ‘‘browned off,’’ as the British say. Finally, a tall British captain, the Viceroy’s aide, requested us to walk across Durber Hall, the tremendous circular room where the Viceroy and his wife sit on the throne and receive important personages. We reached the other side of the hall—and stood for another half an hour before the ‘‘White Raja’’ and his spouse arrived. They walked to the center of the hall and stood stiffly at attention. We guests lined up, single file, and walked past the Linlithgows, shaking their hands and bidding them farewell. After that, there was nothing to do but go home. Whatta party! On October 15, I attended the Ruling Princes of India farewell banquet for the Linlithgows and had a grand time. The Roshanara Club, where the banquet was held in a tented enclosure on the lawn, was lighted up like a Christmas tree. When Shepley, Briggs, and I walked in, the Maharaja of Cooch Behar—‘‘Coochie,’’ for short—rushed over and greeted us like long-lost brothers. Coochie—whose other nicknames include ‘‘The Chief ’’ and ‘‘Byia’’—is only 29 and a bachelor. He likes Americans and makes no secret of the fact. Many months ago, he turned over part of his State to the Americans for use as an air supply center. Fliers who land at Coochie’s airport usually spend the night at his palace—at his insistence. Coochie introduced us to several other Sweating It Out : 141

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potentates, including his brother-in-law, the Maharaja of Jaipur, and the Maharaja of Patiala. All told, there were about 70 princes present, a colorful collection, indeed. I sat between the Heir Apparent of Bahawalpur and the Yuvraj of Maihar, both young and friendly. The Heir Apparent of Bahawalpur was graduated from college at Lahore only recently. He said he had majored in languages, including French, Spanish, and English. He was so shy and modest I had to keep shooting questions at him to find out anything about himself and his State. Besides the potentates, there were many other hotshots present, including General Sir Claude Auchinleck, General Sir Alan Hartley, Air Chief Marshal Sir Richard Peirse, ViceAdmiral J.H. Godfrey, and Lt.-Gen. W.H.G. Baker. There was no story involved in the banquet, but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. You may be wondering why we haven’t sent more news about Mountbatten. The fact is, we’ve sent all we could. A hold-down has been imposed, for reasons that seem sound. Don’t expect much out of us war correspondents here for three or four months. My prediction about the future, which I’ve made in previous letters, still holds good. Most of the war correspondents are at Marmagoa, covering the exchange of American and Japanese nationals. Press Grover telegraphed the other day he expected to return here around Oct. 20, but I doubt that he will make it by that time. I’ve been here since Sept. 9, and I’m more than ready to clear out and go where I’ll find some excitement. Frank Martin presently is in the Northern Burma jungle with Brig.-Gen. Hayden L. Boatner, chief of staff for Lt.-Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell’s Chinese combat troops. When Press returns, I hope to be able to take off a few days (I haven’t had any time off since Oct. 1, 1942, more than a year ago) and visit some place I haven’t seen before, such as the Northwest Frontier, or an Indian State. Then, I’ll either relieve Frank in the jungle, or go back to China—unless, of course, Press has plans about which I know nothing. A British major by the name of Scott, one of the leaders of the Wingate expedition into Burma earlier this year, had lunch with me the other day. His outfit tangled with the Japs many times. ‘‘They’re no supermen,’’ Scott declared. ‘‘They run like hell when the going gets too tough. They yell and scream like women frightened by a mouse.’’ That’s all this time. How about a long, newsy letter? Love, Toby 142 : Sweating It Out

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Ten days later my father and seven other correspondents boarded a Liberator en route to an undisclosed location in Northern Burma to cover an Allied offensive designed to force Japanese troops across the Chindwin River. WITH ALLIED FORCES IN NORTHERN BURMA Nov. 1, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Seven of us correspondents were packed into a Liberator Oct. 28 and flown to this place, where some localized action down toward the Chindwin already was in progress. Two other correspondents, including AP’s Frank Martin, were in the forward-most position. Still another, an Australian who serves the London Daily Mail, arrived the following day. So far, I haven’t written a line, but a communique´ on which I can base a spot story probably will be issued in the next day or so. For the next several days, at least, Martin will handle the color and eye-witness stuff in the advance area, and I’ll remain with Brig.-Gen. Boatner to take care of spot news such as the communique´. Eventually, Martin will come out of the jungle, at which time I plan to replace him there. This action definitely isn’t the big show for which we’ve been sweating. As I’ve written previously, there will be this and other localized action before the end of the year. The big show—the knockout blow at Japan—won’t come at least until the middle of next year. But this action—designed to push the Japs in this area across the Chindwin—will give us something to write about for awhile. As you know, this is the first offensive since the British and Indians tried unsuccessfully early this year to advance in the Akyab area. The Wingate expedition, which I understand received considerable publicity in the States, was not an offensive designed to take and hold territory. It was principally a nuisance mission, staged to confuse the Japs and disrupt some of their communications. Living conditions at this jungle headquarters are extremely good. We correspondents are living in a bamboo basha about 75 feet long and 20 feet wide, with bamboo mat flooring. The jackals kick up a big fuss at night, but they aren’t half as bad as the rats, which already have eaten holes in two pairs of my trousers and three of my handkerchiefs. Those rats are amazing tightrope walkers. The mosquito net which covers my bed is held up by two ropes stretched between four bamboo poles. I throw my clothes on top of the net at night, but that doesn’t seem to discourage the rats. They walk along the ropes, jump down on my net, Sweating It Out : 143

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and go to work with a vengeance on my clothes. One of the fellows saw a tightroping rat the other night. He said it was at least seven inches long, including the tail. Love, Toby Ordered to leave the Northern Burma jungle to replace another reporter at General Stilwell’s headquarters, my father acknowledged to his parents that, despite regulations barring correspondents from being armed, he carried more than just a typewriter—he carried a .45. GENERAL STILWELL’S INDIA HEADQUARTERS Nov. 7, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: My stay in the Northern Burma jungle was cut short by a message from Press Grover, ordering me to return so he could leave on a tour of the famine areas. I had hoped to be able to remain there much longer and see some of the fighting along the Chindwin River, but so it goes in this wacky business of war corresponding. I did alright, considering the brevity of my stay—three 600-word cables and a mailer. It was Frank Martin’s turn to sweat out the assignment here, but he was so far forward with the Chinese troops in the Hukawng Valley, Northern Burma, he couldn’t have made it back here in less than two weeks. As a matter of fact, he was so deep into Burma, he couldn’t get out his stories, a bad situation, indeed. After writing to you Nov. 1, I went on an air-dropping mission Nov. 3. You may have seen my story, which told of dropping tons of supplies—some with parachute, some without—to the front-line Chinese. To drop the stuff, we had to make circle after circle over the Japs in the area, but they didn’t fire even a rifle at us. I couldn’t see much because the jungle there was as thick as any in the world. They couldn’t see us either, apparently. I wrote a thank-you note today to Paul Walrath, chairman of the Emory Honor Roll Committee, for the subscription to the Saturday Evening Post. Thank you, too, for whatever it is you’re sending me to scare off snakes and wild animals. War correspondents aren’t supposed to be armed, but I always have a .45 handy when I’m in a bomber over enemy territory or in the jungle. I’m not going to get caught by a Jap, or a tiger, without some means of self-protection. 144 : Sweating It Out

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I appreciated the clipping on the Federal Court’s anti-trust decision against AP. I had been wondering how the case came out. According to what you say, AP can rewrite the bylaws so as to conform with the antitrust laws and still not have to admit every Tom, Dick, and Harry. I see several newspapers regularly at the Office of War Information here, so there’s no need for you to send the Indianapolis News. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of a thing I need. Until yesterday, I needed a cigarette lighter (matches out here are lousy), but Richard Watts of the New York Herald Tribune arrived with one which Betts had asked him to deliver to me. She also sent me a good-luck rabbit’s foot, to replace the one which I had carried on every bombing mission and lost in China last July. As usual, I don’t know what the future holds in store for me. I’ll probably be here several days while Grover makes his tour of the famine areas. I still expect localized action at least until next spring. Then—well, I have ideas on the subject. You’ll have to guess what they are. Love, Toby A month went by before Dad found time to update his parents again. Multiple trips and story opportunities—including an interview with Generalissimo and Madame Chiang Kai-shek—took priority over his personal correspondence. SOUTHEAST ASIA COMMAND HEADQUARTERS Dec. 6, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: No, I haven’t been in any plane crashes, or sick—just horribly behind in my letter writing as a result of considerable travel and story production. Several times within the past three weeks, I’ve tried to settle down to personal correspondence, but there always was some distraction, such as an assignment to cover Joe E. Brown, first entertainer to reach this end-of-the-line theater. However, it’s hardly fair to say Joe was distracting for long. He quickly gained the good will of everyone here, principally because he was the only entertainer to date having enough guts to come this far from home. Joe, as you know, has lost one son in this war, yet there wasn’t a trace of sorrow on his face when scores of Gee-eyes, the same age as his son, gathered around and asked him to be funny, but hilariously so. He spent only a short time here, then went to bases out along the line. Sweating It Out : 145

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I had only 30 minutes’ notice Nov. 28 when I started out on a trip that took me to an American-Chinese training center in Eastern India. Several of us correspondents and photographers piled into a medium bomber and flew most of the day to reach the place. There, two days later, we met the Generalissimo and Madame Chiang Kai-shek, Lord Louis Mountbatten, and nearly a score of other high-ranking officers, including Lt.Gen. Carten de Wiart, Churchill’s personal representative in Chungking. They spent several hours inspecting the training center, where several thousand Chinese already have been trained and equipped by the Americans to scrap with the Japs in Burma. Many of them now are in contact with the enemy in the Hukawng Valley, Northern Burma, where I recently spent several days. I could visualize only a fair story until the Officers’ Club, where I ate with the bigshots, fell apart only seven hours after their departure. That, of course, gave me a lead with some punch. Four of us cornered the Chiang Kai-sheks and Mountbatten for a brief interview during the morning. The Generalissimo was much like his pictures. He kept saying ‘‘Hao, hao’’—meaning ‘‘good, good’’—and the Madame interpreted what little else he had to say. The Madame is a many-sided person, I learned in the short time I was with her. At first, she seemed beautiful and sweet and lovable. But after I had a chance to study her at close range at the press conference, I could quickly see how wrong the first impression was. She’s strong-willed, selfish, utterly ruthless—an appraisal confirmed by those correspondents who had known her a long time. Without difficulty, I could imagine her ordering shot anyone who crossed her. I sat right next to her, thusly being able to give her a good once-over. At one point, I handed her one of my Chesterfields and lighted it with a Dunhill lighter which Betts recently sent to me. She took long drags before interpreting what the Generalissimo was saying, giving us the definite impression she was quoting him along lines which suited her best. Lord Louis was completely charming, as usual, but took a back seat at the conference, saying, ‘‘This is the Generalissimo’s day, and you are interviewing him.’’ Everyone out here has been impressed by Mountbatten. He has gone about his business of organizing for the complete defeat of Japan slowly, thoroughly, imaginatively. He’s as handsome as a Hollywood star, but tough as an East-side rowdy when he wants to be. The Japs will know something hit them when he starts throwing his weight around. 146 : Sweating It Out

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I returned here Dec. 2, the day after my first anniversary in India (and the last, I hope), and since have been preparing for another junket that will require 10 days to two weeks. We plan to start a tour of the American supply bases in a day or so, a trip that will cover most parts of India. I’m hopeful we can return here before Christmas. Never will I forget last Christmas, which Darrell Berrigan of UP and I spent in a remote spot in the wilds of Central India. We didn’t see any Christmas decorations then, didn’t even have a decent Christmas dinner. The following day, we flew over Bangkok, Thailand, somewhat of a celebration, but not at all Christmasy. Two more AP men, both good friends of mine, are due to join us soon. They are Bill Boni, who has been helping to cover the war in the Southwest Pacific, and Charlie Grumich, who has been lending a hand in Cairo. They will augment our India staff to five, more than enough for the time being. We’ll probably need reinforcements in three or four months, depending on how much work there is to be done. I’m now finishing my series of 14 rabies shots, which I had to take because a little dog in our building went mad. I wasn’t bitten, but the Army physicians thought I should take the shots because I might have had a slight cut in my hand when I petted the animal. happy holidays—and happy birthday, mom! Love, Toby Several days later, my father sent a letter to the Press Association of the AP asking that a 3,300-word story he’d written about his 135-plus hours spent in American bombers over Burma, Thailand, and French Indo-China be offered to a major magazine. To my knowledge it was never published. SOUTHEAST ASIA COMMAND HEADQUARTERS Dec. 10, 1943 Mr. W.J. MacCambridge and Mr. Oliver Gramling Press Association c/o The Associated Press 50 Rockefeller Plaza New York, New York Dear WJM and OG: Just before I headed out on foreign assignment in October, 1942, both of you suggested I send direct to Press Association any material designed for magazine publication. Sweating It Out : 147

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Until a few months ago, I didn’t feel I had done or seen enough to justify a magazine article. Now, however, I’ve turned out the attached 3,300-word story on the 135 hours and 35 minutes I’ve spent in American bombers over Burma, Thailand and French Indo-China. I’ve shown the yarn to some of the correspondents here, and they believe it’s saleable. Therefore, I would like for Press Association to offer the story to Collier’s, the Saturday Evening Post and Cosmopolitan, in that order. I know you’ll make the best financial arrangements possible. It might interest the editors of those magazines to know I’ve rolled up more combat time than any other correspondent in the CBI theater. I don’t know how much combat flying the correspondents in other theaters have done, but I’m told here it’s highly unlikely any correspondent anywhere has spent more time over enemy territory. The Tenth U.S. Air Force has recommended that I be awarded an Air Medal, and I understand the announcement may be made before you receive this. When this story arrives, would you kindly acknowledge its receipt by cable? Thanking you both in advance, and with all good wishes for the New Year, I am Sincerely yours, Toby Wiant cc Mr. Babb, AP HELL FOR THE JAPS (unpublished autobiographical essay) by Toby Wiant Associated Press War Correspondent NEW DELHI, INDIA—I’ll never forget the mistake that saved our lives over Burma. It all started one evening just after I’d walked out of an American messhall back in the wilds of Eastern India. Tall, blond Col. Conrad Necrason of Cooperstown, N.Y., commander of a hard-hitting Liberator group, motioned for me to follow him to his quarters—a white, squatty building, once a mine superintendent’s home. ‘‘Taking off at dawn tomorrow morning,’’ he whispered. He didn’t need to say more. I’d been hounding him for weeks to let me go on that particular mission. 148 : Sweating It Out

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‘‘It’ll be a terrific story—if I get back to write it,’’ I exclaimed. He just laughed and told me to get some sleep. As I walked away, my mind spun a mile a minute. Necrason himself would pilot the plane. That made the mission a good gamble. He was one of the best pilots in the business, although one of the most daring. He’d flown the first American combat plane to leave the States after Pearl Harbor. He’d shot down six Zeros in Java before coming to India. He wanted to get back as much as I. He had a wife and two-year-old daughter living in San Antonio. I slept fitfully until a one-track-minded sergeant shook me out of bed. I didn’t have both eyes fully open until 20 minutes later, when I was sitting beside the Colonel, sipping a cup of coffee, fumbling with a pair of eggs. I looked at him sharply when he barked at a slow Indian bearer serving the food. That wasn’t like the Colonel. He usually was smiling and happy-go-lucky. He shoved back his plate, an egg still on it, and said, ‘‘Let’s get going.’’ I suddenly felt shivery all over. We drove in semi-darkness to the airport and climbed into a huge, four-motored bomber. It already had been warmed up, and we were roaring down the runway in a few minutes. We staggered laboriously into the air, as heavily-loaded bombers always do. We were on our way. Our assignment was as hazardous as they come. It was a low-level raid on one of the most heavily fortified parts of Burma. We were above enemy territory two and a half hours, usually only 25 to 50 feet off the ground. We were so low I could see Japs sprinting madly to cover. At times, our wings were well below treetops. Once, we skimmed over the backs of about 50 cows. They fanned out like scared rabbits. We strafed motor transports, small barges, a houseboat, military installations and certain villages known to contain Japs and Jap sympathizers. But the main target was a vital railroad bridge. We were going to skip-bomb it. Skip-bombing is an exciting way to blow something to smithereens. Bombs are dropped from low altitude Sweating It Out : 149

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only a few feet from the target and skip on land or water into it—something like skipping a flat stone on a lake. Surprise was all important, so we dropped lower and lower until it seemed we would touch the river spanned by our bridge. We whizzed above the water mile after mile—twisting, winding, looking intently for steel cables the Japs might have stretched across the stream to wreck planes such as ours. The Japs blazed away with machine guns and rifles, but hit us only twice. Those shots went clear through our plane, one bullet missing a waist gunner by only two inches. Suddenly, a bridge loomed into view. Our bombardier, Second Lieut. Stanley Hood of Colville, Wash., working on a split-second basis in perfect coordination with the Colonel, sent his bombs away. They skipped accurately into the bridge. We were so low we actually had to leap-frog the bridge. I thought for a second we couldn’t miss crashing into the center span. Looking back, I saw a cloud of smoke at least 1,000 feet high. The bridge must be a goner. Hours later, we landed back at base. ‘‘You guys sure are lucky to be alive,’’ a lieutenant friend of mine declared. ‘‘What do you mean ‘lucky’?’’ ‘‘We were bombing near you at the same time from high altitude,’’ he explained. ‘‘Somebody’s timing went haywire, because we were supposed to drop our packages before you arrived. You bombed the wrong bridge. But if you’d bombed the right one, you would have been blown to bits by our bombs!’’ I looked over at the Colonel. He grinned, but weakly. ‘‘We’ll never be luckier,’’ he said. I’ve spent, all told, 135 hours and 38 minutes in American bombers over Burma, Thailand and French Indo-China—more combat time than any other war correspondent in the China-Burma-India theater. I didn’t start out to set a record. I went on missions so I could get the ‘‘feel’’ of combat, so I could write intelligently about the pastings the Americans were giving the Japs. I never have gone on a mission just to be going, although I’ll admit I always get itchy feet every time I see a bomber being loaded up for a trip over Burma. 150 : Sweating It Out

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But 135 hours and 38 minutes aren’t much, compared with combat time rolled up by the Tenth U.S. Air Force crewmen who have gone out with lethal loads several times weekly in the past year and a half. They have paved the way for the ‘‘big show’’ that will be staged under the supreme command of Lord Louis Mountbatten. They haven’t been in many headlines, because most people back in the States have been primarily interested in the spectaculars in North Africa, Sicily, Italy, Russia and the Southwest Pacific. But their jobs have been just as important—and dangerous—as those assigned to American airmen elsewhere. And they’ve done those jobs well. Capt. Robert Miller of Nyack, N.Y., a Mitchell navigator, sweated out 401 hours and 15 minutes over China and Burma before returning to the States to give others the benefit of his experience. I saw Miller the day before he left. He told me he voluntarily had gone on two extra missions after receiving his orders to return home—just so he could get over the 400-hour mark. He made his last raid on a Friday, the 13th. ‘‘Weren’t you superstitious about flying that day?’’ I asked. He laughed. ‘‘Of course, not—not after what I’d already been through!’’ I’ve met thousands of American combat crewmen in the past 14 months as a war correspondent in the Mideast and the CBI theater. But I’ve never found one who didn’t admit he was scared nearly every mission. I couldn’t tell when they were scared. They worked efficiently, swiftly, calmly until their jobs were done. They had good reason to be scared. Lt. Gordon Wilson of Covington, Ky., knows. He was hard-luck champion of the Tenth Air Force before returning to the States. His Liberator was shot up on 16 of 34 missions. ‘‘I must have had a horseshoe some place,’’ Wilson told me. Wilson’s last mishap in a string lasting 10 months occurred when he prepared to land from a tough mission without a single hole in his plane. His hydraulic system failed. He circled an hour while his crew tried to pump down the landing gear by hand. They finally succeeded. Wilson’s landing was perfect, but his right wheel collapsed when the Liberator hit the runway. The right Sweating It Out : 151

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wing and the right rudder dug deeply into the ground. A crash seemed certain, but Wilson brought the plane safely to a halt. Wilson, who never liked to talk about himself, told me about a believe-it-or-not coincidence involving his top turret gunner, Technical Sgt. Charles Steinberg of Detroit, Mich., in two successive raids on Rangoon, Burma. On the first, Steinberg was blown from his turret by ack-ack, a fragment of which grazed his cheek. Wearing a cheek patch, Steinberg took off on the second raid. Again, over the target, he was blown from his turret by ack-ack. A fragment bit him on the cheek, removing the patch! I once asked Lt. Bill Gilbert of Evanston, Ill., Liberator pilot who fought several months in the Mideast before coming to India, to write down some of his thoughts while on a raid.* He wrote, ‘‘The enemy is remote until silent, but violent, black puffs appear. Sometimes, they get close enough to hear or smell. I think there’s a great deal of unreality in what we experience, because death and our own speed are hard to comprehend until there’s a sudden, brutal meeting—and then we’re shocked back to reality. ‘‘There’s beauty and grace in the arcing attack of a pursuit ship spouting flame and smoke, and a feeling of your own power when turrets turn and spit out curving lines of tracers. There’s thrill and excitement in being part of a formation that closes together like a steel spring in the face of attack and then unleashes firepower.’’ With guys like Gilbert around, we can’t help winning the war. Lt. Ted Winzer of Atchison, Kas., veteran of many aerial battles over the Mideast and Burma, once commented to me, ‘‘Jap fighter pilots fly like they’re trying to commit hara-kiri. ‘‘I tangled with Germans and Italians in the Mideast before coming out here,’’ Winzer continued, ‘‘but I never saw such crazy fliers as these Japs. They dive in so close they seem to be begging for tickets to another world. We’ve accommodated as many of them as we could!’’ Winzer said the Japs were full of tricks. One of their favorites was a decoy who went through all kinds of acrobatics to attract attention. Zeros roared in from other directions, hoping to catch their adversaries off-guard. *See photo section.

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‘‘But we weren’t at all interested in acrobatic shows—put on by Japs,’’ Winzer said. My first raid in an India-based bomber was over Bangkok, Thailand. It was—and is—the longest mission (2,800 miles) ever flown in a Liberator. Several weeks later, I returned to Bangkok and watched more Jap military installations disintegrate in smoke and flame. There never was a more beautiful sight. Other raids I’ve observed include Rangoon (five times), Pazundaung Bridge, Gokteik Viaduct, Ava Railroad Bridge, Myitnge Railroad Bridge (twice), Thazi Junction, Mohnyin and Hsipaw, all important targets in Burma. I’ve also seen ships destroyed and docks blown sky high at Haiphong, French Indo-China. Brig. Gen. Howard C. Davidson, Tenth Air Force commander, recently said the bombing of strategic centers in Burma had made a successful defense of that country by the Japs nearly impossible. ‘‘We have seriously hampered the movement of all Jap supplies and reinforcements,’’ the General declared. ‘‘In many cases, we’ve stopped them altogether. Shipping at Rangoon has been disrupted to the point that supplies entering that primary point are far below the level required to maintain the Japs adequately in Burma.’’ From personal experience, I know what the General said was true. Note, however, I said ‘‘was,’’ past tense. The Japs have a habit of turning up at the right spot at the right time! Anyone who has been on a bombing mission knows the gunners are the most important men aboard, pilots and bombardiers notwithstanding. When the Japs attack, the lives of everyone depend upon the gunners. They must keep the enemy out of range, or shoot him down—or else, for everyone! The job of gunner isn’t one of high rank but of hard work. A gunner must be on the alert every second there’s a possibility of enemy action. He must scan the skies constantly. His guns always must be ready to go against the enemy who may dart to the attack from top, bottom, sides, front, or rear. A gunner can’t afford to slacken his vigilance. There are many missions during which he never sees an enemy fighter. But the next mission may be the one in which he’ll have to fight for his life, as well as those of others with him. Sweating It Out : 153

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American gunners were at their best in a savage aerial battle that started over Mingladon Airdrome in the heavily defended Rangoon area. The Liberators scored with many hits on the airdrome’s runways before heading back home. Then, nearly a score of Jap fighters attacked—and the battle lasted 55 minutes. Staff Sgt. William Snapka of Graford, Tex., one of the gunners, told me, ‘‘Those 55 minutes were the busiest I ever put in. The Japs made pass after pass. They came in so close I could hit them with my shoes. You can imagine what I did with my guns!’’ Many a Jap plummeted to earth that day. All our Liberators got back home safely. The forgotten men of combat flying are the ground crews. They don’t get headlines, or medals. They never are mentioned in communique´s. But there wouldn’t be any communique´s, if the ground crews weren’t on the job, before and after each raid. There’s intense rivalry among ground crews. They brag about the number of missions their planes have flown. They argue about the performances of their planes, compared with others. The easiest way to start a ground crew debate, I’ve discovered, is to say one plane is better than another. But any pilot will give credit where credit is due. For example, Lt. Col. William Stark of Starkville, Miss., once told me, ‘‘The fact is, the ground crews deserve most of the credit. All we do is fly the planes. We are utterly dependent upon them. If they don’t keep our planes in the best possible condition, we can’t bomb targets in Burma day after day.’’ A ground crew’s work, like a woman’s, is never done. There are more than 5,000 different gadgets on each four-motored bomber that must be checked. Before a plane can leave on a combat mission, at least 25 ground crewmen put it in order. Seconds after the plane returns, they go to work again—checking and rechecking for the next mission. Sometimes, ground crews go 36 hours without sleep. The eyes of the Tenth Air Force are the ‘‘Photo Joes.’’ A ‘‘Photo Joe’’ is a pilot who flies a single-seated reconnaissance plane over enemy territory. He photographs enemy installations and shipping which bombers and fighters rip apart a few hours later. A ‘‘Photo Joe’’ has to sit in one place as long as nine hours. He can’t squirm more than two inches in any direction. He has to keep his 154 : Sweating It Out

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hands on the controls and watch the instruments every second— without the aid of copilot or automatic pilot. A ‘‘Photo Joe’s’’ plane has more instruments than a four-motored bomber, in which nine or ten men are available for checkups in flight. A ‘‘Photo Joe’’ has to do his own navigation. He takes his own pictures. When over enemy territory, he has to scan the sky for Jap fighter planes, as well as keeping on constant alert for juicy targets to photograph. A ‘‘Photo Joe,’’ in other words, has just about the toughest job in combat flying. Lt. Robert Martin of Portland, Ore., a ‘‘Photo Joe,’’ was over Burma one day when his plane caught fire. ‘‘I put the plane into a skid in an effort to put out the fire, but that didn’t do any good,’’ Martin said. ‘‘When the cowling burned off, I decided this was just about where I came in.’’ He buckled on his chute and started to climb out, but the plane went into a terrific spin, losing 7,000 feet altitude before he could level it out. He finally jumped at 6,000 feet. His chute caught onto two trees, and he dangled 25 feet above the ground. He unbuckled the chute, hoping to drop to the ground, but his left foot caught in the harness. He swung back and forth, head down. ‘‘I fired my pistol five times,’’ Martin said. ‘‘Luckily, 10 local tribesmen heard them and soon arrived. They shook the trees until I fell into a thicket. After hanging head down for a half hour, my nose was so stopped up I could hardly breathe. My back felt like it was broken. Flames from the plane had burned away my shirt. My right forearm was burned, too.’’ Aided by the friendly natives, Martin walked and rafted until he reached a hospital several days later. Not long afterwards, he was back flying over Burma. That’s the stuff of which ‘‘Photo Joes’’ are made. The greatest exhibition of bombing I’ve seen occurred last September 6 over Rangoon. A swarm of Liberators destroyed two large freighters aggregating eight to ten thousand tons, damaged a cargo vessel, sank several smaller craft and started many fires in the dock area. Then, the bombers beat off 15 to 20 Jap twin-engined and singleengined fighter planes in a savage aerial battle lasting nearly 50 minutes. Sweating It Out : 155

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Our gunners shot down five of the Japs, probably destroyed nine and damaged still another. All our planes returned safely, although some— including the one in which I flew—bore jagged holes, testifying to the unusual accuracy and intensity of the Jap ack-ack. The ack-ack was so thick and regularly spaced it seemed like airplanes flying formation with us. Lying prone above the bomb-bay of our plane, I saw our bombs crash into and around a 400-foot freighter anchored in the Rangoon River. Two were direct hits, just aft of amidship. The remainder were near misses. I saw two great circular flashes of flame, then angry black clouds of smoke swirled skyward. The Jap fighter planes jumped us right after we had made our bombing run. The next 50 minutes—without exaggeration—seemed like 50 years. The horrible suspense while the Japs streaked at us with cannon and machine guns blazing, and the indescribable relief when the bullets missed us, left me exhausted and shaky. The Japs came from all directions, sometimes two or three at once. I was leaning over the shoulders of our pilot, Lt. James Barton of Binghamton, N.Y., and our acting copilot, Lt. Col. Bertram Harrison of Leesburg, Va., when ack-ack shattered our right windshield. This was Harrison’s second mission. He was fresh from the States. On his first, one motor was shot out—and he barely made it home. We were showered with glass. A large piece hit me on the chest. And I fell back on the flight deck, positive I’d been shot. I stuck my hand inside my shirt to find out whether I was bleeding. I wasn’t. What a relief ! Harrison stuck his hard-billed cap in the hole in the windshield to keep the wind from hitting him in the face. Suddenly, the cap flew out, striking him on the forehead. The top turret gun went off simultaneously. He turned a greenish white. He thought he’d been shot in the head. The Japs made pass after pass until we were far out over the Bay of Bengal. Our gunners kept them 75 or more yards away but that was much too close for comfort. We were ankle-deep in shells after the battle. Our plane was filled with smoke. 156 : Sweating It Out

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When we landed back at base, our navigator, Lt. James Alexander of Austin, Tex., exclaimed, ‘‘Thank God, I’m able to put my feet on the ground once again!’’ We laughed, but that’s how we felt, too. —Toby Wiant— 3,300 words written l0/12/43 New Delhi, India As another holiday season approached, Dad hoped he could spend Christmas with his friends back at the command headquarters. SOUTHEAST ASIA COMMAND HEADQUARTERS Dec. 13, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Happy holidays! And Happy Birthday, Mom. Gosh, how I wish I were going to help you celebrate all of those occasions. It’s bad to be away from home any time, but especially bad at Christmas. I’m hoping I’ll get to remain here until after the 25th, because this place seems more home than the 1001 other spots I’ve visited during the past year. But fighting continues, Christmas or no Christmas, and I’m liable to be hundreds of miles from here in two weeks. As Betts may have told you, I tried my hand at a magazine yarn last weekend—a 3,300-word story on some of my bombing experiences. I sent it to Press Association, AP’s subsidiary which acts as agent for staffers, along with a copy to Betts for check-up purposes. I’m not at all optimistic about the yarn’s salability. I’ve been away from the States so long I don’t know what the magazines, or the readers, want. But it didn’t take long to produce, and I didn’t have anything else to do at the moment. So there won’t be any great loss if it winds up in somebody’s wastebasket. We correspondents had some bad news today. One of the newcomers, Lucien LaBaudt, Life magazine artist, was killed—along with several others—in the crash of a Liberator in Eastern India. I knew Lucien only slightly, he having arrived only a few days ago. He was in his late 50s or early 60s, I’m told, but acted many years younger. The trip was the first, and the last, he ever made in an airplane. I’m more convinced every day I’ve a lot to be thankful for. I’ve been flying in airplanes almost constantly since leaving the States in October, 1942, Sweating It Out : 157

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yet haven’t been involved in even a minor accident. I must have rolled up more than 150,000 miles in the air, including 30,000–40,000 over enemy territory. I’m keeping my fingers crossed! I attended a press conference a short time ago, given by a man you might know, Dad—Rabbi Barnett R. Brickner of Cleveland, an official of the National Jewish Welfare Board who is touring the world’s battlefronts in the interest of the Jews. I cabled about 200 words, inasmuch as he was the first bigshot churchman to visit this theater. He said more troops were attending religious services proportionately than civilians back in the States. He also said there was a genuine revival of things religious back home. I’ve received your Nov. 18 letter. Thanks a million—and keep ’em coming. Love, Toby I looked through my father’s correspondence again for confirmation that ‘‘Hell for the Japs’’ had been published, but I found nothing to indicate it had appeared in print. Thanks to a mail snafu that caused presents intended for the correspondents to be delivered by boat instead of by plane, Christmas was just another day for my father—with no gifts from home to cheer him. SOUTHEAST ASIA COMMAND HEADQUARTERS Dec. 17, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Unless something big breaks elsewhere, I’ll be here for Christmas. Press Grover was due back from China several days ago, but I’ve just received a wireless message from him, saying he would be in Eastern India awhile before returning. That means he probably won’t show up until next week, and I feel reasonably sure he won’t send me out until after Christmas. We’ve already made plans for a belly bustin’ dinner. We’ve bought two large turkeys (about $9 apiece), and we’re going to search the countryside in a day or so for a tree. We’ll have to improvise decorations because Indians don’t make the kind with which we’re familiar. The mail has slowed up terrifically in the past month. For example, your Nov. 24 letter has just arrived. There has been no sign of packages, for anyone. I understand some dope back in the States put all packages 158 : Sweating It Out

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addressed to this theater on a ship that moves at turtle pace. So we’ll probably not get any packages until January or February. The Paul Lee of AP whom you mentioned is one of the fellows I worked with in New York and Cairo. He wasn’t well when he was in Cairo. As a matter of fact, I took care of him for several days just before I headed out to India. I understand he returned to NYC in an effort to get back on his feet physically. Many thanks for the clipping on my food-dropping story. I’ll return it after Grover gets back. I want to show him some of our stuff, at least, gets into print. We never get any reports from our office about the play, if any, given our cables. You certainly are whistling in the dark when you say you hope this war will be over before next Thanksgiving. I’ll be surprised if the war in Europe is over by then. The war in Asia can’t begin on a large scale until after the fall of Germany. Thus, we’ll be fortunate if the Japs give up before Thanksgiving 1945. My guess is that mid-1946 is more nearly correct. That may seem pessimistic to anyone 15,000 miles from this theater. I’m right on the scene. I think my estimate is conservative. That’s all for now. Happy New Year! Love, Toby SOUTHEAST ASIA COMMAND HEADQUARTERS Dec. 26, 1943 Dear Mom and Dad: Christmas has come and gone without making much of an impression. That, of all days, is one that should be spent with the family. Otherwise, it’s just another day—and a hard one to get through. We correspondents did the best we could to buoy each other’s spirits. We gave a two-hour party starting at noon for the dozen or more American generals who now are here. After they left, we had our Christmas dinner together—turkey ’n’ all the fixins. But, frankly, I didn’t enjoy the meal. I was too homesick—for you and for Betts. I certainly hope I don’t have to spend many more Christmases away from home. But I’m afraid at least one more, possibly two, will pass before I can get back to the States. I can’t see how the war in the Far East can end before Jan. 1, 1945—at the earliest. That seems like a mighty long time, but the job is stupendous—and we’ve barely started to get it done. Sweating It Out : 159

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Nobody out here received Christmas packages, due to the fact that someone in the States dumped the gifts onto a slowly moving boat that probably won’t arrive until late next month. We didn’t have a tree, but we decorated our apartment as best we could. Decorations couldn’t make it seem like Christmas, though. Preston Grover has assigned me to cover Eastern India during the next several weeks. I’ll probably work out of Calcutta, since there are many news sources in that city. However, please continue to address me through APO 885. My mail will be forwarded from this place as regularly as possible. That’s all for now. I must start making arrangements to take off in a day or so. Love, Toby From the Indianapolis News, December 27, 1943: TOBY WIANT TO GET AIR MEDAL; HE’S PRACTICALLY IN AIR FORCE Thoburn (Toby) Wiant, former reporter for the Indianapolis News now serving as Associated Press correspondent, has been recommended by the 10th United States Air Force for an Air Medal, according to a letter received by Fred Shannon, fellow Associated Press employee in the Indianapolis office. Mr. Wiant wrote that the recommendation came as a result of 135 hours and 35 minutes spent on missions which have carried him, he has been told unofficially, over more enemy territory than any other war correspondent. When the letter was written December 11, he had been in American bombers over Burma, Thailand (Siam), and French Indo-China on seventeen missions. Mr. Wiant arrived in India December 1, 1942, and has been there at bases in China since that time. Mr. Wiant attended high school at Ft. Wayne and [attended] DePauw University. After leaving college, he was employed by the News before joining the Indianapolis Associated Press staff. He was transferred to the New York office before being assigned abroad. In his letter, he told of interviewing Generalissimo and Mme. Chiang Kai-shek and Lord Louis Mountbatten, Allied commander in southeast Asia, after they attended the Cairo conference. His second Christmas away from home now just a memory, my father prepared for a return to the Burma jungle—and to more jeep time. 160 : Sweating It Out

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Above: Wiant family portrait, circa 1918. Back, left to right: Warren Wiant, Toby Wiant, Myrtle Wiant. Front: Howard Wiant. (See page 10.) Below: Editor-in-chief Toby Wiant rewrites a story for DePauw University’s student newspaper, the DePauw. Greencastle, Indiana, November 1931. © Bettmann/ Corbis. (See page 15.)

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Toby Wiant’s certificate of identity as a noncombatant war correspondent, 1942. (See page 38.)

Toby Wiant’s Associated Press accreditations pass, 1942. (See page 59.)

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U.S. soldiers share their experiences in the Western Desert Campaign of North Africa with Associated Press war correspondent Toby Wiant. Seated at table, left to right: A. P. Lofquist, of Inglewood, Calif., U.S. Technical Representative; and Pvt. John R. Crawford, of Washington, Pa. Standing, left to right: Lt. Alec A. Johnston, of New Orleans, La.; and Sgt. Ray C. Hill, of Sioux Falls, S.D. Seated at right: Toby Wiant. December 8, 1942. ACME photo, © Bettmann/Corbis. (See page 73.)

Eddie Rickenbacker (left, foreground) tells a group of correspondents about his upcoming trip through the Far Eastern theater of operations during a press conference in India. Left to right: Rickenbacker; Herbert Matthews, New York Times; Col. Sam Moore, public relations officer, 10th Air Force; Toby Wiant (on table), Associated Press; Preston Grover (seated on floor), Associated Press; John R. Morris (foreground), United Press. At rear: Lt. Col. William Nuckols, who will make the trip with Rickenbacker. India, September 1943. ACME photo, © Bettmann/Corbis. (See page 111.)

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Toby Wiant (right) with Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell at 14th Air Force Headquarters. China, July 1943. AP Photo. (See pages 120 and 214.)

Toby Wiant (center) pretends to hitchhike with fellow correspondents Robert Martin of United Press (left) and Bob Bryant of International News Photo (right). Indo-China, 1943. (See page 126.)

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Air Medal citation given to Thoburn Hughes Wiant by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. August 15, 1944. (See pages 132 and 209.)

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Lt. William M. Gilbert (left), 25, a U.S. heavy bomber pilot from Evanston, Ill., and Toby Wiant, Associated Press war correspondent, at an Indian air base. March 1943. AP Photo. (See page 152.)

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Above: Toby Wiant at his typewriter. Burma, circa 1943. Below: Toby Wiant relaxing in India, 1943.

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Above: Toby Wiant takes a break from jungle trekking, 1943. Below: Lt. Gen. Joseph W. “Vinegar Joe” Stilwell, commander of U.S. Armies in the China-Burma-India Theater, leads his troops across a jungle stream in pursuit of Japanese soldiers on the North Burma Front. Behind Stilwell, left to right: Toby Wiant, Associated Press war correspondent; Dara Singh, Singapore-born Indian bodyguard to Gen. Stilwell; and Capt. Richard Young, American-born Chinese aide-de-camp. March 7, 1944. AP Photo/Army Signal Corps. (See page 174.)

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Lt. Gen. Joseph W. “Uncle Joe” Stilwell (second in line) leads a party of his officers across a field littered with supplies that were dropped from planes in the Hukawng Valley, Northern Burma. Toby Wiant is fifth in line from the left. March 8, 1944. © Bettmann/Corbis.

Lt. Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell (center right), Toby Wiant of the Associated Press (seated on Stilwell’s right), and members of their party take cover in a deep ravine as 75-mm shells begin popping all around them during a visit to the Chinese lines in the Hukawng Valley sector, Northern Burma. March 17, 1944. AP Photo.

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War correspondents risk their lives to get the story and pictures of the B-29 Superfortress’s raid on the Japanese steel center at Yawata. Standing, left to right: Robert L. Bryant, International News Photos; Toby Wiant, Associated Press; Roy Porter, NBC; Clay Gowran, Chicago Tribune; and B. Hoffman, Life. Kneeling, left to right: Frank Cancellare, ACME Newspictures; Harry Zinger, Time; and Walter Rundle, United Press. China, 1944. ACME photo by Frank Cancellare, © Bettmann/Corbis. (See page 197.)

Toby Wiant, August 1944. (See page 228.)

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Toby Wiant on home leave with his wife, Betty. August 1944.

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Toby Wiant relaxes on leave at Ocean City, New Jersey. August 1944.

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Commendation letter to Toby Wiant from Gen. George S. Patton Jr. May 12, 1945. (See page 271.)

Gen. George S. Patton, commander of the U.S. Third Army in Europe, holds his last press conference with newsmen at his headquarters after Germany’s surrender. Front, left to right: Seaghan Maynes, Reuters; Larry Newman, International News Service; Gen. Patton; Reynolds Packard, United Press. Back row: Toby Wiant, Associated Press; Edward D. Ball, Associated Press; and Robert Richards, United Press. Germany, May 17, 1945. ACME photo by Charles Haacker, © Bettmann/Corbis. (See page 271.)

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War Department commendation for Thoburn H. Wiant. November 23, 1946.

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Toby Wiant, circa 1958. Photo by Hank Weber. (See page 317.)

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Daddy’s Girl, 1948. Toby Wiant and the author examine today’s copy of a career they would come to share. He taught me to read from it when I was three years old.

.. .. chapter ten .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. journey through .. ..

the jungle, jan.–april 1944

I’m having the time of my life down here in the jungle with Lieutenant General ‘‘Uncle Joe’’ Stilwell, one of the most lovable guys I ever met, or hope to meet. Chinese and Americans are killing Japs, and vice versa, not far from where I’m writing this. Down here, the war is small, but real. toby wiant, January 9, 1944 My father began the New Year in the jungles of Burma again, where he walked and jeeped his way to increasingly important news stories. ‘‘Sweating it out’’ had paid off—the Burma theater had finally come alive. Before the war, Burma was not considered a potential theater of operations. When Malaya and Singapore fell to Japanese offensives in December 1941, Burma, too, became a battleground. British forces under the command of General Sir Archibald Wavell faced constant challenges in their attempts to stop the Japanese troops. In March 1942, the British received help from the Chinese Fifth and Sixth Armies under the leadership of General Joseph W. ‘‘Vinegar Joe’’ Stilwell, who had just been appointed the commanding general of the American ChinaBurma-India (CBI) theater. Despite the efforts of Stilwell’s troops to strengthen the British forces, the Japanese proved stronger and took control of all of Burma in May 1942. With the capture of the Burma Road in June, the Japanese effectively cut off the Allies’ land route to China and forced the Allies to transport supplies by air over the Himalayan ‘‘Hump.’’ In July, General Sir Archibald P. Wavell began planning another offensive by forming the Chindits, a long-range penetration brigade of some 3,000 members whose name originated in Hindu mythology and whose troops were trained

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as guerillas. To aid Wavell’s endeavors, construction began in the fall of 1942 on a new highway link between Ledo, Assam (India), and the original Burma Road. The Chindits, led by Brigadier Orde C. Wingate, crossed the Chindwin River from India on February 14, 1943, and began a push into central Burma. They were forced back by enemy troops and retreated to India in late March. The casualty toll was high: 800 of the original 3,000 soldiers were either killed or missing.* Military action in Burma was light for the rest of 1943, and Allied leadership opinions were divided as to how to regain control of the country. Finally, in November 1943, the Anglo-American South East Asia Command (SEAC) was created with Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten taking over from Wavell as supreme commander. Stilwell then became deputy supreme commander but continued to serve as commander in chief of both the United States air and ground forces in Southeast Asia and the Chinese army in Burma, as well as chief of staff to China’s president, Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, commander of Chinese armies. In February 1944, Stilwell and his Chinese troops, along with the American 5307th Provisional Regiment—led by Major General Frank D. Merrill and dubbed ‘‘Merrill’s Marauders’’ by correspondents with the Northern Area Command (NAC)—took advantage of the newly constructed Ledo Road to begin their recapture of Burma. The 3,000 Marauders (code word galahad) were the first and only American ground forces in the CBI theater. Merrill led his men on a 130-mile march to condition them, but the troops were in poor physical health—many shouldn’t have been in battle at all. By April, only 1,400 Marauders remained. Nearly half had succumbed to disease or had died.† The remaining Marauders, bolstered by additional troops from General Stilwell’s Chinese division, continued their struggle to capture the airfield at Myitkyina, Burma. Although they succeeded in May, when the battle was over 5,000 Allied soldiers were either dead or wounded compared to the Japanese loss of 3,000 men.‡ Craving a part of the action, my father lost no time in dogging the footsteps of Stilwell and his men. *Barbara W. Tuchman, Stilwell and the American Experience in China, 1911–45 (New York: Macmillan, 1971), 385. †Ibid., 444. ‡Keith D. Dickson, World War II For Dummies (New York: Hungry Minds, Inc., 2001), 307.

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From the Evening Star, Washington, D.C., January 14, 1944 (Associated Press article): GENERAL STILWELL SEES NEW ROAD PUSHED THROUGH BURMA JUNGLE by Thoburn Wiant, Associated Press War Correspondent WITH GENERAL STILWELL IN BURMA, January 6, 1944 (Delayed) (AP)—American construction genius has pushed the new Ledo Road through the primeval jungle of Northern Burma almost on the heels of Chinese troops clearing the zone of Japanese. The results, as well as the hazards of this Allied effort, now are being viewed firsthand by wiry, wisecracking Lieutenant General Joseph W. Stilwell, American commander in the Far East, who is making his first tour of Burma since he marched out of the country in May 1942 after it had been overrun by the invaders. The results already are good. The new highway, which will substitute for the old Burma Road, already extends deep into Northern Burma and is being used by trucks. Ahead of the completed road are trails which a jeep may travel and they end only a short distance behind the front lines. But the retaking of Northern Burma to permit construction of the Ledo Road through to the Burma Road is bound to be difficult. The Japanese are unlikely to give up this important area without a terrific struggle. It is apparent the Japanese lack planes for an aerial supply line for they are using elephants, horses, and human porters and living off the land as much as possible. General Stilwell came into this thick jungle several days ago by airplane and jeep and since then has covered almost every inch of Hukawng Valley, where American-equipped and trained Chinese soldiers commanded by Generals Sun Li-jen and Liao Yao-hsiang have pushed the Japanese into the upper reaches of the Chindwin River. The Chinese have been mopping up the Hukawng Valley, but the Japanese still hold positions around Taro in the western part of the valley and Sharaw in the eastern end. They are using pillboxes made of earth and bamboo so expertly camouflaged they cannot be detected ten feet away. Crackshot snipers who remain hidden in trees for days at a time also are causing trouble. Journey through the Jungle : 163

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Wearing a tin helmet and field jacket with no insignia and carrying a carbine, General Stilwell is traveling afoot and by jeep from one combat zone to another. His disguise didn’t fool the Chinese who know him and he stopped to talk with enlisted men as well as officers, speaking fluently in their own language. I reached this spot after a flight of several hundred miles in a transport plane and another hundred-mile trip in an aerial jeep piloted by Sergeant Richard (Bud) Dickson, 23, Englewood, Colorado, who was a Church of the Nazarene evangelist in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Utah before joining the Army. Today, I followed General Stilwell in a jeep driven by Colonel Milton Potter, of Galveston, Texas, along with Colonel Rothwell H. Brown of Washington. Both are key officers in this area. WITH GENERAL STILWELL IN NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE January 9, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad, I’m having the time of my life down here in the jungle with Lieutenant General ‘‘Uncle Joe’’ Stilwell, one of the most lovable guys I ever met, or hope to meet. Chinese and Americans are killing Japs, and vice versa, not far from where I’m writing this. Down here, the war is small, but real. In Delhi, or even Calcutta, the war is something people talk about, but don’t experience. Comforts are few in the jungle, but nobody seems to mind. I arrived January 5 and have slept in my clothes ever since, because the jungle is damp and cold—the kind of dampness and coldness that penetrates two blankets as if they were made of tissue paper. In the morning, I wash in cold water—the kind of washing I used to do when I was a kid! I shave only every other day. No one cares whether I have a beard oneeighth of an inch long, or eight inches. Only a few men wear helmets, despite our proximity to the Japs and the possibility an enemy patrol might barge into us sometime. Most of the helmets are used as wash basins—and mighty good ones, too. I eat simple chow plunked down in my mess kit in generous portions by Gee-eyes, who are experts at disguising the bully beef and rice of which we have aplenty. The jungle is full of nearly every species of birds, animals and reptiles. That bothered me a little at first, but not at all anymore. I frequently have come across elephant droppings, but old-timers told 164 : Journey through the Jungle

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me I shouldn’t worry about elephants until I saw droppings that were steaming. The other day, I was driving down a trail in a jeep with two colonels when a big tiger darted across in front of us. It must have weighed at least 450 pounds. One of the colonels said tigers wouldn’t bother humans unless [the tigers] were wounded, or too old to kill smaller animals. Yesterday the General was busy all day conferring with high-ranking American and Chinese officers. So I struck out over a jungle trail to see just how tough such hiking was. I know now, and if I ever walk again voluntarily, I hope someone slaps me into an institution. I walked only 15 miles with a 20-pound pack. Veterans do 20–30 miles daily with 30–40 pound packs. But my flat feet felt like they were on fire after the first few miles. My legs ached all the way up to my hips. Veterans stop only once or twice daily, but I had to rest about every half hour toward the end. About a mile from my destination, a jeep came along and picked me up. No flower, no woman, no nothing was ever more beautiful than that jeep! I plan to remain in the jungle as long as the General stays here. After that, I dunno—as usual. Love, Toby NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE January 26, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad, I’ll be down here in the jungle indefinitely, I guess. The Chinese, under the direction of Lieutenant General Joseph (Uncle Joe) Stilwell, are going strong, whipping the Japs wherever they can find them. The Chinese are striving to advance as far as possible before the rains the end of April and the monsoon, about May 15. I’ve been sleeping in a different place almost every night—on the ground, on basha (hut) bamboo floors, on cots, in hammocks. I’ve had to sleep in my clothes under three blankets to keep halfway warm. It’s cold and damp all of the time in the jungle. Right now, my fingers are so cold I can’t seem to hit the right keys. But I’m still feeling fine and avoiding the diseases. I can’t understand why I haven’t had malaria or amoebic dysentery, or some of the other diseases so prevalent in this part of the world. I’m just too mean and ornery, I guess! I weigh about 155, which is about what I should weigh. Journey through the Jungle : 165

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All of our food and supplies are air-dropped to us—with or without parachute. For awhile, we were eating nothing but bully beef and rice, but the chow has improved greatly in the past week. We even had chicken two nights! Love, Toby In a letter to his sister-in-law Misty Green Ross and her husband, Jack, my father shared his opinions about the Chinese offensive and a recent card he’d received from the U.S. government informing him of his draft status. NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE Jan. 26, 1944 Dear Misty and Jack: Your Dec. 9 letter caught up with me here in the jungle, where for the past three weeks I’ve been covering the Chinese offensive designed to clear the way through the Hukawng Valley for an extension of the Ledo Road to the old Burma Road. So far, I’ve not only survived the rigors of jungle life, but grown to like it. I’ve walked over up-and-down trails until my feet felt like someone was holding a blow-torch to them. I’ve eaten bully beef and rice day after day. I’ve had to sleep in my clothes under three blankets to keep halfway warm. I’ve been in places where Jap shells whizzed over my head to Chinese positions only a few hundred feet away. But it hasn’t been as bad as it may sound. I’ve spent many interesting hours with Lt.-Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell, who despite his 61 years still can walk almost everyone into the ground. I’ve eaten chicken and cake with chocolate icing in a place where all supplies were air-dropped, with or without parachute. I’ve met hundreds of people, Chinese as well as Americans, and each—almost without exception—had something unusual to say. I’ve seen American movies, old to you but new to us, about 125 miles inside Burma. You shouldn’t make the mistake of viewing the Chinese offensive as the major effort to retake Burma. It definitely isn’t, but it’s a step in the right direction. The Ledo Road, being built by American engineers right on the heels of the advancing Chinese, is a great tribute to American resourcefulness, persistence and endurance. It is being constructed through some of the world’s worst jungle, over nearly perpendicular hills. When it connects with the old Burma Road, the United Nations 166 : Journey through the Jungle

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(mostly the U.S.A.) will be able to more than double the quantity of supplies now going to China over the Himalayas. So you’re in 2-A, Jack! I just received a card from my draft board notifying me I’d be in 2-B through June 1944.* That would be a laugh if I were called up then. I’ve probably seen more action as a correspondent than I ever would as a soldier. I’ve been over Burma, Thailand and French Indo-China 17 times and within a grenade throw of the Japs in Arakan (Western Burma) and the Hukawng Valley (Northern Burma). Thanks for the news about everyone in the Ross tribe. Please relay my best to the termites! As ever, Toby In my father’s papers was a carbon copy of a February 1944 typewritten dispatch that he’d sent to AP’s New York office—the headline had yet to be written. As far as I know, the article was never published. by Thoburn Wiant WITH CHINESE-AMERICAN FORCES IN THE NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE, February 7 (DELAYED) (AP)—Japanese troops backing out of the Hukawng Valley are now fighting suicidal delaying actions which are slowing a few units of Lieutenant General Joseph W. Stilwell’s Chinese forces slightly, but are costing the Japanese a tremendous toll. In some engagements the Japanese have been killed to the last man after holding the Chinese only a day or so. The Chinese already have captured two key points, Taro, a Chindwin River village, and Taipha Ga, a village on the Tunas River from which a motor road connects with the Burma railway to Mogaung. The next major objective logically will be Maingkwan, the valley’s largest village. The Chinese around Tassra are mopping up small Japanese units before driving farther southward. One Japanese captured during a mop-up tried to shake hands with Stilwell while I *The Selective Service System classified its registrants (men age 20 and over) to determine their status for military service. A ‘‘2-A’’ status meant that military service was deferred because of the man’s non-agricultural occupation. A ‘‘2-B’’ status signified that service was deferred because of a war-related occupation. Wikipedia. http:// tiny.cc/SelectiveService (accessed May 19, 2010).

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was present, but the General snapped: ‘‘Not with you, you bastard.’’ Stilwell later said the prisoner’s effort to be friendly was ‘‘remarkable.’’ ‘‘They seem to be learning,’’ he declared. ‘‘The best way to bring them around is to kill their pals. That kind of language they understand. That’s our best propaganda.’’ Chinese soldiers, proud of their accomplishments, brought booty to the General including rifles, machine guns, mortars, ammunition, gas masks and a battle flag. Stilwell pointed at some light machine guns and explained they were equipped with an ammunition feed gadget such as one he patented in 1917, called ‘‘converted.’’ The fitting was never used by the American army, but the idea was stolen by the Japanese. Late at night, Japanese units tried to relieve some encircled companions, but lost 40 killed, making a total of approximately 100 in this immediate vicinity in less than 24 hours. That’s good hunting in the Hukawng Valley, and Chinese casualties were comparatively light. Traversing the rugged jungle terrain with a heavy pack on his back gave Dad a workout that strengthened his body but left him longing for jeeps. NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE February 11, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad, I must be getting into good condition, because I did 18 miles through mud and over hills the other day without feeling like I’d fall on my face if I tried to take another step. Besides, I had a 25-pound pack on my back—and packs always become heavier as the hours roll by. All told, I suppose I’ve walked approximately 100 miles since coming into the jungle. That’s not bad for a flat-footed guy who never before had walked further than a few blocks at a time. I’m not trying to set any walking records, however. I’m still mighty partial to jeeps. That trip the other day was to one of the forward-most Chinese positions. We were within a few hundred feet of the area where the Chinese and the Japs dug in opposite each other. There was almost constant rifle and/or machine gun fire. Now and then, the Japs would open up with their artillery, and the Chinese would reply in kind. That’s when I headed, but quickly, for a dugout. At one time, shells were landing only 300–400 yards from the place where I was huddled. I wished then I

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were back covering the Air Force! Ack-ack over targets such as Rangoon never bothered me as much as the explosion of Jap shells in the jungle. The Chinese, American-trained and equipped, are doing a great job down here under the direction of Lieutenant General Joseph W. (Uncle Joe) Stilwell, whom I’ve been tagging around from one place to another. Unlike the Chinese in China, these troops are offensive-minded. They’ve tasted a lot of Japanese blood and are confident that, man for man, they’re much superior to their adversaries. You asked whether I knew A.T. Steele of the Chicago Daily News. Indeed, I do know Arch. He’s one of my best friends out here. Love, Toby From an Ithaca, New York, newspaper, February 1944 (Associated Press article): BURMA SURGEON SAVES MANY LIVES by Thoburn Wiant WITH THE CHINESE TROOPS IN NORTHERN BURMA, February 10 (By Mail) (AP)—Lieutenant Colonel Gordon S. Seagrave, 47, author of the book Burma Surgeon and leader of the world-famous Seagrave Hospital unit, says the lives of 2,000 Chinese may have been saved in the last two years ‘‘as a result of the care they received in our hospital,’’ but friends declare that is a gross underestimate. ‘‘I was so busy during the battle of Burma, in the spring of 1942, I couldn’t keep track of the patients,’’ explained Seagrave. ‘‘I remember doing 150 operations in one 24-hour period.’’ Seagrave, a former missionary doctor with a total of 22 years in Burma, now is attached to Lieutenant General Joseph W. Stilwell’s Chinese troops who are clearing the Japanese from Northern Burma so American engineers can extend the Ledo Road to the Burma Road. Nineteen Burmese nurses, including two princesses—Louise and Pearl—work with the hospital unit. They range in age from 21 to 30 and have served with Dr. Seagrave for periods of six to twelve years. All were trained personally by him . . . . From the New Castle (Indiana) Courier-Times, February 11, 1944 (Associated Press article):

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TOBY WIANT GIVES SKETCH OF GENERAL STILWELL by Toby Wiant WITH GENERAL STILWELL IN NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE, February 11 (AP Features)—Lieutenant General Joseph W. (Uncle Joe) Stilwell’s unquenchable curiosity makes him work many times harder—physically as well as mentally—than anyone under his command. He listens intently to what his subordinates have to say about situations or terrain—then finds out himself just how accurate they are. Not that he doesn’t trust them. He’s just curious. Every American in the jungle calls him ‘‘Uncle Joe,’’ or ‘‘The Old Man’’—not to his face, but not disrespectfully. He apparently likes to be known as ‘‘Uncle Joe,’’ because he permitted ‘‘Uncle Joe’s Chariot’’ to be painted on the nose of his plane in which he commutes about China, Burma and India. Stilwell would have made one of the best reporters in the business. He always wants to know the who, what, why, when and where—and doesn’t stop asking questions until he finds out. He is 61 years old, but seems not more than 50. He can—and does— outwalk soldiers 20–30 years younger. He sets such a fast pace that troops—and war correspondents—gasp for breath after the first mile or so. His curiosity has led him over virtually every important inch of the Hukawng Valley, where American-trained and equipped Chinese are driving the Japs southward to give American engineers building the Ledo road plenty of room. When Stilwell issues an order, he knows exactly what that order entails. He personally has been over the area and memorized each hill, ravine, trail and river. A too-close brush with large Japanese shells left my father shaken and glad to be alive. YOU-KNOW-WHERE February 17, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve discovered the mail censors hereabouts are much stricter than back at APO 885, so I’ll have to omit some kinds of comments I usually make. However, you know from my stories where I am and what I’m doing. 170 : Journey through the Jungle

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I never was as scared on any of my 17 bombing missions as I was the other day when we were bracketed by Jap shells, which landed in an area 10 to 50 yards from us. We were darned lucky the ground was soft. Otherwise, we certainly would have caught some fragments. We were walking blithely along as usual when I heard the rustling noise made by big shells. There were no trenches or dugouts around, so all I could do was to hit the mud on the trail. I was hugging the mud for all I was worth when the first shell exploded, throwing a shower of dirt, leaves and tree limbs on us. We sprinted down the trail until we heard another rustling noise a few seconds later—and hit the mud again. We raced through this routine until we reached a hillside depression where we were safe from anything except a direct hit. All told, ten shells burst near us within the short period of about three minutes. If the closest shell had landed closer, I wouldn’t be writing you about it! I’ve walked many more miles since my last letter to you, but I’m in good condition now. I get tired after seven or eight miles, but I’m not completely exhausted, as I used to be. I now expect to remain on this assignment six to eight weeks longer. Presently, the press corps is quite large—Darrell Berrigan (United Press), Jim Brown (International News Service), A.T. Steele (Chicago Daily News), Tillman Durdin (New York Times), Ed Cunningham (Yank magazine), Bob Bryant (International Newsphotos), and I. Another group is not far back of us—Charlie Grumich (AP), Frank Hewlett (UP) and Jim Shepley (Time). So we’re all set for any kind of a show. Already, things are brewing which will be splashed all over the front pages someday. Love, Toby With a comfortable tent and plenty of food, my father and his fellow correspondents settled in for a long stay in the jungle. NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE February 22, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Two more of your letters—the ones you wrote January 19 and 23—have reached me down here in the wilds of Northern Burma. The letters you and others write me give me the pleasant illusion of not being so far from civilization. Journey through the Jungle : 171

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At the moment, I have most comfortable quarters. I’m living in a tent with several other correspondents including [those mentioned in the previous letter and] Eddie Tseng (Chinese Central News Agency). We have a wood-burning stove, which comes in handy during chilly nights. Inside our tent is an entrance to a large dugout in which we can take shelter when the Jap bombers become ambitious. The food is simple—such things as baked beans, beets, corn, potatoes, cauliflower, bread, oleo, jam and coffee—but there’s always plenty of it. I don’t think I’ve gained any weight due to the exercise I’m getting. There’s nothing much to do at night except listen to the 9:30 p.m. BBC newscast, read and sleep. I read very little because of the poor lantern light which makes my eyes smart after 15–20 minutes. I’ve been getting copies of Time to which Betts subscribed for me. Now and then, I find an old newspaper, which I read from the front to the back, no matter how old it is. As far as I know, I’ll be on this assignment at least until the rains start the last of April. The Chinese are doing alright, as you may have gathered from my dispatches and the communique´s. They always were capable of doing alright, but lacked the kind of leadership they’re getting now. Love, Toby Associated Press article, Ithaca, New York, February 1944—specific newspaper source unknown: CHINESE BARBER’S RAZOR HIDDEN WHILE AMERICAN GETS HAIRCUT by Thoburn Wiant WITH THE CHINESE ARMY IN NORTHERN BURMA, February 28 (Delayed) (AP) Jungle jottings: I hadn’t had a haircut for six weeks. Even the Chinese were pointing and snickering behind my back. But there had been no American barbers around. A Chinese army barber usually cuts hair with a razor. I’d seen hundreds of Chinese with their heads shaved. That’s why I had postponed the ordeal. One afternoon I could stand the levity no longer. I sat down on a Chinese barber’s log after hiding his razor in my pocket. He did his best to retrieve the thing, but I sign-languaged that I’d give it back if he 172 : Journey through the Jungle

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would use only scissors and leave some hair on my head. He wasn’t at all cooperative until I hauled out two packs of American cigarettes and waved them under his nose. The barber went to work. I held a mirror so I could watch every move he made. He sweated—so did I. Finally, an hour later, the job was done. My hair looked as if it had been chewed by a rat. I’ve now become philosophical. After all, what difference does it make? Neither the Chinese nor the Americans care how I look. So why should I? If anyone should want to take my picture—which they probably wouldn’t—I would put on my hat. Every Chinese soldier in the jungle can speak at least one word of English. It’s ‘‘okay.’’ Every American soldier in the jungle can speak at least four words in Chinese: ‘‘hobba how’’ (how are you?); ‘‘ding how’’ (good); ‘‘boo how’’ (bad); and ‘‘mama foo foo’’ (not good, not bad). Chinese and Americans not only can converse for hours with these vocabularies, plus sign language, but frequently do. Out here, one loses all track of time. I inquired about the date while talking to three members of Lieutenant General Joseph W. Stilwell’s bodyguard—Sergeant Paul Gish, 26, of Wadsworth, Ohio; Sergeant Bob Briggs, 21, of Carey, Idaho; and Private First Class Myles Schauer, 20, of Oak Park, Ill. ‘‘It’s Friday, the 9th,’’ said Gish. ‘‘I think it’s Thursday, the 8th,’’ said Briggs. ‘‘I dunno,’’ said Schauer. I looked at my calendar. It was Sunday, the 6th. The Chinese have learned to fish on a big scale. They use grenades. My father’s admiration for the Chinese soldiers he met was evident in the description he shared with his parents. NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE March 4, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks a lot for your newspacked January 29 letter, which I found a little while ago on my jungle hammock after I returned from a bath in a river only a mile or so from where the Chinese and the Japs are fighting. The Chinese definitely have the Japs on the move backwards now. The longer I’m around these little Chinese soldiers, the more I Journey through the Jungle : 173

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like them. They have a marvelous sense of humor which they retain under the most trying circumstances. They’re utterly fearless. Perhaps that’s because they’re fatalistic. They figure that if they’re destined to catch a bullet, they’ll catch it regardless of what they do, say or think. Therefore, they refuse to worry. They look at the bright side of everything. They smile, laugh, or sing at least three-fourths of their conscious hours. Some of these Chinese are so brave we Americans are inclined to think they’re foolhardy. The other afternoon, for example, the Chinese and the Japs were deep in their foxholes only a few feet apart. Bullets were whistling in every direction. The Chinese thought it was all a big joke. One Chinese private thought it such a joke that he climbed out of his foxhole, walked over to a bamboo clump, and relieved himself amid bullets that seemed certain to get him, but didn’t. That Chinese made enough face to last him the rest of his life! When I refer to the Chinese, I mean the enlisted men mainly. Many of the officers, of course, also are brave and efficient. But the Chinesein-the-ranks are unbeatable. They average 22 to 23 years of age. The typical [Chinese] GI weighs about 120 pounds and stands about five feet five inches in his stockinged feet. He gets only seven rupees a month, a rupee being worth slightly more than 30 cents, but he doesn’t complain. The Army supplies all of his needs except cigarettes. The Chinese are probably the world’s hardest working soldiers. They get up at 5 a.m. and keep apitchin’ until dark. Ironically, their schedule calls for exercises—as if they didn’t get plenty on their regular jobs. I’ve seen Chinese carrying more than they weigh—and doing it with a smile. . . . Love, Toby The next few days proved pivotal as my father accompanied General Stilwell’s troops in their pursuit of the Japanese on the Northern Burma front.* From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, March 9, 1944 (Associated Press article): WIANT REPORTS JAPS GO CRAZY IN BURMA TRAP by Thoburn Wiant WITH CHINESE AND AMERICAN TROOPS IN NORTHERN BURMA, March 6 (Delayed) (AP)—Organized resistance by several *See photo section.

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hundred Japanese caught between Chinese forces south of Maingkwan and American troops in the Walawbum area was rapidly crumbling today and large numbers of the enemy were trying frantically to escape before the vise closes. Less than twenty-four hours after the occupation of Maingkwan, largest village in the Hukawng Valley, the Chinese 22nd division advanced four miles farther south toward the American positions and captured the village of Shingban, where the Japanese had dug in deeply. The Chinese took a large quantity of ammunition which the Japanese had left intact in their hurry to withdraw. Enemy bodies have not yet been counted, but officers said their casualties must have been heavy. Meanwhile, American troops had two Japanese companies pocketed near Walawbum and were closing in for the kill. ‘‘I never saw any crazier people than the Japs we met,’’ said Private First Class Richard Chaffins, of Pineville, Ky., an American infantryman. ‘‘When they realized we had ’em where we wanted ’em, they threw their equipment away and dashed down the trail.’’ Chaffins said the Americans went so fast around the left flank to the rear of the Japanese that they didn’t have time to dig any holes or wait for their rations to be dropped from planes. ‘‘We were getting hungry when we spotted a Jap carrying a sack of beans,’’ Chaffins added. ‘‘Those beans sure tasted good.’’ From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, March 13, 1944 (Associated Press article): YANKEE TANKS BATTLE ALL NIGHT IN JAP CAMP When Morning Comes, Americans Find No Enemies in Sight but Dead Ones by Thoburn Wiant, Associated Press Staff Writer WITH AMERICAN-CHINESE FORCES NEAR WALAWBUM, BURMA, March 9 (Delayed) (AP)—Major Cornelius Wendle of Sandpoint, Idaho, described today how the Japanese set fire to elephant grass in a vain attempt to burn out American tanks going into action against them for the first time in the Burma theater. ‘‘We were east of Maingkwan on the afternoon of March 3,’’ said Major Wendle, a medical officer. ‘‘Two bulldozers were cutting a jungle trail ahead of us and Chinese infantry was bringing up the rear. Journey through the Jungle : 175

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‘‘Suddenly, hidden Japanese set fire to the elephant grass all around us. We shot and bulled our way through, riddling many Japanese who [revealed] themselves. We kept going until just after dark. Then hell really broke loose. ‘‘The Japs let us have everything in the book including shells from 150-millimeter cannon. We made it scalding hot for them, too. A battle royal lasted all night. ‘‘I have had nightmares but never dreamed that shellfire could be so fierce. Once I was so close to a Japanese gunner I could hear the ‘plunk’ when he dropped a shell into the mortar barrel.’’ Wendle said he stuffed his pockets with morphine and bandages and worked his way from tank to tank, treating the wounded. ‘‘Whenever I had seconds to spare,’’ he said, ‘‘I dug a hole with my hands. By morning my hole was only deep enough for my head and shoulders.’’ In daylight the tank crews saw that they had been fighting amid a huge Japanese camp, but no Japanese were in sight except dead ones. Japanese huts extended seven-tenths of a mile in one direction and a mile or more in another. The personal tank of Colonel Rothwell Brown of Washington, D.C., and Miami, Florida, commander of the armed forces, had halted only 15 feet from the Japanese command post. Of the large number of tanks involved, only a few were put out of action. Most of the cripples soon were repaired. A bulldozer was damaged by a 37-millimeter shell. American and Chinese casualties were only a fraction of those of the Japanese, who lost at least 200 killed . . . . Even though he missed my mother and home more every day, Dad wasn’t about to let the hardships he’d endured count for nothing—he was confident that good stories would come his way soon. NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE March 19, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks for your suggestion that I write stories about ‘‘everyday happenings.’’ I’ve written many such stories already and doubtless will do more later. Yarns of that type are used principally on a regional basis. In other words, if a Pennsylvania boy is mentioned, the Pennsylvania 176 : Journey through the Jungle

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papers will use the story. I don’t recall running across many Pennsylvanians, so you probably haven’t seen more than one or two of those stories. Since coming into the jungle January 5, I’ve turned out 34 cables and mailers, which is a pretty good batting average for this show. You asked whether I would be heading home at the end of two years. I don’t think so. My two years won’t be up until September 30, 1944, six months from now. By that time, we should be in high gear out here, and AP would be foolish to pull me out then after I had absorbed so much information, background and experience. Besides, I wouldn’t want to leave—not after sweating for some action as long as I have. I’ve had to dig hard and endure many hardships to produce stories so far. I’d like to have the pleasure of seeing stories fall around me like ripe fruit from a tree—as they will eventually. I’d like to see both of you and Betts in the worst sort of way. But I don’t think I’d be happy back in Shangri-La*—not with things happening out here. Fellows who have spent brief furloughs in the States tell me they prefer this. Enclosed is a picture of Darrell Berrigan (UP), Jim Brown (INS), Stilwell and me, taken during a 10-minute rest on the trail. Love, Toby After three months in the Northern Burma jungle, my father was eager for his replacement, Bill Boni, to arrive so that he could return to AP’s India headquarters. NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE March 29, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Many thanks for your February 29 letter, Dad, and yours of March 9, Mom. Also for the clippings of stories and newspictures. As I told Betts, I’d be $10,000 better off if I had $100 for every mile I’ve walked with Stilwell—and every mile is worth at least $100, believe me! I’m now awaiting Bill Boni, scheduled to relieve me any time now. Boni, whom I knew well in NYC, came to CBI from the Southwest Pacific, where he did an excellent job of reporting, I’m told. You may have seen Bill’s story in the Saturday Evening Post—one describing how *My father’s term for the United States.

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he suffered 13 shrapnel wounds in one crack. Bill, I understand, has been in the hospital with a malaria recurrence, but is okay now. I’m rounding out three months in the jungle, so the return to civilization will be indeed welcome. However, I’ve enjoyed this jungle assignment and wouldn’t mind coming back after a change of scenery and diet for a week or two. The Americans and the Chinese are doing a great job. And Uncle Joe is, by far, the grandest guy I’ve ever covered. He deserves complete credit for the success of this operation. If the powers-that-be listen to him, the Japs in all of Burma won’t have a chance. I’ve written exactly 40 stories in the jungle to date, but apparently not all of them have reached Shangri-La. Some of the others were late in reaching the cablehead, due to poor communications here, so Preston Grover had to do the best he could with information available in New Delhi. Unfortunately, some of the late stories were among the best that fell my lot to write. One, for example, was the story on the first American combat infantrymen in Asia; another, the entrapment of 2,000 Japs in the Maingkwan-Walawbum area. Such bad breaks used to give me the blues, but I’ve learned during the past 19 months abroad how to be patient and how to take bad breaks with the good ones. As ever, Toby Back in India, a welcome respite from jungle life awaited Dad—along with an unwelcome bout of colitis. AP’S INDIA HEADQUARTERS April 11, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Here I am, back on the old stamping ground, after three highly interesting although arduous months in the Northern Burma jungle. Actually, I returned April 6—with a terrific stomachache and slight fever. I feared the latter might be caused by malaria, but it wasn’t! The doctor said I had a moderate case of colitis and released me from the hospital after only three nights and two days. So my luck held out once again. I’m now convinced, more than ever, that I’m too mean and ornery to get seriously sick out here. I certainly had every chance to develop something on the serious side while in the jungle. I’m glad in some ways to be back in civilization, but I wouldn’t give anything for those three months in probably the world’s worst jungle 178 : Journey through the Jungle

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with undoubtedly the world’s best general. We lived roughly but well, considering the circumstances. The food was GI, but well-prepared and plentiful. We did much walking at first—I must have done at least a hundred miles myself—but we were able to jeep during the last few weeks. I got so accustomed to my jungle hammock that I honestly missed it the first few nights I spent on civilized beds. I’m now taking it easy, writing only when I feel like it. Charlie Grumich is with me here. Bill Boni replaced me in the jungle, and Frank Martin is with the British in Northcentral Burma. Press Grover took off for the States April 9 and expected to arrive in NYC before April 18. Relman Morin is headed this way to pinch-hit for Grover. At least one, possibly two additional men are scheduled to join us in the next few weeks. I’ll probably remain here a few days, then head out again—where, I don’t know. But news out here is breaking in several places, and I shouldn’t have any trouble finding something to do. Many thanks, Mom, for your March 15 letter and the clip of one of the 45 stories I cabled from the jungle. Take it easy, Dad, and live to be 100! Love, Toby To my father, his stint with ‘‘Vinegar Joe’’ Stilwell was worth every soggy day in the jungle. His enthusiasm was high, which helped ease the emotional pain of his two-year separation from my mother.

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.. .. chapter eleven .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. pinch-hitting with .. ..

merrill’s marauders, april–june 1944

I haven’t had an honest-to-gosh leave since I’ve been abroad, and feel definitely in the need of one. Lately, I’ve been worn out most of the time—and that isn’t good. I’ve had, of course, several days off between assignments, but I’ve always felt I had to keep on the lookout for stories and couldn’t relax. toby wiant, June 4, 1944 Covering ‘‘Vinegar Joe’’ Stilwell’s offensives in India kept my father so busy that he forgot his own birthday and had little time to write letters. The relative luxury of his surroundings in Kandy, Ceylon—compared to the oppressive heat and teeming congestion of Calcutta—made it a pleasant assignment. Then a sudden family tragedy left him wrestling with powerful emotions. The war allowed him little time to grieve. Unexpectedly he was sent back into the jungle to report on the seizure of a major Japanese stronghold by Allied forces known as Merrill’s Marauders. By the end of June, after nearly two years without leave, my father’s physical strength waned and his depression began to show in his letters home. Maintaining a positive approach to life in the center of a war zone was an exhausting struggle. Associated Press article, April 19, 1944—specific newspaper source unknown: INVADERS FALL BACK IN INDIA Allies Repel Nips in Imphal Battle; U.S., British Fliers Blast Burma Bases by Thoburn Wiant KANDY, Ceylon, April 19 (AP)—Allied forces have lashed out with tanks in their offensive against the Jap invaders of Northeast India,

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scoring further advances and taking three small Jap defensive positions northeast of the Plain of Imphal, Allied Headquarters announced today. The communique´ said that ‘‘bitter fighting continues for a hill feature, the possession of which now has been in dispute two days,’’ west of Bishenpur and south of the track to Silchar, the alternative land route southwest of Imphal to the Bengal-Assam Railway, Allied feeder line. No change was announced in the Kohima area, 60 miles north of Imphal, where the Allies are fighting to secure the 35-mile main road to Dimapur on the Bengal-Assam railroad. Both infantry and tanks joined in the offensive northeast of the Plain of Imphal where the Allied forces for several days have been successfully beating back one of the three original invasion spearheads which the Japs thrust over the Indo-Burmese border. South of Imphal and east of Palel, the Japs launched two attacks on the night of April 17–18 against an Allied position and were repulsed handily, the communique´ said. Jap aviation joined in the fighting in this area and British Spitfires destroyed one and damaged four others out of a small formation which dropped only a few bombs. Virtually every type of plane of the United States Air Force, the RAF, and the Indian Air Force joined in widespread operations over the Burma area during the past two days. Communications serving the Japs in the Imphal-Dimapur and Mogaung-Myitkyina areas in the north were strafed and bombed. Air commando fighter-bombers, enroute to the support of Chindits, airborne forces blocking the railroad at Mawlu, southwest of Mogaung, dropped bombs in enemy territory, then tangled with 12 Jap fighters in the Tamu area, destroying three and damaging three. American heavy bombers in daylight yesterday made an attack on the valuable oil plants at Yenangaung, 130 miles southwest of Mandalay, sending clouds of black smoke rolling skyward. Strafing planes shot up 72 Jap river craft and not a single plane was lost in all the Allied operations. In North Burma, the Chinese 38th Division, operating under Lt. Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell, continued its progress down the Mogaung Valley in the direction of Kamaing and Mogaung, reaching the Lankraw River east of the road and south of Tingring, where the Japs countered Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders : 181

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the advance with artillery fire. The Chinese 22nd Division continued its assault on Warazup. From the New York Daily Mirror, April 21, 1944 (Associated Press article): STILWELL TRAPS BURMA JAPS; ALLIED RAID BLASTS SUMATRA by Thoburn Wiant SOUTHEAST ASIA HEADQUARTERS, KANDY, Ceylon, April 20 (AP)—Allied forces in Southeast Asia have landed two stiff jolts on the Japs, with bombers and fighters flying from carriers somewhere in the Indian Ocean attacking enemy targets in Northern Sumatra, and Chinese troops encircling a Jap division in Northern Burma, it was disclosed today. A communique´ from Admiral Mountbatten’s headquarters said Allied planes, taking off from powerfully escorted carriers, blasted Jap airfields, shipping, and other installations early yesterday at Sabang and Lhonga in northern Sumatra, destroying at least 22 enemy planes aground. Chinese troops under Lt. Gen. Stilwell in the Mansum area near the jade mines of northern Burma were reported to have encircled a Jap division and to be inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy. Other forces of the same division crossed the Mogaung River to the east and took the village of Ngan Gahtawng. The Chinese 22nd Division captured Warazup, key Jap defense point on the Mogaung Valley road, where the enemy made a determined stand in an effort to delay the Stilwell campaign until next month’s rains. Details were not available, but the village of Warazup, 25 miles north of Kamaing, was described as virtually destroyed after hard fighting. On the Kohima front, Allied headquarters reported the relieving column had joined the garrison in an offensive aimed at ousting the Japs from positions threatening the Kohima-Dimapur road. First contact of the two British forces’ forward patrols was reported Wednesday. On the Jap-encircled Imphal plain south of Kohima, British forces were reported making further progress in a thrust to the northeast, and two Jap attacks on British positions near the Bihhanpur trail were beaten off in hand-to-hand combat Tuesday night. 182 : Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders

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From the New York Daily News, April 25, 1944 (Associated Press article): BIG GLIDER FORCE HITS FAR BURMA by Thoburn Wiant SOUTHEAST ASIA HEADQUARTERS, KANDY, Ceylon, April 24 (AP)—Substantial Allied air-borne reinforcements have been landed more than 200 miles inside Burma by Col. Philip Cochran’s American Air Commando Force* and have joined thousands of other Chindits tearing the heart out of the enemy’s central Burma supply system, it was disclosed today. The huge reinforcing operation was similar to the original air invasion nearly two months ago, except that this time when the troops circled down in their gliders and jolted to a stop on rough paddy fields, they found friendly forces awaiting them. There was no Japanese interference. A point 200 miles inside Burma from the nearest Indian border would place the new landings far to the east of the first operation and in the immediate vicinity of the important enemy base of Bhamo, less than 40 miles from the China border. A road runs northward from Bhamo to Myitkyina, principal Jap base in Northern Burma. A secondary dirt road runs northeastward from Bhamo into China, where it joins the old Burma Road. Light planes of Col. Cochran’s Commando Force are also flying to isolated points deep in Burma, carrying supplies to scattered units and evacuating wounded men from fields too small to accommodate transport ships. The airport where the Chindits originally landed is now in constant use. The Japanese invasion of India appeared to have hit a stone wall around Kohima and Imphal. Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten’s bulletin announced that the 35-mile supply road between Kohima and Dimapur on the Bengal-Assam Railway had been freed of Jap troops and reopened to Allied traffic, and the relief of the Kohima garrison had been completed. The highway between Kohima and Imphal, 60 miles to the south, was still blocked by the enemy, however. Lieut. Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell’s Chinese forces in Northern Burma reported they had run into stiff resistance a mile northwest of Warong, *The character Flip Corkin in the comic strip ‘‘Terry and the Pirates’’ was based on Col. Philip Cochran.

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only 26 miles north of Mogaung. On the western side of the Mogaung Valley, Chinese troops were within a mile of Ngan Gahtawng, five miles from Lonkin in the rich jade mine fields. [The glider] wave of the British airborne invasion of Burma [was] something new for India’s Ghurkas, the tough fighting men who went along on the expedition. Col. John Alison, one of the organizers and commanders of the American Air Force tells this story: ‘‘The British practiced loading and unloading the gliders over and over. One detachment of Ghurkas told a British officer: ‘We aren’t afraid to go; we aren’t afraid to fight, but we thought we ought to tell you—that machine doesn’t have any motor.’’’ From the Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, April 26, 1944 (Associated Press article): JAPS DIE IN DROVES IN FUTILE ATTACKS ON ‘CHINDITS’ IN BURMA by Thoburn Wiant SOUTHEAST ASIA HEADQUARTERS, KANDY, Ceylon, April 26 (AP)—Jap jungle troops are desperately attacking road and rail blocks established in Central Burma by Allied ‘‘Chindits,’’ air-borne troops, and are ‘‘coming in to the attack like a boxer with his head down’’ and dying in droves, an Allied observer said today. At the same time, British forces continued to tighten their grip on the Imphal-Kohima area which had been threatened by a Jap invasion of India designed to cut the Bengal-Assam railroad, Allied supply line to China and North Africa, a communique´ from Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten announced. The communique´ said British forces yesterday captured the Mapao Hill feature north of the Imphal Plain, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy. The Japs know they must seek to dislodge the obstructions the Chindits have placed on their communications 240 miles inside Burma, the official observer declared, especially because of the aid such blocks give to Lt. Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell’s forces driving down upon them through the Mogaung Valley in the north. At present, the Chindits are astride more than 100 miles of Jap communications serving the enemy in Northern Burma. 184 : Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders

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The Japs are throwing waves of infantry against the perimeter of one Chindit road block established a month ago and are ‘‘perishing in droves,’’ the commentator said. The Japs blow bugle blasts, shout, and even charge while swearing lustily in English. They employ all sorts of weapons, including light tanks, howitzers, ‘‘coal scuttle’’ mortars, machine guns, and even Bangalore torpedoes, which usually are used against entanglements. The observer said the air support from the American Air Commandos commanded by Col. Philip Cochran ‘‘inspires a feeling of confidence’’ in the Chindits. Cochran’s Mustangs and Mitchells daily bomb and strafe enemy positions around the Chindits’ strongholds. One battle around a Chindit road block was described by the observer: ‘‘Waves of Japs rushed blindly into our mines and booby traps. As they went down, machine gun and rifle fire swept into them. Casualties were counted by the dozen. Nonetheless, wave after wave came through the jungle and rushed forward to our wire, some carrying Bangalore torpedoes which failed to reach our wire and were turned into death traps for the enemy. ‘‘Morning found the Japs in retreat. Around half-dug burial pits, the diggers themselves were dead. Twelve naked bodies were found in our wire.’’ Mountbatten’s communique´ said the Allied advance continued northeast of Imphal on the Ukhrul Road, but did not mention the situation in the Bishenpur area southwest of Imphal where bitter fighting has been in progress against Jap infiltrators along a jungle track leading to Silchar, terminus of a spur to the Bengal-Assam rail line. In North Burma, Chinese under Gen. Stilwell continued their progress in the face of stiff resistance on both sides of the Mogaung River. One Chinese unit captured a hill northwest of Ngan Gahtawng. Here the Chinese killed more than 300 Japs in three days in a six-mile advance. Tanks commanded by Col. Rothwell Brown, of Washington, are closely supporting Stilwell’s campaign to retake Northern Burma and open a land supply line from India to China. After spending months in the jungles of Northern Burma, Dad was tired and discouraged. A new assignment in comfortable quarters at the South East Asia Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders : 185

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Command Headquarters (SEAC) in Ceylon turned out to be just the tonic he needed. SEAC HEADQUARTERS, CEYLON April 26, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I must apologize immediately for not replying more promptly to your March 23 and April 2 letters. My only excuse is that I’ve been extremely busy. I flew almost the entire length and breadth of India, then across the Palk Straits to reach this tropical island, the new home of Mountbatten and his American-British-Dutch staff. Since my arrival April 15, I’ve averaged two or three stories daily. If I weren’t writing a story, I’d be talking to someone preparatory to writing one. And so the time has flown. I’ve enjoyed this assignment immensely. I came out of three months in the jungle somewhat tired, stale, and fed up. This change turned out to be just what I needed. I’m comfortably ensconced in a bamboowalled, thatch-roofed hut, only a few feet from the best American mess I’ve encountered since leaving Shangri-La. I have my own room (about 10 feet wide and 15 feet long), with dressing table and desk. The shower room is just outside my front door. We are surrounded by breathtakingly beautiful hills, over which I’ve already taken two rickshaw trips. (I resolved after walking nearly 150 miles in the jungle never to take an unnecessary step again!) Our camp is about a mile from headquarters, where I have my own office with two desks and two typewriters. UP, Reuter, and BBC also have separate offices in the building where I’m located. We’re only a few steps from the public relations officers, the censors, and others whom we have to contact daily. I haven’t heard from the States what kind of play my stuff has been getting. But London told me only 11/2 to 4 hours were required for transmission from this spot, compared with 8 to 12 hours from India. London also said the biggest story I’ve handled to date—on the Northern Sumatra raids—was ‘‘well ahead and well played.’’ I’ll let you in on a little secret—I was so occupied April 23 I didn’t realize it was my birthday until just before I went to bed that night! Love, Toby From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, April 28, 1944 (Associated Press article): 186 : Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders

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JAPANESE RESISTANCE VIRTUALLY BROKEN IN NORTHERN BURMA Stilwell’s Troops Take Town 45 Miles from Main Enemy Operations Base; Decisive Battle for India Seen at Hand by Thoburn H. Wiant, Associated Press Staff Writer SOUTHEAST ASIA HEADQUARTERS, KANDY, Ceylon, April 27 (AP)—With the monsoon rains less than three weeks away, Lieut. Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell’s Chinese and American forces appear to have broken the back of Japanese resistance in Northern Burma. In a spectacular six-mile advance yesterday, ‘‘Uncle Joe’s’’ infantry and tanks swept through the Mogaung Valley jungle into the village of Manpin, only 10 miles from Kamaing and no more than 45 miles from Myitkyina, the enemy’s main base of operations north of Mandalay. The campaign to open a land supply route from India to China— Stilwell’s pet project—already has carried his mixed force some 120 miles into Burma, nearly halfway to a juncture with the old Burma Road at a point inside China. The enemy’s counter-invasion of India, meantime, appeared to be rushing toward a bloody climax in the 6,000-foot hills ringing the Allied base of Kohima. Report that a major battle had begun there was expected almost hourly. Dispatches today said Allied reinforcements of men, tanks, and guns continued to stream into Kohima along the 35-mile highway from Dimapur on the Bengal-Assam Railway, and that an assault to break the Japanese and send them reeling back along the trails toward Burma was imminent. Several days later my father received a cable from his in-laws informing him that his brother-in-law Richard ‘‘Dick’’ Green, a U.S. Air Force pilot, had died in the crash of his A-20G fighter plane off the coast of South America on April 14 while on a ferrying mission to Ascension Island. Military officials recovered only the plane’s auxiliary gas tank from what was thought to have been a sabotage attack. The bodies of my uncle and his navigator were never recovered. The cause of the crash remained a mystery to my family until 2008, when I discovered that a formal report had been filed—and that pilot error may have contributed to the accident.* *In June 2008, my cousin Don Wiant sent me a link to an Internet site that researches military-plane crashes—Accident-Report.com. A report of Dick’s crash had been filed in 1945 but was classified as ‘‘Restricted—Confidential’’ for many years following the

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The news of Dick’s death plunged my father into a severe depression. In a letter to his in-laws he struggled to reconcile his personal grief with a war reporter’s need to distance himself from tragedy. May 1, 1944 Dear Glennie and Lew: I was just getting ready to answer your March 3 letter, Glennie, when I received the shocking news about Dick—contained in a cable from my NYC office. I can’t remember ever being hit so hard. I thought I’d become used to such news. I’d experienced the heartbreak of friend after friend failing to return to bases where we had lived, worked, and played together. I’d been on bombing missions and seen swell kids like Dick shot up. Many hours have passed since that cable was placed upon my desk, but I haven’t been able to get Dick out of my mind. I doubt that I ever will. He was like a brother. I saw him grow mentally, as well as physically. I’ll never forget the thrill of having him confide in me for the first time. I wish I had known him after he became a pilot. He must have been even more lovable than the Dick I knew. Apparently, he was lost in an accident, rather than combat. One of my friends, just arrived from the States, told me of an accident involving a plane of the type Dick might have been flying. My friend, however, didn’t know the names of anyone aboard. If Dick had to go, as we all must someday when our time comes, perhaps it’s just as well he didn’t have to endure the strain of combat. I’ve seen what combat has done to some of the fellows. I know the shock to Betts must have been terrific. I wish I could have been with her to help her bear it. But she’s a good soldier—far better than I, in many ways—and I’m sure she took this blow with her chin up. war. After nearly seven decades my family learned that a B-25 accompanying Dick’s plane had witnessed the crash. According to the B-25 crew, Dick sounded confused when he radioed that the plane’s oil pressure and temperature were dropping. The aircraft began losing altitude quickly and hit the water at approximately 100 miles per hour. Apparently Dick had panicked and made no attempt to feather the engine, jettison any cargo or the belly tank, or open any hatches before ditching—procedures which might have avoided the accident.

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I fully realize we can’t win wars without losing many fine young fellows like Dick, and I’m convinced we must win this one. But it’s hell, nevertheless. Love, Toby Despite the emotional pain he felt at the loss of his brother-in-law, Dad returned to his typewriter, knowing that the war had no intention of pausing for his grief. From the Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, May 1, 1944 (Associated Press article): STILWELL RACES RAIN, HURLS U.S. TANKS AT JAP BASES IN BURMA by Thoburn Wiant KANDY, Ceylon, May 1 (AP)—Two years after taking a ‘‘hell of a beating’’ in Burma, Lt. Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell has recaptured almost half the Mogaung Valley of Northern Burma and has sent into action the first all-American tank unit to fight on the Asiatic continent, it was disclosed today. Announcement that medium tanks are spearheading Stilwell’s drive down the valley increased hope that ‘‘Vinegar Joe’’ could reach the town of Mogaung before the monsoon rains begin in about two weeks. The main Jap base in Northern Burma, Myitkyina, lies some 40 miles east of Mogaung. Stilwell’s Chinese spearheads are reported at Manpin, 32 miles northwest of Mogaung, and the American tanks rolled into battle for the first time at Inkangahtawng, 12 miles northwest of Manpin. A communique´ disclosed that Warazup, five miles above Inkangahtawng, on the valley’s only truckable road, had been in Stilwell’s hands 10 days. News that the American unit, employing medium tanks, had gone into action came on the second anniversary of Lt. Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell’s retreat from Burma. Stilwell’s forces now are threatening not only the enemy base at Mogaung but also the companion stronghold of Myitkyina, some 40 miles to the east. Advices from the front yesterday said his troops east of the Mogaung Valley were only 45 miles due north of Myitkyina. From the battle front in Northern India, meanwhile, came reports that the Japs are massing for an all-out assault on Imphal, main Allied base on the Manipur Plain. Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders : 189

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An Allied spokesman said that the Japs, faced with dwindling supplies, must either attack shortly in an effort to improve their position or make an ignominious withdrawal. The enemy’s invasion of India has been too strongly ballyhooed for him to withdraw without suffering great loss of face, the spokesman added. Sixty miles north of Imphal, in the Kohima area, Allied troops were reported making further progress to complete the reduction of enemy points of resistance in the vicinity of the village. From the New York Daily News, May 2, 1944 (Associated Press article): FIRST U.S. TANK UNIT JOINS GENERAL STILWELL by Thoburn Wiant SOUTHEAST ASIA HEADQUARTERS, KANDY, Ceylon, May 1 (AP)—Lieut. Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell’s invasion army, reinforced by a crack formation of American-operated medium tanks, is smashing the Japanese steadily back in Northern Burma and may capture the enemy railroad city of Mogaung before the monsoon rains pour down about May 15. Announcement that Vinegar Joe was blasting through the jungle with the first all-American armored unit to fight on the Asiatic Continent came just two years from the day when he began his original painful retreat out of Burma—where he took what he frankly termed ‘‘a hell of a beating.’’ Stilwell observed the anniversary with a typically salty declaration that it ‘‘finds the Allies with their tails up, on the march, opening land communications (between India and China), and putting tremendous effort into the Ledo Road.’’ Stilwell’s forces have fought their way 120 miles into Burma from the India border and are within 30 miles of Mogaung, important station on the main north-south railway between Myitkyina and Mandalay. Capture of Mogaung would give the Allies an excellent weatherproof base for continuing operations during the rains. The American tank formation in its first action Saturday pumped more than 100 rounds of shells into the Japs in an hour’s fight just north of Inkangahtawng, destroying two anti-tank guns, exploding an enemy ammunition dump, and killing some 30 enemy troops. Although some U.S. tanks were hit many times, there wasn’t a single casualty among the crews. 190 : Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders

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Fighting around the Allied communications center of Kohima in India followed a confused pattern, with British and Indian troops officially reported continuing operations ‘‘in difficult country against strong enemy positions.’’ An Allied spokesman insisted that the Japs were being pushed out of the area. Stiffer enemy resistance was reported just north of Kanglatongbi, 22 miles north of Imphal on the highway between Imphal and Kohima. Allied troops captured Kanglatongbi last week. Although he expected the SEAC Headquarters assignment to last longer, my father suddenly found himself back in the Burma jungle again—this time with a new typewriter to replace the battle-weary one he’d carried for almost two years. BACK IN NORTHERN BURMA JUNGLE May 14, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: When I left here the first week in April, I never expected to be back so soon. But here I am, and it’s a long story, most of which I can’t tell now. I was in Kandy, thoroughly enjoying myself despite an abundance of hard work, when I received an order to proceed to Calcutta. I flew there in short order and attended a series of conferences lasting nearly a week. Then, I was sent here as a pinch-hitter, because Bill Boni (who replaced me in April) had been sent to China temporarily. I don’t know how long I’ll be here—possibly not more than two or three weeks. Meanwhile, it’s fun renewing old contacts and seeing the amazing progress which has been made since I left. I haven’t had any mail since leaving Delhi April 14, exactly a month ago, but I’ve grown accustomed to such long waits. But I’ve seen several piles of clippings, indicating much of my stuff is getting a good play. It’s a good thing, because later—when the Second Front* opens (or should I say ‘‘if ’’?)—we’ll be lucky to land with the classifieds. The weather here now isn’t oppressively hot, and the rains haven’t started yet—thank gawd. Indeed, it was much hotter in Calcutta, which, *The Russians wanted the Allies to open an additional front against the Germans in Europe. On June 6, 1944—D-Day—the Allies landed on the beaches of Normandy, France.

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incidentally, is a place of which I saw enough the first time I was there early in 1943. The press corps here now is the largest it ever has been. What a change from last January, when frequently there were only two of us, sometimes one. I’m writing this on my new Hermes Baby, a Swiss-made typewriter. It weighs less than half of the Remington I’ve lugged over the Far East the past year and a half. That means a lot when much walking is involved. ’Sall for now. Love, Toby An eerie coincidence occurred several days after including the previous letter in my manuscript. The doorbell rang and a UPS driver handed me a small box with my uncle’s return address. When I opened it, there was the 15-pound Hermes Baby that my father had carried—often on his back—during the war. Howard had passed it down to me. I removed the cover and gently tapped the still-shiny keys on which my father had written the stories and letters that I was transcribing. NORTHERN BURMA May 21, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: By now, you know why I suddenly was sent back into the jungle as a pinch-hitter, although I was recalled from Ceylon for another assignment. Merrill’s Marauders marched 112 miles through semisolid jungle and over peaks that towered 6,000 feet to seize the important airport at Myitkyina, only 30 airmiles from the China border. Due to transmission delays, which since apparently have been corrected, my story probably trailed Charlie Grumich’s from Kandy by hours. But that couldn’t be helped, and all I can do is hope that at least part of my stuff got into somebody’s newspaper. I’ve made two trips to Myitkyina airport, two miles west of the town which still is in Jap hands. I’ll admit I expected to have to dodge shells and bullets from the minute I stepped out of the plane, but the Marauders had pushed the Japs’ main force well away from the field. However, the presence of several snipers in the vicinity added zest to the experience. No one was hit by snipers while I was at the field, but some had been, immediately before and after my visits. 192 : Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders

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I’ll remain here at least until Myitkyina falls—possibly until the Japs pull out of the Kamaing-Mogaung area, which they’ll have to do soon. The Marauders cut the last major supply line to the Kamaing-Mogaung area, with the Chindits still firmly astride the other lines. The Japs can’t continue strong resistance there long without food and ammunition. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed renewing my jungle contacts, but I’ll be happy to begin the other assignment. I think I served enough time in the jungle during January, February, and March. Love, Toby The snail’s pace of getting his stories out of the jungle and into print continually frustrated my father. He looked forward to his new assignment, where communication systems would be more efficient. COMBAT HEADQUARTERS, NORTHERN BURMA May 23, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: At Kandy, we had fast communications—only an hour and a half on urgent stuff to NYC, not more than four hours on stories at the regular press rates. Believe me, it means much to a correspondent to know that his cables are reaching the States as quickly as possible. Here in the jungle, communications are slow and unreliable. I never know until weeks later whether my stories are getting to the States at all. I’m sure our staffer in Kandy, Charlie Grumich, must have beaten me on the Myitkyina airport seizure story by hours, possibly a day. It’s problematical whether NYC used my yarn, if I were that late. On the average, it takes 12 hours for one of my stories to reach Delhi; an hour or so to go through censorship there; and 12 additional hours to reach NYC. I’ve been writing at least one story a day ever since I arrived here May 14. I hope at least some of them got into the papers. I have this consolation: I was recalled from Kandy for another assignment, which I expect to begin shortly. That means I’ll leave the jungle and go back to a place where communications should be much faster. Love, Toby Within days the monsoon rains made the jungle environment intolerable. My father had no regrets at leaving it behind. Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders : 193

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COMBAT HEADQUARTERS, BURMA May 27, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: It seems likely I’ll leave the jungle within a few hours. I’ll go without regret, because the rains have started—and the jungle is about the most uncomfortable place in the world during the wet season. I’ve managed to keep fairly dry by spending most of my time under a tarp or in my jungle hammock. But I’ve worn myself out climbing up and sliding down slippery hills. I’m looking forward to the assignment for which I was summoned from [censored], and to seeing more of China. As I told you at the time, I thoroughly enjoyed my six-week stay in China last year. I don’t know how long I’ll be there this time, but it makes no difference. Myitkyina, as you may have gathered, has turned out to be a much tougher nut to crack than we anticipated. By all rules of logic, we should have taken the town almost as easily as we took the airport May 17. But battles such as this one are not always logical. . . . Thanks for the report on the use made of my Kandy stuff. It’s good to know that some of my stories get into somebody’s newspaper once in awhile. Love, Toby Back in India, my father began another assignment that required frequent flights to cover whatever stories he could find. He lamented the heat and the hours he spent ‘‘rolling up airport time’’ as he waited for a military plane that had a space for him. U.S. BASE SOMEWHERE IN INDIA June 4, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I haven’t had any word from you for a long time, due to the fact I haven’t stayed in one place long enough to receive forwarded mail. And it now seems I’ll keep on the move several weeks more, which means I’ll have to continue getting along without your morale-boosters. I’m now on a tour which won’t produce an immediate flow of stories, but I’m sure you’ll see some of them eventually. I’ll probably be out of the papers until the end of this month or the first of next. After that, I should be back on inside pages at least more or less regularly. 194 : Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders

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I’ve done considerable work at this place, but for the past two days I’ve been waiting for a ride into China. We correspondents call such waiting around ‘‘rolling up airport time.’’ I’ve certainly rolled up plenty in the nearly two years I’ve been abroad. There usually are plenty of planes landing and taking off, but I have to wait for one which not only is flying to my destination but which has room for me. The heat here has been simply terrific. A few seconds after I put on dry clothes, they are sopping wet. I’ve had a localized outbreak of prickly heat rash. Some fellows get it all over their bodies and, believe me, are most uncomfortable. After this assignment, I may have to return to Stilwell’s forces in [censored], where rains now are falling daily. After that, I hope I can wangle a leave of ten days to two weeks. I haven’t had an honest-togosh leave since I’ve been abroad, and feel definitely in the need of one. Lately, I’ve been worn out most of the time—and that isn’t good. I’ve had, of course, several days off between assignments, but I’ve always felt I had to keep on the lookout for stories and couldn’t relax. Love, Toby Two days later the European theater of operation became the world’s focal point: The Allies invaded the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. From the air, sea, and land, Allied troops from the United States, England, and Canada—an estimated 160,000 men by the end of the day—came ashore with the largest invasion force in history. Despite wrong landing zones, and casualties and losses of approximately 10,000 troops from all three countries (especially at Omaha Beach where German defenses were strong), the Allies succeeded in capturing Normandy—marking the beginning of the end for Germany.* SOMEWHERE IN INDIA June 11, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: We were all thrilled by the Second Front opening, as everyone excepting the Germans and Japs must have been. Although communications in this area leave much to be desired, we have been able to keep fairly well up with the news. We watch the bulletin boards and listen to all the newscasts we can pick up. I still think, as I’ve thought for the past two years, that Germany won’t give up until all hope is lost—and *Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/D_DAY (accessed May 19, 2010).

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that easily might be another year or two. and, we can’t get into high gear until Germany falls, which means the war might continue until 1948. After this assignment, about which you’ll probably know before you receive this, I’m going to try to get some time off and take a rest. I feel most definitely in the need of it. I’ve been going as hard as I could for nearly two years, and I’m tired—possibly a little stale, too. I’ve had days during which I wasn’t able to do much, but they weren’t in the days-off category. In the back of my head always was the thought I must keep on the lookout for a story. When I first came to the Far East, I decided to stay until the war out here was won. But now, after studying the situation from every angle, I’ve just about decided to request home leave when my two years are up. I could spend two or three months in the States and return here in plenty of time for the cleanup. I feel such a leave would do me a lot of good. Among other things, it would help me regain perspective that I must have lost. The AP should grant me home leave without my asking for it, but long ago I learned the AP works in many strange ways. Other correspondents, including some who left the States after I did, have been brought back home for short leaves, so I see no reason why I should be overlooked. Don Whitehead, with whom I flew abroad, returned to the States several weeks ago and now, I understand, is back covering the war somewhere in Europe. Perhaps you’d better not mention this leave business to anyone, because I might not be able to wangle it. I’ve told Betts I hope to be home before our 1945 anniversary. If I can do that, I’ll certainly be one of the happiest guys in the world. You’ve no idea how I’ve missed her. There have been many times when I didn’t think I could stand the separation any longer. But then I’ve told myself—with little effect, however—that thousands of other guys are in the same boat. Due to the fact I’ve been hopping from one place to another, I haven’t received any mail for a long time. I probably won’t get any for a month more. But then, believe me, I’m going to rush to the place where I hope my letters are piling up. Love, Toby As the summer of 1944 began, the hope of home leave and a stack of letters waiting for him were the only bright spots on my father’s horizon. 196 : Pinch-Hitting with Merrill’s Marauders

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.. .. chapter twelve .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. enroute to japan, .. .. .. june–aug. 1944 It’s been hard for us out here to understand the optimism that seems to sweep the States periodically. Lord only knows what the optimism is based upon—I’m sure I don’t. Germany is far from defeated, and we haven’t even started the Big Show out here. toby wiant, June 28, 1944 After two long years, my father received the assignment he had coveted: an eyewitness account of a major B-29 raid on Japan.* In a letter to his parents written from high in the air just minutes before the plane began dropping its bombs, Dad expressed excitement and awe over the mission. Even persistent illness could not deter him from a chance to watch the Japanese Imperial Iron and Steel Works destroyed. Unfortunately, his zeal landed him in the hospital as soon as he filed his story. ENROUTE TO JAPAN June 15, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m on my way to Japan—the mission for which I’ve yearned since coming abroad nearly two years ago. It’s an unforgettable thrill, one for which I don’t think I’d take any amount of money. Possibly, I should be scared, but honestly I’m not. I’m supremely confident in this Superfortress,† the world’s biggest-fastest-deadliest bomber, and its crew, *See photo section. †Considered the most advanced bomber of World War II, the B-29 Superfortress debuted in a raid on Thailand on June 5, 1944. Thomas Parrish, ed., The Simon and Schuster Encyclopedia of World War II (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978), 43–44. Nine days later, my father accompanied the Superfortress on its first mission against a Japanese target—the destruction of the Imperial Iron and Steel Works plant in Yawata.

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headed by Lieut. Col. Warren Wilkinson, at 26 a veteran pilot with more than 600 hours of combat (Southwest Pacific). I had promised myself and the office, after completing my 17th mission over Burma, Thailand, and French Indo-China, that I wouldn’t go out again unless the mission were of great importance. This, of course, is it! And we’re well on our way toward Japan. Since there’s always the possibility we might have to land in enemy territory, I won’t go into details about this mission. Anyway, you’ll know tomorrow afternoon where we went and what we did. But I thought you’d appreciate a little note, written thousands of feet in the air while we were enroute to Japan. This, I’m happy to say, isn’t a propaganda or political raid, although some back in the States will try to make it out to be. The raid, of course, will have some political value to FDR, but it’s primarily a military mission. Our target proves that. We’re going to hit the Japs where it hurts most. This Superfortress is a dream plane come true. Longer than a Pullman, twice as big as a Flying Fortress, with gasoline capacity almost equaling a railroad tank car, it provides flying comfort and safety such as I’ve never experienced before. And, as you know, I’ve flown approximately 250,000 miles since I left the States—in almost every type of airplane. After we hit our target—and there’s no doubt in my mind that we will—I’m going to try to have my story written before we land back at base. Anything to save time. Something writeable may turn up there, although Farnsworth (another AP staffer) is handling most of the ground stuff. I feel pretty good tonight, although for the past month and a half I’ve been barely able to drag around. I forced myself to keep going, because—above all else—I wanted to be in on this story. After I return, I’ll feel free to turn myself into a hospital for a thorough checkup. I think I’ll stay in China for that because the climate is simply wonderful. Back in India, I nearly melted away from heat that daily was well over 100. Your names are on one of our bombs! Love, Toby

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From the New York Sun, June 16, 1944 (Associated Press article): JAP STEEL CENTER BLASTED BY U.S. Eyewitness Depicts Great Raid; Says Bombs Landed Smack Into Imperial Mills And What Came Next Was A Firebug’s Dream by Thoburn Wiant ABOARD A SUPERFORTRESS OVER YAWATA, JAPAN, June 15 (Delayed) (AP)—We are only ten minutes from Yawata, the Pittsburgh of Japan. We have been calm, intent on reaching Japan, but now our hearts are pounding, partly from natural fright, mostly from anticipation of the big moment we have been awaiting since Doolittle hit Tokyo. This is no propaganda raid; otherwise we would hit Tokyo again. This marks the beginning of a military plan to hit the Japanese again and again, where it hurts the most. We are in the forefront of scores of Superfortresses, concentrating tonight on Japan’s big steel and coke works. One-fifth of Japan’s entire steel output is produced there. As Col. Leonard (Jake) Harman of Boise, Idaho, commander of the Gen. Billy Mitchell group, told us before the take-off: ‘‘If ever there was a juicy target, this is it.’’ Our Superfortress is piloted by Lieut. Col. Warren Wilkinson, 26 years old, of Lincolnton, N.C., commander of the Two-Bit Squadron, and is running smoother than a watch. This Superfortress is longer than a Pullman car, carries nearly as much gasoline as a railroad tank car, and each of her four engines is more powerful than a locomotive. Already Capt. Dean Delafield, 26, of Omaha, has navigated us in pitch darkness through storms further than from Los Angeles to Kansas City. By the time we return, we will have established a world’s record for long-distance bombing. We are supremely confident that Col. Wilkinson and Capt. Delafield will get us to the target and back again. They are veterans of the Southwest Pacific where Col. Wilkinson amassed nearly 600 combat hours, and Capt. Delafield, 300. The Japs bragged over the radio weeks ago that they knew that Superfortresses were coming from western China and that they were prepared for us. But we are only five minutes from the Imperial Iron and Steel Works now, and searchlights are frantically sweeping the sky. Ack-ack guns are winking like little mirrors on a nightclub dancer’s

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costume, but the bursts are far from our position at this altitude. There is no sign of enemy aircraft. At least one of the Superfortresses beat us to the target because we see several bombs burst. Col. Wilkinson shouts into the interphone, ‘‘It’s all yours,’’ and Capt. William C. Goldstein, 27, of Indianapolis, and Second Lieut. Glenn Berkihiser, 28, of Albuquerque, N.M., prepare to drop their bombs. The target is now only seconds away, but those seconds are like hours because the sky is filled with searchlights and ack-ack like no Fourth of July we ever saw. ‘‘There they go—smack into their damned steel works,’’ yells Capt. Goldstein. Our gigantic plane, relieved of its explosive load, noses upward. Col. Wilkinson, aided by Second Lieut. Delmar Stevans, 23, of Swanton, Ohio, co-pilot, sharply turns and dives in the direction of home. We look back on a firebug’s dream. Flames are shooting at least 2,000 feet high from two huge fires. Several smaller fires are blazing up rapidly. Sergt. Morris Kramer, 21, of Pittsburgh, Pa., a gunner, confesses over the interphone: ‘‘If I said I wasn’t scared, I’d be a liar, but I wouldn’t miss this for anything.’’ Sergt. Kramer, Staff Sergt. Warren Culver, 23, of Mason, Ill., and Technical Sergt. Charles Kwiatkowski, 25, of Philadelphia, had worked under the direction of Master Sergt. Thomas Holes, 40, Upper Darby, Pa., crew chief, without sleep for 36 hours changing a cylinder so that we could take off. Sixty miles from Yawata, our fires and those started by the Superfortresses following us are plainly visible. Japan’s vital steel works is being reduced to a huge rubbish heap by America’s biggest, fastest, and deadliest bombers roaring overhead one after another. It will take the Japanese months to recover from this blow. Our night’s work is only half done because we must get ourselves and our $1,500,000 airplane safely home so we can return to bomb Japan on another day. Gasoline is the chief limiting factor of Superfortress operations. Now every drop must be flown over the Himalayan ‘‘hump’’ by the Superfortresses themselves. Frequent Superfortress raids cannot be expected 200 : Enroute to Japan

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against Japan unless a pipeline is extended from India to China, or unless an eastern China port is seized from the Japanese. Capt. Edward Fuller, 25, of Magnum, Okla., flight engineer, never takes his eyes off the dials showing the gasoline consumption and the engines’ performance. Pfc. Dean Tanner, 30, of Athens, Texas, keeps his ears glued to the radio. Staff Sergt. Carl Brown, 27, of Winfield, Iowa, senior gunner, chatters constantly with the other gunners, keeping them alert for would-be interceptors. But the gunners never get a chance to fire a shot. As I am winding up this story over the Yellow Sea and Eastern China, Sergt. Kramer declares: ‘‘The Japs haven’t felt anything yet. Wait until we start throwing the haymakers.’’ Wilkinson comments: ‘‘I have only one regret. I was at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and I promised my crew I would take them over Japan some day. But most of them are gone now, and I don’t know where the others are.’’ Less than a week later Dad ended up in a military hospital—not the kind of ‘‘leave’’ he expected. U.S. BASE—WESTERN CHINA June 23, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Just a note to let you know I’ve been hospitalized for several days, but the doctors have found nothing serious. I had felt lousy as far back as the middle of May, but didn’t go to the hospital because I didn’t want to take a chance of missing the story I’d been sweating out for nearly two years—the second raid on Japan. After I returned from [censored], I wrote my eyewitness story—and folded up. One of the AP men, Clyde Farnsworth, brought me to this place, my favorite spot in unoccupied China. The doctors have given me the ‘‘works,’’ but apparently all I needed was some peace, quiet, rest, and relaxation. For the first three days, I did nothing but eat, sleep, and undergo examinations. Then, I began feeling a little like my old self again. I’m still not quite up to par, but I’m not going to leave until I am. This is the first ‘‘leave’’ I’ve had since leaving the States back in September, 1942, and I don’t mind spending it in a hospital at all. As a matter of fact, I’d unconsciously be on the lookout for a story, if I Enroute to Japan : 201

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weren’t in a hospital and taking leave at some place like Kashmir, Simla, or Darjeeling. Here, I can get completely away from it all, which probably will do me as much good as the medicines. . . . After that last mission, I think I’ll lay off combat flying. I’ve rolled up approximately 150 hours on 18 missions—and that’s ’nuff ! I don’t want to stretch my luck, and I’m the first to admit I’ve been mighty lucky. You may be interested in this cable which Farnsworth and I received after our stuff had been cleared to NYC: ‘‘Wiant—your story certainly rang the bell. Widely played and praised. Congratulations and thanks. Stop. Farnsworth—Thanks for your good account from base.’’ It was signed by Alan Gould, AP’s head news executive, and Glenn Babb, AP’s foreign news editor. I hope to be back at APO 885 in a week or two, depending on how I feel. Then, I’m going to have a field day reading mail which has piled up for me there since the middle of April. Love, Toby After several days of rest, Dad’s strength began to return. He looked forward to a possible assignment back in Kandy, Ceylon, where he could recuperate at a more leisurely pace than was possible in the jungle. U.S. BASE—WESTERN CHINA June 27, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I must be almost well again, because I’m getting anxious to do something besides sleep, eat, and read all day and night. If everything goes alright, I’ll probably be released from the hospital in a day or so and head for India. I have no idea what my next assignment will be, but I’ve put in a bid for Kandy, Ceylon. There, I wouldn’t have to work too hard and could make sure of getting completely back on my feet again. I have no desire to return to the jungle at this time, even though Stilwell’s forces are still on the move and killing Japs. The jungle now is awful— rains daily, mud two or three feet deep in places. I’m afraid I’d be back in the hospital after a couple of weeks of that. Besides, I’ve served my time in the jungle—let some of the other AP staffers take a crack at it. Actually, there isn’t much in the way of news out here that could compete with the Second Front stuff. I imagine that even the Jap 202 : Enroute to Japan

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offensive in Eastern China is attracting little notice in Shangri-la. Right or wrong? Nevertheless, the situation in Eastern China is becoming increasingly grave. It’s quite possible the Americans will have to pull out of some of their forward bases, which I’ve visited from time to time. In my opinion, the Japs don’t intend to hold most of the territory they’re now taking, but plan to use it as buffer ground for the big battles of the future. They’re smart, in that respect—smart as they have been in Burma. I think they planned to do just what they’ve done: use the Burma jungles and mountains as places to delay us, wear us down. But many surprises are in store for them. And their fleet has taken a battering in the South Pacific. I don’t believe I told you that, in addition to the congratulatory cable I received from Alan Gould and Glenn Babb, AP’s general news and foreign news executives, I got the following from Kent Cooper, the biggest shot of ’em all: ‘‘Yawata story was enthusiastically received. Heartiest congratulations and greetings.’’ The irony of it all is that I’ve worked ten times harder on other stories and never heard a peep out of NYC. The Yawata story, frankly, wrote itself. And Yawata stories are few and far between! Love, Toby My father was thrilled to learn from his parents that the Yawata story appeared in a double-column format on the front page of many newspapers. His perseverance had finally paid off. U.S. BASE—WESTERN CHINA June 28, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Many thanks for the tearsheet showing front-page, double-column use of my Yawata story. I had figured the story would land on page one, but the splash surprised me somewhat. Yawata stories are few and far between. I waited two years for it. I hope I won’t have to wait as long for the next one! So a censor hacked up one of my letters! I’m not surprised because I run into many inexperienced mail censors in my travels throughout CBI. Whenever I’m at APO 885, my letters invariably go through intact. That’s because the censor there is experienced and knows that it’s silly Enroute to Japan : 203

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to cut out stuff from my letters that I’ve written for 1,400 newspapers in the States. I was glad to learn, Dad, you’re fully aware of the fact the war is a long ways from being over. It’s been hard for us out here to understand the optimism that seems to sweep the States periodically. Lord only knows what the optimism is based upon—I’m sure I don’t. Germany is far from defeated, and we haven’t even started the Big Show out here. The current Jap offensive in Eastern China has delayed the end of the war out here by several months, in my opinion. I’ll be surprised if we’re through fighting by 1947. Keep your letters coming—I’ll get ’em eventually. Love, Toby After 22 months away from his family, Dad was granted home leave. For a few weeks, Ocean City, New Jersey, became a haven of solitude for my parents as they shut out the reality of war. During his leave, my father—who hated public speaking—was in demand by clubs and organizations that wanted him to share his firsthand insights about the war. On July 29, 1944, an article without a byline appeared in Editor & Publisher that chronicled Dad’s war experiences. WIANT, ON B-29 RAID, SEES LONG WAR AHEAD AP Reporter Home, After 22 Months, Says Japanese Fight May Last Five Years Thoburn (Toby) Wiant, Associated Press war reporter who flew in a B-29 to cover the June 16th attack on Yawata, Japan, is home now planning to take two months’ vacation after 22 months spent overseas. He sees a long war ahead against the Japanese, he said in an Editor & Publisher interview last week. ‘‘I’ve heard estimates ranging from three to five years given by leaders in the CBI theater,’’ he said, ‘‘and some think guerilla fighting may well continue for the next ten years. It’s hard for me to understand the optimism in this country. Where I’ve come from, the German surrender isn’t expected until 1945, and after that it is believed eight months will be required before full weight can be thrown against Japan.’’ After the quiet of some Atlantic beach resort, Wiant hopes to get back to war reporting. This time, after having seen about all there is to 204 : Enroute to Japan

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see in the Middle East, India, Burma and China, to say nothing of Japan itself, he hopes to be assigned to the Southern Pacific. ‘‘There should be more action there,’’ he explained. Just as a sample of the ‘‘inaction’’ of Wiant’s last 22 months, it should be mentioned that he established a record among war correspondents in the CBI theater, having flown on 18 combat missions totaling more than 150 hours. To this could be added a combat flight against the Germans over the desert in Africa, which he took but couldn’t ‘‘byline’’ since he had not been accredited at the time. Since he left New York in September, 1942, this 33-year-old reporter and Methodist minister’s son has flown about 250,000 miles. These flights took him first to Cairo; then to Delhi, India; to Kunming, China; to the jungles of Burma; Kandy, Ceylon; ‘‘over the hump’’ for an inspection of B-29 bases in China; to Calcutta; and finally from Karachi, India, to Miami, Fla., from July 7 to July 11. ‘‘I’ve never been sailing on a boat bigger than a fishing boat,’’ he laughed, ‘‘and before I left New York on this assignment, the only flying I had done was for 15 minutes as a passenger from [above] an Indiana cow pasture.’’ The Superfortress on which Wiant was a passenger in the bombing of Yawata wasn’t touched by Japanese anti-aircraft fire. ‘‘There was a good fifteen minutes of excitement, however,’’ he recalled. ‘‘The ack-ack was just like an old-fashioned Fourth of July celebration, only we were on the wrong end of it. There were 50 to 60 searchlights trying to spot us from the ground. Through it all, our pilot, 26-year-old Lieutenant Colonel Warren Wilkinson, was cool as a cucumber. He has had 600 hours of combat flying. I was standing up between him and the co-pilot and could see the bursts ahead of us. ‘‘Aren’t we going to run into them?’’ I asked, and he replied, ‘Hell, no; they’ll be gone before we get there,’ and sure enough, they were.’’ The entire flight to Japan from the Chinese base and back took about 15 hours. The mission started in the late afternoon and ended the next morning. The B-29 carrying Wiant was 15 minutes over the target. Going out, he talked with crew members and ate sandwiches; coming home he wrote his tight 800-word story and had a nap. . . . [The article then lists other correspondents who flew on the same raid.] Enroute to Japan : 205

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Not so big a story but far more exciting was one of five combat missions Wiant flew over Rangoon. ‘‘We were jumped by 15 to 20 Zeros and some I-45s, twin-engined fighters, and fought them for 50 minutes over the Bay of Bengal. Our bombers had sunk two freighters and had damaged another. We were on our way home. A lieutenant colonel fresh from the U.S. was with us as co-pilot. A burst smashed through our right windshield, spattering glass all over us. The colonel put his hat in the hole to keep out the wind. A few minutes later, just as a loud report shook our bomber, the hat was blown out and hit him in the forehead. He thought he was a goner all right.’’ Another close shave experienced by Wiant was in the western jungles of Burma near Arakan. He was walking along with Walter L. Briggs, formerly of the United Press. A sniper started firing at them. The bullets were coming very close. The zing was unpleasant to their ears. As they started to run for cover, Briggs fell to the ground. Wiant stopped and leaned over him. ‘‘I’m hit,’’ Briggs moaned. Wiant dragged him to cover and found that a Jap bullet had ripped into his comrade’s thigh. [Briggs later recovered and received the Purple Heart for his efforts.] ‘‘It missed me by about six inches,’’ [Wiant] recalled. Then another time when he was walking back from a forward command post with Lieutenant General Joseph W. Stilwell, the Japs bracketed the party with shells from 75s. They hit the dirt and managed to escape injury. There were plenty of dull moments to make up for these few flashes of excitement, according to Wiant. One thing he doesn’t forget are the some 150 miles he walked with Lieutenant General Stilwell through the jungles. ‘‘While he dislikes personal publicity, Stilwell is friendly with newspapermen,’’ Wiant continued. ‘‘A correspondent can get to see him anytime, and he will do everything he can to help him in his work. He realizes writers have a job to do. ‘‘For awhile, we were having a hard time getting the news out. There would be anywhere from two to four days’ delay. Our stories would be taken by jeep, truck, or L-5 Piper Cub back to Ledo, the rear headquarters, and then carried from there to Delhi by Army radio. It would 206 : Enroute to Japan

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take from 24 to 36 hours for our stories to get through, while the PRO report and official communique´ would invariably beat us by 12 to 14 hours.’’ This was the situation during the spring of this year when the battle of Maingkwan and Walawbum was fought by Stilwell’s Chinese and General Frank Merrill’s ‘‘Marauders.’’ It reached a showdown in June. The capture of the Myitkyina airport from the Japanese was impending. About 15 correspondents, including British as well as American, were up at Stilwell’s headquarters. . . . ‘‘Colonel Mason Wright, the PRO, announced there would be a limit of 5,000 words over the Army radio, although we had told him to expect 20,000 on the capture of the airport,’’ Wiant declared. ‘‘We drew up a formal protest and I happened to be the one selected to present it to General Stilwell. First I saw Major Dick Young, the General’s aide; then Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Stilwell, Jr., the General’s son, who is G-2. Finally, I got to the General himself. He went into action immediately and wrote an order setting up a special circuit for the press.’’ According to Wiant, Colonel Wright is now an Army historian in Delhi. He has been succeeded at Stilwell’s headquarters by Lieutenant Colonel Paul Jones, a former radio announcer. Wiant started his newspaper career in 1926 at Central High School, Fort Wayne, Ind. He began writing sports, wound up as editor of his school paper and after college graduated to the Indianapolis News. He joined AP in 1934 in Indianapolis and transferred to New York in 1939. In New York, before his assignment to foreign service, he covered the Broadway beat and served as editor on the general desk. Born April 23, 1911 at Lagro, Ind., he was the first of two sons of Dr. and Mrs. Warren W. Wiant. His father is now pastor of the Emory Methodist Church in Pittsburgh, Pa. Wiant married Betty Green of Attica, Ind. and Indianapolis, in June 1935. They have no children. Once Wiant, who is five feet eleven inches tall, weighed 170 pounds. He’s down to 155 now, but has begun to regain some poundage. ‘‘General Stilwell walked most of those pounds off me,’’ he laughed. ‘‘He’s a hard man to keep up with on those long hikes through Burmese jungles.’’ On August 11, Dad found himself on the other side of a reporter’s notebook again when an article with no byline in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette focused on his impressions of the war, the Allied troops, and their leaders. Enroute to Japan : 207

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From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, August 11, 1944: WAR WRITER SCOFFS AT EARLY VICTORY TALK Fall of Germany Only Half-Way Post, Says Dr. Wiant’s Son, Back From Burma The wave of optimism sweeping the country is troubling an Associated Press correspondent who recently returned to the United States after two years in the China-Burma-India theater of war. ‘‘When Europe falls, only half the job will be done,’’ said Thoburn H. Wiant, son of W.W. Wiant, pastor of the Emory Methodist Church, yesterday, adding his belief that the second half will be a lot tougher. ‘‘This optimism is not good to see,’’ he said. ‘‘The boys out there believe it will take two years to defeat Japan after the fall of Germany. Some think three to five years will be needed. Nearly everybody agrees there will be guerrilla warfare for 10 or 15 years after the war ends. ‘‘I saw nothing in Burma to lead me to believe the Japs will fold quickly,’’ he said, pointing out that, even with superiority in numbers and equipment, and with an airfield two miles away, it took two months for Allied troops to capture Myitkyina, Jap strong point in Northern Burma. ‘‘Action cannot really begin on a big scale in the CBI theater until a Chinese port is taken,’’ he said. ‘‘Even when the Ledo Road is completed, supplies that will move over the ground route will be a drop in the bucket to what will be needed in China.’’ Mr. Wiant has seen a great deal of progress since he was sent to India from Cairo, his first overseas station, however. ‘‘Ground action was puny and the Tenth and Fourteenth Air Forces were going on a shoestring then,’’ he recalled, contrasting the raids in which the planes could be counted on two hands with the recent B-29 Superfortress mission over Japan on which he was a spectator. He lived with the B-29 airmen for nearly a month before their mission, and was impressed with the difference between them and any other combat outfit he had seen during his months with the Tenth Air Force or with General Stilwell’s troops in Northern Burma. ‘‘They weren’t the hell-raiser type at all,’’ he said. ‘‘They were modest, quietly confident men. When I asked them what they were going to do to the Japs, they said, ‘You come along and see.’ But they certainly were press agents for their ship!’’ 208 : Enroute to Japan

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Even with the B-29s pounding the enemy, Mr. Wiant believes it will be necessary for the infantry to finish them off. ‘‘Stilwell has done a marvelous job,’’ Mr. Wiant said. ‘‘His troops have killed about 15,000 Japs since the offensive began last October.’’ Praising the vitality of the 61-year-old general, Mr. Wiant said, ‘‘He walked me 18 miles the first day I was in Northern Burma. All told, I walked about 150 miles with Stilwell. He can outwalk anyone. ‘‘I remember the first day Merrill’s Marauders started to come in,’’ Mr. Wiant laughed. ‘‘The fellows were pretty tired out. The general, Major Dick Young, his Chinese-American aide, and I were riding in a jeep. The general wears a Chinese cap with a long bill. The Marauders took one look at us and said, ‘Duck hunters.’ Stilwell didn’t say a word.’’ Another time, the general’s identity was mistaken. A soldier commented to Mr. Wiant, ‘‘Things must be pretty bad out here when they send old fellows like that in to fight.’’ The correspondent, who hopes to be sent to the Central Pacific area next, has chalked up 18 combat flying missions. A graduate of DePauw University, Greencastle, Indiana, Mr. Wiant joined the Associated Press in 1934 in Indianapolis, transferred to New York in 1939, and remained there until his assignment abroad. His brother, Captain Howard J. Wiant, is a chaplain in Kiska. Thoburn Wiant will speak from his father’s pulpit Sunday morning. For his bravery and determination to cover a story, my father was awarded the Air Medal on August 15, 1944, by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Dad was one of only two World War II correspondents in the China-Burma-India theater ever to receive such an honor (he shared the spotlight with Theodore H. White, correspondent for Time and Life magazines). He accepted the award with modesty, preferring to credit the men with whom he had flown. On White House stationery, the citation was tangible evidence of my father’s determination to report the news firsthand and truthfully.* Today a unique paperweight sits on my desk. Encased within its glass dome is my father’s Air Medal—a reminder of his dedication and a symbol of his long journey from the Indiana cow pastures of his youth.

*See photo section.

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.

.. .. chapter thirteen .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. london desk duty, .. ..

sept.–nov. 1944

The plan now is for me to fly to London, where I’ll report to Robert Bunnelle, chief of bureau. The chances are that he’ll send me to Paris, where my old friend (from Cairo days), Ed Kennedy, is chief of our recently reopened bureau. I’m going to pull all of the strings I can with Ed and my other friends, Don Whitehead and Hal Boyle, for an ‘‘action’’ job. I’m not the least bit interested in a desk assignment. If I have to go to Europe during the last act of that show, I want to get my money’s worth! toby wiant, September 9, 1944 After a long rest, my father geared up for a second tour of duty overseas. This time he faced what were for him distasteful tasks: rewrites, war roundups, and occasional feature stories in a London office. Impatience at ‘‘the deadly office routine’’ showed in his letters, and his health deteriorated as the cold, damp winter set in. An opportunity to share his candid views on General Stilwell’s sudden recall to Washington helped, but he had no regrets when he was ordered to France in November 1944. When he reached Paris, Dad’s spirits buoyed at his assignment to the Sixth Army Group in southeastern France—and the possibility of joining General George S. Patton Jr.’s Third Army. The European Theater of Operation (ETO) was his new beat. NEW YORK CITY Sept. 9, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve been pressured into agreeing to go abroad again—probably within a week.

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I had hoped to go to the Central Pacific, if anywhere for AP. However, I had a long talk with Claude Jagger, assistant general manager in charge of personnel, who gave me quite a sob story about our critical manpower shortage in Europe. He said several of our frontline men had been wounded or injured, while others were either exhausted or ill. Besides, we were opening bureaus as fast as the Allies retook the various European countries. I told him I definitely didn’t want to go to Europe, but would if the situation were as bad as he described it. He declared again he was ‘‘in a helluva spot,’’ so I finally broke down and agreed to go. He asked me to be ready for a takeoff in about a week. I’ve been rushing around to pick up the usual odds and ends—booster shots, a new traveling bag, etc. I’ll be ready whenever the word comes. The plan now is for me to fly to London, where I’ll report to Robert Bunnelle, chief of bureau. The chances are that he’ll send me to Paris, where my old friend (from Cairo days), Ed Kennedy, is chief of our recently reopened bureau. I’m going to pull all of the strings I can with Ed and my other friends, Don Whitehead and Hal Boyle, for an ‘‘action’’ job. I’m not the least bit interested in a desk assignment. If I have to go to Europe during the last act of that show, I want to get my money’s worth! I meant to tell you that Jagger clearly understands I want to go to the Central Pacific before that show is over. I told him, in no uncertain terms, I’d start raising hell if he didn’t authorize me to go back to the war against Japan after Europe had quieted down. I hope that will be not more than six months from now. I still think it will take us at least two years to whip the Japs, so I’ll be able to participate in the cleanup. I’ll write again before takeoff time. Love, Toby In the August–September 1944 issue of The AP Inter-Office, an in-house publication for AP employees, Dad summarized his nearly two years as a correspondent in the following Associated Press article. HOOSIER HIGH-FLYER by Toby Wiant Before I took off from New York City in September, 1942, I’d spent a grand total of fifteen minutes in the air—encircling an Indiana cow pasture. London Desk Duty : 211

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During the subsequent 221/2 months as a war correspondent in the Middle East, China, Burma and India, I flew approximately 250,000 miles. That sounds as if I lived in airplanes. At times, it seemed so. I never was airsick, but I did a lot of sweating—in weather that bounced planes like a cork over Atlantic surf, on 18 combat missions over Burma, Thailand, French Indo-China and Japan. No other correspondent in CBI did that much combat flying. Nor did any others ever fly over all four of those enemy-occupied countries. But I didn’t intend to set any records. It just happened that way. When I arrived at ‘‘the end-of-the-line’’ theater in December, 1942, I was full of pep and vinegar—raring to tear into the war and keep the wires hot with copy. Soon, I had the inevitable letdown. I learned there was virtually no ground warfare and very little air action. The only Yanks in CBI were members of the Tenth and the Fourteenth Air Forces, both of which were operating on shoestrings. To keep from going completely daffy, I visited one American air base after another—writing mailers and an occasional cable. After I had completed the circuit, I started all over again. So it went. When I ran out of mailer material, I began going on combat missions. My first raid in an India-based bomber was over Bangkok, Thailand, a round trip of over 2,800 miles. The fifteen-hour flight wore me out, but a few weeks later I found myself over Bangkok again. Then followed five raids on Rangoon, several flights over other Burma targets and a crack at docks and ships at Haiphong, French Indo-China. On these missions, I always saw ample ack-ack, but was jumped by enemy fighters only once. That was over Rangoon one day. Fifteen to 20 Jap twin-and-single-engined fighters kept us busy nearly fifty minutes. The Japs came from all directions, frequently two or three at a time. I was leaning over the shoulders of our pilot and copilot when ack-ack knocked out part of our right windshield, showering us with glass. A piece hit me on the chest, knocking me back on the flight deck. I feared the worst, but wasn’t even scratched. We were ankle-deep in shells after the battle, and the plane was filled with smoke. But all our bombers got home safely—some, however, 212 : London Desk Duty

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with jagged holes. Our gunners shot down five Japs, probably destroyed nine and damaged still another. The raid for which I’d been waiting nearly two years occurred June 15, when the B-29s made their first attack on Japan. We caught the Japs with their kimonos up. They had boasted for weeks in advance that they knew all about the Superfortresses—and were set for us. Long before the general American public knew about the B-29s, the Japs broadcast that nearly half a million Chinese coolies were hand-making bases in Western China for the Superfortresses. But the Japs didn’t know where we would strike. The enormous range of the B-29s made it possible for us to show up anywhere over the Japanese empire. When we reached Yawata, the ‘‘Pittsburgh of Japan,’’ the Japs frantically swept the sky with dozens of searchlights and fired hundreds of rounds of ack-ack. But we got in, dropped our ‘‘calling cards’’ and got out before the Japs had any idea of just where we were. Out of nearly 100 Superfortresses that hit Yawata, only four failed to return. The crews of three were accounted for. The fourth, on which Bill Shenkel of Newsweek was an observer, apparently was shot down over the target. But I didn’t spend all of my CBI time in the air. I helped cover British-Indian ground operations against the Japs in Western and North-central Burma, and sweated out nearly five months with Lt.-Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell in the Burma jungle. Uncle Joe nearly walked my legs off right up to the knees—a total of 150 miles over unbelievably steep jungle trails—but I don’t think I’ll ever find a more cooperative general. He always made room for me in his jeep, or included me in his party on the trail. He disliked personal publicity, saying time and again, ‘‘Toby, why don’t you get off the subject of me and write about something interesting?’’ But the Northern Burma offensive was—and still is—strictly a oneman show, so I continued writing about Uncle Joe. I was only a few feet from the Japs on several occasions, but had only two narrow escapes. One occurred in Western Burma when Buddy Briggs, formerly with United Press, and I were walking back from the front. A sniper’s bullet missed me by six inches and hit Buddy on the backside. The wound London Desk Duty : 213

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wasn’t serious, and Buddy’s chief complaint was that he’d never be able to show off his operation. I’ll never forget the other—a nightmarish experience on the Northern Burma front. Several other correspondents and I had walked nine miles with Stilwell to a Chinese position perilously close to the Japs, and were on our way back. Suddenly, an awful whistling sound tipped us off that a shell was headed our way. We hit the dirt—and during the next few minutes we were bracketed by shells exploding so close that mud and tree limbs were thrown onto us. Between bursts, we ran toward a hillside dugout, hitting the ground when we heard another shell coming. We finally reached the dugout just before the last shell exploded. We correspondents were so jittery we could hardly light cigarettes. Uncle Joe was cool as mint julep, but he commented, ‘‘You don’t live to talk about shells that come any closer!’’ His strength and spirit renewed from home leave, my father prepared for his new assignment—the ETO. This time it was even more difficult for him to say goodbye to my mother. NEW YORK CITY September 27, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: By the time you receive this, I should be well on my way to London. Everything seems to point to action continuing in Europe for quite some time, despite the mouthings of the home-front armchair strategists. That, of course, disappoints me not at all—as long as I have to go to Europe, I’d like to see as much action as possible. I told you when I took off in 1942 never to worry when long periods pass without news of me. no news always means good news! That’s just as true now as in 1942. I’m not as eager as I was two years ago and thus won’t take chances I might have taken when I was a green correspondent. I believe I know ways and means now of getting stories without taking chances. So, in that respect, I’m much better off than in 1942. You asked about that hat I wore in the picture with Uncle Joe.* It was a Gurkha hat, given to me by a Gurkha soldier. Unfortunately, I left it in China many months ago by mistake. *See photo section.

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I’ve been greatly interested in seeing how the editorial writers and columnists recently have recognized a point I, as well as others, made many weeks ago—that the end of the war in Europe should not be VDay to us, because we still will have the war against Japan to win. And I still say what I’ve said since early in 1943—that victory over Japan is a two-year job, after the fall of Germany. I must break this off now and devote my attention to The Blackhead.* Our remaining moments are all too few. Love, Toby Four days later, my father arrived in London only to find that living quarters were scarce—but food was plentiful. He toured the bomb-damaged city hoping for an assignment that wouldn’t land him behind a desk. ENGLAND October 3, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve been so busy since arriving here Sept. 30 I haven’t had time to write to anyone except Betts. My flight, as she may have told you, was nearly perfect—fast, comfortable, and smooth. We even had a stewardess who served us a delicious steak dinner enroute. Tough war, isn’t it? I spent Oct. 1 resting in a luxurious hotel suite which I shared with Ed Kennedy and Wes Gallagher,† two of our staffers here who came over from France for a couple of days rest. We had to move out today— rooms are at a premium here—and tonight I’m occupying a spare bed in Howard Cowan’s flat, near the office. Howard, also of AP, kindly invited me to stay until I could find a more regular place. That’s quite a problem, inasmuch as leases are almost mandatory, and I don’t know how long I’ll be here. It now seems quite likely I won’t get a combat job right away, which means I’ll have to settle down to some office work. That, of course, isn’t to my liking, but I’ve learned from past experience to take the bitter with the sweet. *My father’s affectionate nickname for my mother, inspired by her dark-brown hair. †AP correspondent Wes Gallagher replaced Ed Kennedy as Paris bureau chief in May 1945 after Kennedy broke a security agreement to keep the German surrender confidential. From 1962–1976, Gallagher was general manager of the AP. He died October 11, 1997, in California.

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London was about as I thought it would be, except that the bomb damage wasn’t as widespread as I had imagined. The city, of course, has been hard hit, but much of it has been untouched. The people here have done an amazing job of tidying up, as they put it—perhaps that’s why I was somewhat surprised. So far, no buzz-bombs* have disturbed my peace of mind. That phase of the war seems finished, although a rumor yesterday was that the Germans might launch bombs from Norway. I doubt it. I’ve been eating at the American officers’ mess, about 15 minutes by bus from the office. It’s a huge place and serves food better and cheaper than most hotels and restaurants. As long as I can get food that substantial, I won’t lose too much weight. There doesn’t seem to be much to do at night, although I’ll admit I haven’t investigated—due to the blackout, which must be about 90% effective. That’s all for now. Love, Toby What Dad thought would be a short stay in London turned into weeks as confusing war activities made it challenging for bureau chiefs to assign stories to their correspondents. LONDON October 9, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Although I had hoped to stay here only a few days, it now seems likely that I’ll remain a few weeks, at least. Consequently, I’ve arranged with Bob Eunson, one of our correspondents, to take a basement flat in Clifford’s Inn, only a block and a half from the office. I’ve been living out of my bag while staying temporarily with Howard Cowan, so I’ll be glad to get more settled. The flat is as good as we could expect to find and better than most I’ve seen. We’ll have a living room, with an electric fireplace; a kitchen; a bathroom; and two bedrooms, one large and the other small. There’s a restaurant in the building, but I’ve been taking most of my meals at ‘‘Willow Run,’’ the American officers’ mess, a mile or two from the office. The food out there is good, well worth the trouble of the round *The German V-1 autopiloted bomb, often called a ‘‘buzz bomb,’’ got its name from the loud buzzing sound it made when it began its steep dive toward a target.

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trip. The place is called ‘‘Willow Run’’ because it’s so huge—and somewhat resembles an assembly line.* I’m slowly learning to get around in the blackout, which—despite a relaxation of some regulations—is the blackest I’ve seen in Cairo, Delhi, Calcutta, Kandy, and elsewhere. Once or twice, I was caught out minus a flashlight—and bumped into people and buildings galore. Unless the moon is out, a rarity, one doesn’t know where he is, except by the sense of touch. So I usually don’t know where I am. That’s why I don’t venture out any more than I have to. Cabs, after nightfall, are almost impossible to get. I’m still anxious to get away from this bureaucratic atmosphere and into a combat assignment but can only sweat it out and hope. I’ve talked to the right people, such as Bob Bunnelle and Ed Kennedy, chiefs of our London and Paris bureaus, respectively, who have said they’ll remember me. The trouble now seems to be that the news situation on the continent is so mixed up and confused that no one knows just what to count on, or plan for. But Bunnelle did say that he probably would use me as a relief man eventually over there. If the campaign goes into the winter, as I’m almost sure it will, the fellows who have been in the thick of it since D-Day will want a change. That’s where I can fit into the picture. Love, Toby Learning to navigate in the darkness of the enforced London blackout, my father waited impatiently for an assignment that would rescue him from routine stories—what he considered ‘‘tripe.’’ LONDON October 12, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Nearly everyone here seems reconciled to sweating out another winter of war. They take seriously the savage German resistance on the Western Front—the futile sacrifice of Aachen, for example—and apparently believe the Nazis will give up only on a town-by-town basis. I’ve just returned from dinner at ‘‘Willow Run,’’ the stupendous officers’ mess where several thousand Americans eat daily. The place *During the war, Ford Motor Company built the Willow Run plant in Ypsilanti, Michigan, for the assembly-line production of B-24 Liberator airplanes. The engineers who designed the plant included an airfield, which is still used for cargo flights.

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has been nicknamed ‘‘Willow Run’’ because it does resemble, in many ways, one of Henry Ford’s assembly lines. But the food is much better and more to an American’s taste than elsewhere in this ancient—and, in many ways, broken down—city. I don’t like the long ride out there (the equivalent of 50–60 cents), and I dislike the return trip even more, because then I have to grope through the blackout. I get frequently griped, but usually wind up back there. We’ve had several alerts since my arrival. Some V-1s and V-2s* have exploded close enough to rattle my doors and windows a little, but I’m told it’s as quiet as a cemetery, compared with the old blitz and buzzbomb days. I’d like very much, to put it mildly, to get out of London and into a combat job, but the prospects don’t seem very bright at this writing. So far, I’ve had to handle routine stuff such as the Parliament doings, except for a story about two Americans just back from internment in Sweden and another story—a roundup on the Western Front last Sunday night. I thought that when I left China, Burma, and India, I wouldn’t have to write much tripe again. I was overly optimistic, it seems. No mail from the States has reached me yet, due to the fact that I was misinformed about the APO here. I’m hoping the letters will start catching up with me in the next week to ten days, for by then I’m sure I’ll need some morale boosting. Love, Toby P.S. Happy Birthday, Dad! LONDON October 19, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I finally have settled down in more permanent quarters and taken my stuff out of the bag. Based upon rent paid by other AP men—for much less than we have—we’re doing alright. We pay the equivalent of slightly more than $100 monthly, in addition to which we have to shell *The V-2 rocket, with a one-ton warhead, a range of 225 miles, a speed of 3,500 miles per hour—and no warning until it hit—was the weapon with which Hitler intended to change the course of the war. Its lack of accuracy, however, diminished Hitler’s hopes, though the rocket’s design had a significant influence on future missile technology. Keith D. Dickson, World War II For Dummies (New York: Hungry Minds, Inc., 2001), 379.

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out for maid service. Split two ways, that isn’t at all bad—besides, the office pays it eventually. There are all kinds of shops and stores nearby. As far as safety is concerned, we couldn’t be better off. We’re in the basement, and there’s a tall, sturdy bomb wall right outside our windows. I was told this flat was extremely popular during the blitz. Another AP man had it at that time. When the bombs would start pouring down, many other staffers would bring their bedrolls and sleep on the floor in the living room and the hallways. Speaking of bombs, the air-raid siren has just gone off. It has an eerie sound, and I never fail to get slightly goose-pimply. There have been several alerts since my arrival, but I’ve never been in a shelter—very few expend the energy, so why should I be different. None of the bombs has dropped close (my fingers are crossed), but the concussion rattled my door one night. Far worse than the bombs are the V-1s and V-2s. The V-1s are crazy things, liable to hit anywhere, while the V-2s give no warning whatsoever. A person here rapidly learns to become fatalistic, if he isn’t already. I’m not particularly enthusiastic about my assignments so far. For the most part, I’ve handled Parliament, rarely a very exciting subject. However, I’ve been pinch-hitting on the Western Front roundup one night a week and spending another night at the rewrite desk. More than anything, of course, I would like to get out into the field. Jack Chester, our news editor, hinted today that I might be sent on to Paris in a few weeks. I hope so, because I’m afraid London would become mighty dull after awhile. But I’m not champing at the bit—yet! I, like nearly everyone else over here, think the war will last at least through the winter—so I’ll have plenty of time for combat, in cold, rainy, muddy, and generally nasty weather. There went the all clear! Love, Toby From the St. Joseph Gazette, October 23, 1944 (Associated Press article): GAINING ON WHOLE WEST FRONT Allies Launch Squeeze Drive in Netherlands; Yank 3rd Army Makes New Advance to Saar; Germans Reel Back, Using Robot Bombs by Thoburn Wiant LONDON, Oct. 23 (Monday) (AP)—The whole waterlogged western front from Holland to the Belfort Gap burst back to life in a thunder of London Desk Duty : 219

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Allied attacks Sunday as the British and Canadians launched a cleanup squeeze on the western Dutch flatlands, and the American Third Army made a new thrust eastward to the Saar. The Germans, surprised, reeled back before the fury of the attacks and, in this hour of vengeance, their civilian slaughter weapon, the robot bomb, was seen for the first time in the front line battle zone. The flying bombs were noted ‘‘in some numbers’’ over the United States First Army front, which included the Aachen area. At what they were aimed was not clear, and where they fell was not disclosed. The new Allied offensives flamed with rising menace to the German hopes of maintaining their block on Antwerp and holding the Americans from the Rhine. Striking at dawn yesterday in a surprise offensive, the British Second Army drove within less than four miles of the Germans’ Dutch bastion of ’s-Hertogenbosch and put a giant squeeze on southwestern Holland in concert with a powerful Canadian drive from the north. The Canadians meanwhile seized Esschen, 16 miles above Antwerp, and also captured the stronghold of Breskens in the pocket, south of the Schelde, thus racking up a double triumph in the fight to open Antwerp’s port as a floodgate for Allied supplies. The United States First Army at the same time broke forward in a push east of Nancy, in France, advancing two miles in the sector below enemy defenses inundated by the bursting of a dam by air assault. . . . The German ‘‘blockade’’ pocket south of the Schelde estuary was fast dwindling. The Canadians shattered the concrete, gun-studded defenses in the ferry port of Breskens, and swept on a half-mile farther into old Fort Frederick-Hendrick. Fighting of growing intensity raged along the Belgian-Dutch front from above Antwerp to near ’s-Hertogenbosch. The British westward push was described by Allied sources as in the same strength as the Canadian northward drive. Berlin said the Canadian drive was being made by at least three infantry divisions and a reinforced armored division. Doughboys near Aachen fought for the town of Wurselen, but the day’s main American action opened at dawn to the south in the Nancy sector, breaking a two-week lull there. The American 12th Corps’ new attack opened in a sector 18 miles east of Nancy and southwest of the German communications zone 220 : London Desk Duty

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flooded by Thursday’s aerial breaching of an 800-foot earthen dam near Dieuze. Doughboys advanced nearly two miles and fought into the edges of the villages of Bezange La Petite and Moncourt at this southern end of the Third Army front. This advance was on a sector about five miles below towns swept by waters from the dam. Wrecking of that barrier, personally ordered by Lieut. Gen. George S. Patton, flooded an area 10 miles long and up to a mile wide, inundating or isolating four towns along a line nine miles southwest of Dieuze. Some of the sternest German resistance has been offered in this area. The biggest and most significant operations apparently were under way in Holland, and the German buffer line was shuddering under assaults along almost the entire Dutch front. The British lashed out on the long dormant western flank of their deep Nijmegen salient into Holland and caught the enemy by surprise. The attacks struck in from the northeast and southeast of ’s-Hertogenbosch, a highway hub, and famed in history under the name of Bar Le Duc as the scene of epic sieges in bloody struggles for the lowlands centuries ago. By noon, the advance had carried well over 2,000 yards—with British flail tanks beating up thickly planted mine fields, especially along the eight-foot-high dike roads crossing the boggy terrain. Other tanks smashed up Nazi resistance nests. The Germans fought back with antitank bazookas and rapid-fire weapons. Meanwhile, at the northern tip of the Dutch corridor, the Germans abandoned the villages of Opheusden and Doodewaard, between the Waal and Dutch Rhine, nine to ten miles northwest of Nijmegen. British forces entered the heavily mined towns. The reasons for German withdrawal were not clear immediately. The new British drive menaced the already wavering German grasp on the Dutch coastal region. Two Canadian battle groups of armor and infantry deepened the wedge north of Antwerp and were pushing the Germans back toward their strong points of Bergen Op Zoom, Roosendaal, Breda, and Tilburg. The Germans are believed to have concentrated in this sector large portions of their 100,000 to 150,000 troops estimated to be holding in western Holland. London Desk Duty : 221

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British units on the Canadians’ right flank had driven half of the eight miles from Wuestwezel, 13 miles northeast of Antwerp, to Esschen. The Canadians had gained 10 miles in two days, taking 500 prisoners, and the Germans were stung into counterattacks. But they still had not made a firm stand. Compressing the Breskens pocket tighter, the Canadians drove within half a mile of Schoondijke below Breskens, and within a mile of Oostburg, southwest of Schoondijke. In France, supreme headquarters reported increased activity east of Epinal, about 40 miles below Nancy, near Brouvelieures and Bruyeres in the offensive toward the Vosges passes into Germany. Brouvelieures itself was reported taken from the Germans. The German communique´ still termed this sector the focal point of the whole western front. The German high command said some Nazi advanced units were pressed back in this general sector before the Vosges. At Aachen, the victorious American First Army had pushed a mile east toward Duren, and four miles to the northeast of the conquered city, one United States division was inching through the streets of Wurselen. This division was meeting the heaviest artillery and mortar fire it had yet encountered. The Germans fought back with a tank-led counterblow yesterday and a bomber attack, and were defending each house in the town situated on high command ground. The American division has taken more than 900 prisoners since reaching Wurselen’s outskirts Oct. 13. Elsewhere on the Aachen front, it was a quiet Sunday except for small actions to sweep up German stragglers and add to the 1,600 prisoners taken Saturday. Light exploratory thrusts were made along the southern end of the Aachen front. The Germans countered by sending buzz bombs over intermittently during the day. The German radio still had not announced to the homeland the fall of Aachen, but began preparing the way by quoting a ‘‘last’’ message from the commander there. It said supplies had run out, that the battle was in ‘‘the final stages,’’ and that ‘‘our last greeting goes out to our beloved German fatherland.’’ Supreme headquarters said house-to-house fighting still continued in Maiziered, north of Metz. 222 : London Desk Duty

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A cold and foggy autumn in London took a toll on my father’s health as he grudgingly gave in to the flu. LONDON October 28, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Just a note to let you know I’ve been in bed with a beastly cold and a touch of flu for three days, but now seem out of the most miserable stages. I felt lousy for two days before giving up and going to bed. I kept thinking I could overcome the cold if I returned right to the flat from the office and stayed in bed 10–12 hours. But that wasn’t enough, and I had to remain flat on my back. Bob Eunson, my flat-mate, and the maid saw that I was supplied with food, but I didn’t feel like eating most of the time. I’ve had colds before, but not like this one. This London climate is fierce—and I’m told the worst is yet to come, especially when the fogs begin. I’ve had one experience with the fog, and it reminded me of the foulest Pittsburgh smog I’d ever seen. Honestly, it seemed so thick I could cut it with a knife. You can imagine what such fog does to your nose and chest. As a result of this bout, I’m more anxious than ever to get out of this climate. I’m told the Continent is much better. I’ve done everything I know to land a combat job over there. I’m sure I would be immeasurably happier if I were on an action assignment, instead of this deadly office routine. If I would have had any idea, before leaving the States, that I might be stuck on a desk in London, I’m sure I wouldn’t have come. I could do desk work in NYC and be much more contented because there I would be home and with Betts. Things are never as bad as they seem, I know. And when I start feeling up to par physically, I’ll probably improve mentally. But the last several days certainly could not be classed as fun. Love, Toby Associated Press article, October 28, 1944—specific newspaper source unknown: TOP POST SEEN FOR STILWELL by Thoburn Wiant LONDON, Oct. 28 (AP)—Recall of Gen. Joseph W. Stilwell to Washington for a ‘‘new and important’’ assignment may well mean that he London Desk Duty : 223

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is to become supreme commander of the Allied armies which will eventually drive the Japs from the Asiatic Continent. Stilwell knows China better than most Chinese—and the decisive battles against the Japs undoubtedly will be fought there. It is true Stilwell always has been more of a soldier than a diplomat. ‘‘Vinegar Joe’s’’ frankness and sharp tongue sometimes have gotten him into hot water. He has had some heated debates with his Far Eastern superiors, Lord Louis Mountbatten and Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek. If Stilwell had not fitted into the Far Eastern picture so well, President Roosevelt undoubtedly would not have nominated him to become full general in August. Three days later, my father defended Stilwell’s actions in a candid expose´ of the general’s recall to Washington. Parts of the frank article were censored by the United States War Department. From the San Francisco Chronicle, November 1, 1944 (Associated Press article): INSIDE STORY OF THE CHIANG-STILWELL INCIDENT A Correspondent Writes: General ‘Joe’ Was Stymied by the Kuomintang—Corrupt Rulers More Concerned With Fighting Communists than Japs by Thoburn Wiant LONDON, Oct. 31 (AP)—The Kuomintang party regime, headed by Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, has been—and is—more concerned with the inevitable civil war against the 80,000,000 Chinese Communists than in the struggle against Japan. After nearly two years in the China-Burma-India theater as a war correspondent, I am convinced the Generalissimo and his party leaders are primarily—and mostly—interested in perpetuating themselves. Democracy does not exist in China. There probably is no more effective dictatorship than that of the Kuomintang party. There is no freedom of speech, or of press, or of much of anything else. There are secret police, concentration camps, and firing squads for those who dare to speak, or write, or act out of turn. There also are ingenious means of applying ‘‘do-it-or-else’’ pressure. For years, China has been on the verge of falling apart. All of this may sound strange to the American people, who had thought the 224 : London Desk Duty

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Chinese had been fighting heroic battles against the Japanese for the past seven years. Why hasn’t the American public been kept informed? First, because of Chinese censorship. Second, because Washington held out hope that the mess could be cleaned up. Washington, through General Joseph W. Stilwell, gave Chiang every assistance possible under the circumstances. But the mess became so bad that Stilwell finally was recalled to Washington. I have just come to London after a leave in the United States and have excellent reason to believe Stilwell always was eager to fight the Japanese in China and without delay. On the other hand, the Generalissimo apparently figured the Americans would do the job for him eventually, and that he could hoard most of his resources for the civil war. Stilwell did everything humanly possible. Some uninformed people hastily interpreted his recall as a kick in the pants. But now, they are beginning to see that he deserves not only a pat on the back, but some sort of unique recognition for his long-suffering, conscientious, loyal, and skillful service. Few fighters have had to absorb as many blows—legal and otherwise—as 62-year-old Uncle Joe. He took them like the champion he is and kept slugging. For the last two years, and before that, American military and civilian observers have left China and returned to Washington with astonishing reports on true conditions under the Generalissimo. As far back as 1943, one observer came out of China and told me: ‘‘I had to see it to believe it. Only Stilwell could keep going against such obstacles, political and otherwise.’’ He asserted that lend-lease materials were being saved up for the civil war; that approximately 1,000,000 of the Generalissimo’s troops were in Northern China, watching and sparring with the Communists. He said that Chinese in many sectors were resisting only on a token basis; that goods were passing, freely in many areas, from the Japanese to the Chinese, and vice versa; that money and letters could easily be sent into and out of Japanese-occupied centers such as Shanghai and Hongkong; that the money market seemed to be maneuvered for the benefit of those in power. We correspondents knew all these things. But we couldn’t write them then. There remained hope of a change for the better. It was hard to see how things could become worse. London Desk Duty : 225

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When I first arrived in the China-Burma-India theater in 1942, I heard whispers that many Chinese reports were not only slanted, but grossly exaggerated and sometimes downright false. Later, I discovered that fact for myself. Correspondents detested sending those reports—they did not, if they could detect the falsehoods. But they sent those that seemed to have a semblance of the truth. After all, the reports were official. And Washington was still playing ball with Chungking. On one occasion, I asked a Chinese official why a certain completely erroneous report was distributed to correspondents for dissemination. He just smiled and mumbled something about it being based upon field reports. American military men and writers always were wary of Chinese field reports. I replied, ‘‘Someday, when the American people learn the truth, reports such as that will backfire on China.’’ He merely shrugged and walked away. Correspondents rarely were permitted to go to the actual fighting fronts. Upon occasion, they were taken on escorted tours of ‘‘cold’’ battlefields. They would be shown stacks of Jap guns, helmets, and other equipment. There was a standing joke among correspondents that the equipment had been transported from one battlefield to another for the benefit of newsmen. One correspondent claimed he scratched his initials on one helmet and saw it again a few months later—on another ‘‘cold’’ battlefield. The Chinese in Burma fought well principally because Stilwell was constantly on the spot to see that they fought well. I spent five months in the Northern Burma jungle with Uncle Joe, walked with him approximately 150 miles, and jeeped with him I don’t know how many more. Only infrequently, when he had to make an overnight flight to Chungking, for example, did he take his fingers from the pulse of that campaign. When a battalion, or even a company, was not carrying out orders promptly, Stilwell would walk or jeep to the battalion or company headquarters to see what was wrong. He stayed until the orders were carried out. It seemed insignificant then—and more so now—that the offensive usually slowed or halted when Stilwell had to be away. However, Stilwell always contended that, properly trained, equipped, and led, Chinese could fight as well as any in the world. 226 : London Desk Duty

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[The following section was redacted by the War Department before publication.] Before starting the Northern Burma campaign in October, 1943, Stilwell set up a school in India and saw that the Chinese were properly trained and equipped. He picked out his own Chinese officers and led them from the start of the campaign. The Generalissimo had promised more divisions than Stilwell finally got for the Burma show. But Stilwell did the best he could with what he had—and that was good enough. Typical of many obstacles Stilwell had to overcome was the great delay in the offensive from the China side of the old Burma Road. Stilwell had conquered all of the Hukawng Valley and most of the Mogaung Valley. The Generalissimo had promised that his troops, on the other side of the ‘‘hump,’’ would start an offensive across the Salween to relieve pressure on Stilwell’s forces and eventually join up with them somewhere along the Burma Road. I was with Stilwell at the time—and we waited and waited and waited. Many excuses were given, but excuses don’t count in wartime. Finally, the Chinese crossed the Salween and headed our way. But many lives, including those of Americans, and much priceless time could have been saved if the Generalissimo hadn’t broken still another promise. Early last summer, the Japanese began a drive in the direction of eastern China airbases. The Chinese did not prevent them from advancing—and finally capturing—most of the bases from which thousands of Americans had fought and many had died in the air war against Japan. Today, the American airmen are huddled for the most part at bases in far western China. Because of the usually weak Chinese resistance, there exists the possibility that the Japs may seize those air fields, too. That is exactly what Stilwell told the Generalissimo would happen, if he did not weed out the chaff from his armies and order stern resistance. [The censored version of the article resumes here.] Few men, if any, could have taken what Stilwell has had to take. Few, if any, could have accomplished as much as he has under these most trying circumstances. London Desk Duty : 227

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At the end of my father’s original transmission, a note from AP’s London bureau to NYC stated: ‘‘Wiant regards this both as a story and as a personal report to you in answer to your request. If transmitted domestically, please advise [us] immediately, noting any changes, so can use here.’’ Barbara Tuchman, in Stilwell and the American Experience in China, 1911–45, refers to my father and his defense of ‘‘Vinegar Joe’’ in the face of Stilwell’s recall from China: Every correspondent or former correspondent in CBI wrote all the things he had not been permitted to publish for years. News stories, editorials, columnists and radio commentators contributed to what Joseph C. Harsch of CBS called ‘‘the bursting of a great illusion . . . the long-delayed washday for China’s dirty linen.’’ Asking the inevitable question, why the American public had not been informed, Thoburn Wiant of AP, who had been in Chungking and Burma, said it was because Washington had kept on hoping that it could clear up the mess but Stilwell’s recall was testimony that it could not.* Still recuperating from his bout with the flu, Dad explained to his parents why his Chiang-Stilwell story was so important to him. November 3, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Your Oct. 13 letter has just arrived—the first I’ve received from you—and I don’t mind telling you I’m darned glad my letter famine has ended, if only temporarily. The mails to and from Britain are not only slow, but most uncertain, as you’ve probably figured out for yourself by now. During my first month here (hope there aren’t many more!), I received a grand total of seven letters—four from Betts, and one each from you, Bill Shenkel’s widow, and D.F. Shannon, Indianapolis teletypewriter operator. I’ve turned out at least 25 letters during the same period—hardly fair, huh? I’m happy you liked the picture Betts sent. As you may have guessed, she forced me into the photographer’s studio at the point of a bobby pin!† *Barbara W. Tuchman, Stilwell and the American Experience in China, 1911–45 (New York: Macmillan, 1970), 506. †See photo section.

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A week has passed since I crawled out of my sick bed, and now I feel almost—but not quite—as good as new. I’ve worked every day, excepting last Monday (my usual day off ), and believe the chores were good for me. At least, they helped to take my mind off myself. A few more days, and I should be ready for come what may. From reports reaching me, I guess my expose´ on China was widely splashed, along with those of my old friends Darrell Berrigan of UP, Preston Grover of AP, and Brooks Atkinson of the New York Times. Kent Cooper, our general manager, put me squarely on the spot in requesting a ‘‘comprehensive analysis’’ of the situation, but I was glad to do it—glad, because I’ve always felt the American public should know the truth about China, and start from there. I also was happy to put in some plugs for that grand old guy, Uncle Joe Stilwell. He did a superlative job out there. If I helped in a small way to see that he got the credit he deserved, then I’m satisfied. I, of course, could have written much more on the subject, but I didn’t want to say anything that would jeopardize Stilwell’s case. My story went through War Department censorship in Washington, but only about 175 words were deleted. The British censors here didn’t touch it. I was pleased that several of the British papers picked up my yarn, including two in London. Nearly all of the British papers have written editorials (they call ’em ‘‘leaders’’) since my story was released. I’m keeping my fingers crossed because I’ve heard some pretty hot rumors that I may go into the field soon. I hope so, for a month in this place is more than enough. Love, Toby Associated Press article, November 5, 1944—specific newspaper source unknown: REICH TOWN RAZED by Thoburn Wiant LONDON, Nov. 5 (AP)—American troops, although driven back from the high water mark of their invasion of the Reich, the town of Schmidt, held their lines to the north firmly last night while Allied troops in southwestern Holland plunged ahead, and the German radio said the battle of Walcheren Island was near its end. The doughboys scrambled out of Schmidt, 15 miles southeast of Aachen, under pressure by German infantry and tanks, but a few London Desk Duty : 229

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minutes after their withdrawal, swarms of United States divebombers flattened the town, leaving, according to a frontline dispatch, the walls of only two houses standing. A few thousand enemy troops still were fighting on Walcheren, but with the Allies advancing on all sides of them and their main route of escape flooded, they could only swim, surrender, or die. Allied troops clearing the western flank in southwestern Holland for the impending offensives hammered forward two miles in a general advance that swept to within three miles of the last German escape bridge at Moerdijk, now within easy artillery range. A few thousand enemy rearguards were pressed into a strip three miles deep on the southern bank of the Maas (Meuse) River, and these were under aerial assault as their transport columns jammed the roads. The battle spread along the Maas nearly 20 miles east to a point west of ’s-Hertogenbosch, where the British, under a violent artillery barrage, broke across Aftwatering canal and fought north more than a mile in a new drive to unhinge the enemy’s east flank and shove the last German across the river. United States infantrymen in eastern Holland, defying mud and mortars, plowed ahead more than two miles and recaptured Ospel, 16 miles southeast of the Allied base at Eindhoven, thereby erasing almost all the gains ground out by the abortive enemy offensive a week ago. Maintaining a mile-a-day clip, the United States Seventh and French First Armies in the Vosges fought on east through the mountains, deepening a wedge driven into German lines blocking the way to the two vital passes of Bussang and Schlucht. Five hundred prisoners were seized yesterday. German lines along the Mark River five miles south of the Maas were crumbling fast, as the Poles threw two more bridgeheads across, captured Terheyden, and fought two miles northward, capturing Wagenburg within three miles of the Maas. Three miles east, Den Hout, also three miles from the Maas, likewise fell. Americans, British, and Canadians to the west vaulted the water barriers and deepened bridgeheads. In gains of up to two miles, Americans and British striking out from their bridgeheads on the Mark River seized Fijnaart, four and one-half

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miles south of the Willemstad ferry, a second main enemy route of retreat, and pressed on north a half a mile, well within artillery range. Canadians pounding up on the west captured Steenbergen, nine miles southwest of Willemstad, and broke across the river of the same name. They were within two miles of the Maas outlet here. On the extreme west, in occupying Nieuw Vossemeer and Kladde opposite the reconquered Dutch island of Tholen, the Canadians found the Germans had pulled out of the area. To the southwest of Walcheren, all coast guns which can fire on the Schelde estuary approach to Antwerp have been knocked out except for those on two sites northeast of fallen Vlissingen (Flushing), and these were under powerful assault. Fighter-bombers and Typhoons* with rockets blazing joined the assault on these last-stand positions. The Germans unmasked some long-hidden artillery and attempted to blast the British and Canadians from their beachheads on the eastern shores of the island; this dying effort brought down the power of Allied artillery and warplanes flying in good weather. In the long-quiet sector of the maritime Alps, the Allies announced the capture of the French road junction of Sospel, three miles from the Italian frontier, and two nearby villages. Frustrated by desk duty and slow mail delivery to the States, Dad began sending his letters by V-mail. November 6, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m still here, chained to a desk, but there seems to be at least slight hope of barging out into the field. I should know in the next day or so, one way or the other. Meanwhile, all I can do is to keep my fingers crossed. I’m anxious to land a combat assignment for several reasons. First, that’s what I’m best fitted for, physically and mentally. Second, I don’t like the environment of this office, a statement upon which I’ll elaborate some day. Suffice it to say now, if I don’t get the combat job, I may start the wheels in motion for a transfer, possibly back to the States. Life is too short to have to endure office conditions such as I’ve *The Hawker Typhoon was a British single-seated fighter bomber. Wikipedia. http:// tiny.cc/HawkerTyphoon (accessed June 4, 2010).

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found here. And, if I’m destined to be chained to a desk, I’d prefer that the scene be in the States. Still no mail from you, excepting the letter which I acknowledged the other day. . . . To date, I’ve had only four letters from Betts. In her last one, dated Oct. 3, she said she hadn’t received any from me, despite the fact that I’d written 14. So I’m trying V-Mail now, in hopes of speeding up the exchanges. I’ve heard of no reaction from the Chinese on my analytical story, so they’re probably going to be Oriental and hope that silence will lead people to wonder whether the things Atkinson, Berrigan, Grover, and I said were true. However, I notice Kent Cooper, our general manager, sent a message to the ‘‘Gissimo,’’* seeking a reply to our disclosures—and that the Gissimo evaded the issues. Of course, evasion is the wisest policy, from the Gissimo’s point of view. The truth is hard to dispute. Although I’m the first to admit my story wasn’t constructive, I hope the Chinese take hold of themselves and institute reforms long overdue. If they do, they stand every chance to gain. If they don’t, I hate to think of what will happen. I like the Chinese individually. I think the ‘‘little man’’ in China deserves a better break than he’s had so far. Tomorrow is the election, and most of the people over here think FDR is a sure winner. However, I’ve noted that the polls have reported a close race and declined to predict a winner. All of which makes me hope Dewey† will become the new champion. I haven’t forgotten the conversation we had with Mike Benedum. An appraisal of the future, such as the one he gave us, should not be overlooked. The war is far from over, but Dewey could finish it off—and, in peace time, would be far superior. Love, Toby After more than a month in England, my father was elated to be leaving for a new assignment. As he saw it, anywhere would be better than London with its foul weather and difficult working conditions—circumstances that he promised to share with his parents later. Receiving four letters from my mother on the *Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek. †In 1944, Thomas Edmund Dewey was the Republican candidate for president. Although he lost the election to incumbent President Franklin D. Roosevelt, Dewey managed to poll 46 percent of the popular vote—more than any of Roosevelt’s previous opponents. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/ThomasDewey (accessed May 19, 2010).

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same day coupled with the prospect of a combat assignment made his spirits soar. November 9, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve just received your Oct. 28 letter, so apparently the mail service is improving somewhat. Obviously, letters to and from the States are not going airmail. The airmail distribution begins and ends in God’s country, I guess. Nevertheless, I won’t squawk as long as I get letters, no matter how old. I’m afraid, though, I’m about to undergo another mail famine, because it seems likely I’ll leave within a few days for France—and possibly that combat job I’ve tried so hard to get. I had been slated to join Patton’s outfit this weekend, but—due to the present offensive—one of the staffers already in France rushed over there to help out. However, Ed Kennedy, chief of our Paris staff, messaged today that he had another spot for me. I’ll leave this place with absolutely no regrets. Indeed, I think I’d go completely daffy if I had to remain here another month. It’s a long, long story, with many angles, and I’ll tell it to you sometime. Along with your letter, I received four from Betts—so this certainly has been a field day for me. My morale tonight is the highest it has been since I left the States—the imminent new assignment and the mail, of course, being responsible. I managed to keep busy today by handling Churchill’s speech before the Lord Mayor’s luncheon. But, as a rule, I’ve been doing odds and ends four days a week, rewrite one night, and the war roundup one night. Betts and Marie Whitehead sent clips showing at least my war roundups have been getting into print—and bylined. It’s good that I’m getting out because the roundups soon will be done from Paris, instead of here. It’s downright cold here now, and I know it must be freezing at the front. So, I’ll have to stock up on all the warm things I can lay my hands on. I wish I had that flying jacket I was forced to store in my footlocker in India! Love, Toby Four days later, Dad found himself in Paris when he landed a combat assignment with the U.S. Sixth Army Group in southeastern France. After only one day in the city he gave it high marks compared with London. London Desk Duty : 233

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PRD SHAEF [Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force] APO 757 NEW YORK, NEW YORK November 13, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I arrived in Paris late yesterday after a most enjoyable, but unexciting, flight from London. My fellow passengers included Noel Coward and Frances Day.* I sat next to Coward and talked to him about his trips to every theater of war, excepting Italy. I previously had heard stories about his alleged tendencies toward perversion but couldn’t detect them as we talked. He seemed extremely friendly and modest—and certainly could spin some interesting yarns. I haven’t had time for much except preparations for a departure tomorrow morning, but already I like Paris as much as I detested London. I’m looking forward to returning here someday and really seeing the town. I had been earmarked to help cover the Third Army, but Patton’s offensive got underway before I could arrive—and Kennedy sent Ken Dixon over there. Consequently, I’m leaving tomorrow for the Sixth Army Group in southeastern France and will remain there until Dixon returns to Paris to catch up on the daily column which is his primary responsibility. If present plans are unchanged, I’ll switch over to the Third when Dixon pulls out. I’m extremely lucky to be over here, for two or three others in London had been given priority, I thought. I’ll admit I pulled more than one string to land a combat job. Another month in London, and I’m sure I would have gone daffy. That’s no place for me, and I hope I never have to return there. But Paris—well, that’s different! Love, Toby My father’s spirits were high as he left the damp and frigid London climate behind. What he didn’t know then was that the weather conditions awaiting him as he joined the Sixth and Third Army Groups would make England seem like a tropical paradise. *Sir Noel Coward, a gifted and prolific playwright, was also a director, composer, actor, and singer. His ‘‘alleged tendencies toward perversion’’ that my father references concerned Coward’s homosexuality, which was never disclosed publicly until after his death in 1973. Frances Day (born Frances Victoria Schenk) was an American singer and actress who began her career singing in a New York City nightclub and went on to garner fame as the star of London musicals.

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.. .. .. chapter fourteen .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. back to battle, .. ..

nov. 1944–march 1945

Since working here in Europe, I believe I’ve learned why quite a few correspondents wound up under six feet of sod. They took chances quite unnecessary and foolhardy. Some of the ‘‘spear-head’’ boys still are alive, but they won’t last long unless they mend their ways. I always can tell a correspondent who has had a lot of experience. He’s more cautious, plays ’em ‘‘close to the belly,’’ to use a poker expression. There are times, of course, when we all must take a chance. But, as for me, I always weigh the story possibilities against the chance, and act accordingly. toby wiant, January 30, 1945 Assigned to the Sixth Army Group, my father was back in his element, his morale high and his enthusiasm for reporting renewed. Another Christmas away from home passed, made bearable by GI decorations and an unlimited supply of turkey. On New Year’s Day 1945, Dad was enroute to a new assignment with General George S. Patton Jr. and the U.S. Third Army, making the long trip by open jeep in sub-freezing temperatures. The trip proved to be an accurate preview of what his days with Patton would be like. By March, Dad admitted to his parents that he was no longer as strong as he used to be. The war was taking its toll on him. November 23, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: As you know by now, I’m in the midst of the offensives of the Sixth Army Group, composed of the U.S. Seventh and the French First

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armies. Bob Wilson, my AP associate here, has been concentrating on the French, and I, on the Americans. I’ve been jeeping more than 100 miles daily to pick up enough information for at least one good story. Already, I’ve spent considerable time in the forwardmost areas. Two days ago, for example, I went to Belfort to view the French cleanup of that city which we all thought would not fall for weeks. The following day, I drove to the northernmost part of our front—to the Vosges. Many of the villages I’ve seen are almost completely destroyed. But soon after the Germans sprint out and the Americans sweep in, the French are hard at work in the debris, trying to improvise something livable. During artillery bombardments, even during house-to-house fighting, the French civilians refuse to budge from their cellars and shelters. If I were in their shoes, I know I would head for the timber long before any fighting started. The French have surprised everyone, including themselves, by driving so quickly to the Rhine in our southern sector. They also were the first to hit the Rhine plain in the north. But the Americans aren’t the least bit jealous—they don’t care who does the job, as long as it’s done. Last night, the French took Saverne, at the eastern gateway of the Saverne gap, and show no signs of slackening their pace. From now on, I’m sure we won’t find the warm hospitality and friendliness that we’ve found in the liberated French villages. At Sarrebourg, the civilians just stared at us. They weren’t unfriendly, but certainly not friendly. Sarrebourg is more German than French. The people speak mostly German. The signs are mostly German. That’s true, of course, throughout Alsace, where we’re now operating. This is the first chance I’ve had to write letters since coming to this front. Actually, I don’t have the time now but am stealing it from AP. I’ve been jeeping and gathering information all day, and writing—or standing by to write—until midnight or 1 a.m. Our Advance Press Camp is located in a little hotel a considerable distance from the front. That’s why we have to spend so much time traveling. But, until the RCA transmitter becomes mobile, we’ll have to operate from here. The best story in the world is no good unless a correspondent can get it out. Love, Toby The longer the war continued and the more miles he spent in jeeps, the more obsessed my father became with a sense of personal responsibility—and 236 : Back to Battle

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urgency—to convey to the American people the truth of what he was seeing and hearing. Afraid that he would miss an opportunity to scoop a great story, Dad pushed himself hard with little regard for his own safety. He considered himself lucky compared with the weary soldiers fighting on the front lines in the harshest of conditions. ALSACE December 13, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I can’t seem to find time to do much letter writing, or get a bath, or have my hair cut—or do much of anything but jeep most of the day, attend conferences, and write most of the night. Our Seventh Army offensive toward Siegfried* is rolling steadily right now, but the mopup of the remaining Krauts on the French side of the Rhine is proceeding slowly, due principally to widely flooded areas and an abundance of mines, including the plastic ones which don’t make any impression on the regular mine detectors. The past two days, I’ve jeeped along the Rhine—not close enough to catch small-arms fire, however—with Larry Newman (INS) and Sonia Tomara (New York Herald-Tribune), gathering color for the usual communique´ stories we turn out in the evenings. Yesterday, some of our troops sprinted eight miles clear through the old Maginot Line† forts, from many of which nary a shot ever was fired in anger. I went into one, which could have held out indefinitely against the Germans back at the start of the war—but didn’t. The French, before hightailing it westward four years ago, smashed the elevator and destroyed the ventilating system. From the top of the fort, I could see several others stretching along the Rhine, all unused. There were several reasons why the Germans didn’t choose to use them in their withdrawal to the Siegfried. One of the best: The exits faced the wrong way. *The Siegfried Line, later known as the Westwall (or West Wall), was a German defense line built by Hitler in the late 1930s. Nearly 400 miles long, the Siegfried comprised bunkers and tank traps and stretched from Kleve on the Netherlands border all the way to Weil am Rhein, a town on the border of Switzerland. Wikipedia. http:// tiny.cc/Siegfried_Line (accessed May 19, 2010). †The Maginot Line (named after French Minister of War Andre´ Maginot) was a defensive line along the French–German border constructed to keep Germany from invading France. Keith D. Dickson, World War II For Dummies (New York: Hungry Minds, Inc., 2001), 82–83.

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It now seems quite likely I’ll be somewhere in Alsace for Christmas. However, I guess the place doesn’t matter much, as long as one has to be away from home. I haven’t had a chance to buy or send any presents—as a matter of fact, I haven’t seen anything worthwhile. However, I should have an opportunity later. You can bet I’ll be thinking about you December 25—and wishing I could hang a stocking above your fireplace. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year—and Happy Birthday, Mom! I can’t help but think how fortunate I am, compared with the young Yanks sweating it out in the forwardmost positions day after day. They don’t know from one minute to the next whether they’ll still be able to draw a breath. They have to live like animals, sleeping in their clothes on the ground (when the Krauts are quiet), eating K rations, walking around in wet shoes, diving into holes full of water. It’s the most miserable kind of existence imaginable, but they don’t complain nearly as much as the Four-Fs* back in the States who are getting fat on war wages. Love, Toby Accompanying the U.S. Seventh Army on its mission to advance toward the Siegfried Line, Dad watched with mixed emotions as American soldiers marched northward on what would be a one-way journey for many of them. His admiration for the GIs was strong, and he questioned whether his own courage could match theirs. ALSACE December 19, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: This seems to be one of those rare days when I can take it more or less easy. The German counter-offensive against the First Army undoubtedly is being splashed in the States. Besides, we in the Seventh Army are banging against the Siegfried Line and making little progress at the moment. So, I’m arbitrarily taking off a few hours to get clean and catch up on some postponed correspondence. I’ve made two trips into Germany since our first entries Dec. 15. I wasn’t able to see much either time, because the villages were deserted *Under the Selective Service System, a person classified 4-F was considered not fit for military service. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/Selective_Service (accessed May 19, 2010).

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and apparently stripped by civilians who packed as much as they could on their backs and fled to behind the Siegfried. I’ll admit I didn’t linger long in Germany, because the spots I visited there were extremely ‘‘hot’’—artillery, mortars, everything in the book in fact. I stood at a road intersection, only a mile or so from the Siegfried, and watched columns of American Gee-eyes streaming Northward, right into the teeth of the Germans manning the West Wall. I couldn’t help but thrill at the sight—and think how much all of us owe them. Frankly, I don’t know whether I could muster the courage to do what they’re doing, with so little show of emotion. Many of them, of course, never would come back—and they knew it. But still they moved steadily northward, without hesitation. By the time you receive this, I suppose you will have had your Christmas and New Year’s celebrations. I have, of course, no plans for Christmas. I’ll probably do just what I’ve done ever since reaching this front more than a month ago—jeep most of the day and write most of the night. I don’t care, though, because Christmas away from home never seems like Christmas anyway. I’d rather postpone celebrations of all holidays until I return home, then have one huge celebration. Love, Toby On Christmas Day 1944—his third away from home—Dad’s spirits were low. A party given by GIs for a group of Alsatian children and the chance to sing hymns with other correspondents helped to brighten the holiday for him. December 25, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve tried to convince myself this is Christmas, but it’s a hard job. I know the date is December 25, I see the trees and other decorations which the GIs have put up. But it simply doesn’t seem like Christmas. This is the day of all days when a person should be with his loved ones. This is the day I dislike most to have to spend away from home. This is the third Christmas I’ve spent abroad and, I hope, the last. Two days ago, I attended a party given by some air corps GIs for about 100 Alsatian children, including several orphans. The language spoken was the Alsatian brand of German, which, of course, I couldn’t understand. But the kids reacted the same as kids of other countries. They ranged in age from two to twelve. Each received a box containing toys shipped from Paris and fruit flown from North Africa. The GIs Back to Battle : 239

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went to a lot of work and trouble arranging the party, but I’m sure they figured the effort worthwhile. In making the kids happy, they were helping themselves to forget the misery of being away from home at this time of the year. This morning, we had a little service at our press camp. For two or three nights, several of us correspondents had rehearsed some hymns for the occasion. We didn’t sound too good, but our volume made up for the lack of quality. The chaplain who conducted the service was a Lutheran who had been away from his wife and children three Christmases. So he knew, from experience, how we all felt at this particular time. One of our veteran correspondents, Wade Werner, joined Bob Wilson and me three days ago. Wade has been making a tour of the fronts, concentrating on civil affairs and military government stories. He discovered, after his arrival here, that his son, whom he hadn’t seen for a year and a half, was due to appear in this area soon, today or tomorrow, in fact. We’ve all been hoping the son would turn up today. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful Christmas for both of them? The news from our front, as you’ve noticed, has trickled away to almost nothing, but Tom Yarborough and Bill Boni with the First Army certainly have had their hands full. Stars and Stripes, the Army newspaper, carried a story today on headlines appearing back in the States. Why is it that we Americans are inclined to go from one extreme to another? When I was home, everyone told me the war was just the same as over. Now, according to the headlines, they are taking an extremely gloomy view of the situation. There’s no doubt about the seriousness of the German threat in the North, but the threat can be turned into one of the great decisive battles of the war, if we play our cards right. Love, Toby ALSACE December 29, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Our Christmas was not as grim as I had feared. The GIs had decorated our camp with fir sprigs, Christmas trees, and improvised trimmings, and our Christmas dinner was almost as good as one could get anywhere. We had all of the turkey we could hold—more than two 240 : Back to Battle

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pounds for each man. Some of the fellows, of course, couldn’t eat their two pounds, leaving extra for the ones with greater capacities. We had a brief service in the morning, with some of the correspondents (me, too!) acting as the choir. Considering everything, I guess we were pretty fortunate all the way around. There were many on the Western Front who fared much worse than we. You’ve undoubtedly noticed a lack of news from the Seventh’s front and figured the operations on the Third, First, and Ninth fronts had something to do with it. Whatever the reason, there’s little doing here at present. Frankly, I’m glad to have a respite of sorts, after beating about France, Alsace, and Germany for nearly six weeks, day after day. The weather here now is bitterly cold, making jeep riding more unpleasant than ever. I didn’t go out at all for three or four days, but have been back at the old routine the last two. Did you notice the paragraph about one of our veteran foreign correspondents, Wade Werner, running into his 22-year-old son, George, an infantryman, on an Alsace road? Wade knew his son was coming to the Western Front, but didn’t know to which army his outfit would be assigned. Wade told me he had the feeling he might drive past his son’s outfit someday—and never know it. But soon after his arrival here, Wade knew exactly where he would be able to find his son. He had hoped to be reunited with him—for the first time in a year and a half—on Christmas. They didn’t get together until the following day, but they both figured it was the best holiday celebration they could have had. The reunion affected Wade probably more than it would the average parent. He already has lost another son in this war. Love, Toby Bored by the relatively quiet six weeks he’d spent with the Seventh Army, Dad spent New Year’s Eve preparing to join General Patton and the U.S. Third Army for what he knew would be ‘‘plenty of action.’’ ALSACE December 31, 1944 Dear Mom and Dad: Instead of celebrating, as one should on New Year’s Eve, I suppose, I’m getting everything in order for a shift to the Third Army front tomorrow. I received my orders late yesterday, but couldn’t complete the necessary arrangements until this afternoon. Back to Battle : 241

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By coincidence, Larry Newman of INS, with whom I’ve been jeeping around the Seventh’s front, also was ordered to the Third’s front, so we’re planning to go together. It’s quite a trip from here, but the past six weeks of beating the bushes in this area have put us in good condition. I’m glad to be getting a change of scenery, principally because this front has been quiet, and I’m bound to find plenty of action with Patton’s troops. With a little luck, I should run into many stories that will land on page one. I know the new assignment will mean long hours and hard work, but the effort should be worth it. My responsibilities will be somewhat different in the future. Here, I technically was in charge, although Bob Wilson and I worked together as partners. With the Third, I’ll be under my old friend, Lew Hawkins, I suppose. I worked with Lew in London and am not expecting any difficulties along that line. I imagine there have been all kinds of speculations in the States about the German offensive. I have my own ideas, of course, and cannot fully express them here. But there are two possibilities: (1) The Germans have set back the end of the war several months; or (2) The Germans have expended their last bursts of energy. We’ll see. I must get back to packing, so . . . Love, Toby New Year’s Day 1945 found my father on a long, cold ride from Alsace to the Third Army’s front. As he jeeped his way through the icy wind, Dad was unaware that ‘‘Old Blood and Guts’’ Patton had more action waiting for him than he ever anticipated. On December 16, 1944, Germany unleashed a secretly planned offensive against the Allies through the Ardennes Forest, a rugged area of hills and valleys with few good roads. Hitler’s goal was to capture the Belgian city of Antwerp— which he viewed as a key to Germany’s victory—by breaking through the line of Allied troops along the French and German border. A 75-mile section of the line was guarded by only four American divisions whose troops were either recovering from prior fighting or were new recruits without combat experience. Although the Allies eventually prevailed, the Ardennes became an unforgiving battlefield where frigid weather and blinding snow seriously hampered the American efforts to resist the German advance. The Battle of the Bulge, named for the 50-mile ‘‘bulge’’ that the Germans created in the American lines when they attacked with twenty-four divisions, 242 : Back to Battle

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was a defining moment in the war. American troops, including the 101st Airborne Division, the 82nd Airborne Division, and Patton’s Third Army, succeeded in closing the bulge and holding the key city of Bastogne. But the price of their success was high. By January 16, the American casualty toll reached 75,000—including 85 soldiers held prisoner in Malmedy, France, and then massacred by the Germans. This marked the largest number of American troops killed in a single battle since Gettysburg during the Civil War.* LUXEMBOURG January 2, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m so tired I can hardly hold my eyes open, following a long, cold ride from Alsace to this front, but while waiting for Ed Ball and Lew Hawkins, the other AP staffers here, to finish their spot stories, I’ll try to bang out a few lines. I’ve never been more uncomfortable than during the jeep ride yesterday afternoon and this morning. Larry Newman (INS) and I had lined up a closed car for the trip, but at the last minute it developed gear trouble. We had planned to take off in the morning, but delayed our departure, hoping the car could be repaired. Finally, though, we had to leave in the open jeep because I’d been ordered to reach this front as soon as possible. I put on so many clothes I could barely move and wrapped myself in two blankets. Despite all of that fortification, the wind penetrated inside, and I found myself shaking after the first hour or so. We made several stops enroute to warm up. Otherwise, we probably would have turned up here completely frozen, instead of half frozen. I didn’t know what the deal was until a few minutes ago, but Ball tells me he has been ordered to the First Army’s front to replace Bill Boni, who suffered a broken arm or sumpin’ (no one here is quite sure). I had hoped I wouldn’t have to do as much jeeping at this front as I did with the Seventh, but it appears I’ll probably have to spend even more time in that uncomfortable way. Jeeping isn’t fun, in any kind of weather, but in below-freezing temperatures, I can think of a million things I’d rather do. I remember back at the beginning of the war, how GIs were quoted as saying they would like to have a jeep of their own *Dickson, World War II For Dummies, 283–285.

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in peacetime. I haven’t heard that for a long, long time—the more fellows had to jeep, the less they liked it. As you doubtless know by now, the German offensive in this area has been halted, and we’re now in the process of chasing the Krauts back to the Siegfried and beyond. With a little luck, we may be able to administer a smashing defeat to them, but it will take luck. They still can get back into the positions from which they jumped off December 17. The adventure has been costly to them—how costly, no one now seems to know. They’re mighty stubborn, as this offensive has again proved. Although we knew better, people back in the States apparently thought the Germans were licked, and that it was only a matter of time until they would give up. They still have many powerful punches in reserve. The war still is a long ways from being won. I think Don Whitehead was about right when he guessed the war might last until next fall. This press camp, like the one at the Seventh Army front, is in a schoolhouse. Tonight, it is warm inside. I’m going to spend the night on a cot in a nearby building, but hope to move into a hotel—Ball’s quarters—sometime tomorrow. The mess tonight was good: ham, fried potatoes, corn, white bread, butter, coffee, canned pears. So, everything may be alright, after I get well thawed out. Love, Toby The relentless winter storms made travel treacherous and uncomfortable. My father was disheartened by the slow progress being made against the Germans, but he firmly believed that when Patton’s troops got moving, the Allied forces would triumph. LUXEMBOURG January 5, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: Luxembourg is one of the nicest and most interesting places I’ve visited in my bumming around the world so far. The city itself is clean, well constructed, and generally attractive. The people are well dressed and apparently contented, despite having a war around their ears. I’d like to see more of the country, preferably at my leisure in peacetime. Now, I don’t have many opportunities to linger at spots that intrigue me. I’m usually rushing to one part of the front or another, then hurrying back to the press camp to file the story. 244 : Back to Battle

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The weather the past two days has been miserable. We’ve had up to six inches of snow, drifting to places to more than two feet deep. The snow leaves beautiful effects in the forests covering most of the hills, but makes fighting a war even more difficult. This kind of weather favors the Germans because we can’t make use of our air superiority. Under cover of a blizzard, the Germans can dig in and bring up supplies, complicating our task of rooting them out and annihilating them. This weather also is hard on correspondents. While I was with the Seventh Army, I had to jeep five or six hours daily, but I’m having to spend even more time in that unpleasant way here. We drive with our jeep tops down, so we can spot enemy aircraft in time to bail out and dive into a ditch. So our only protection from the freezing wind is the windshield, which provides mighty little protection, indeed. I’m presently agitating for a move closer to the front, so we won’t have to lose so much time in getting from one place to another. I’d prefer to spend as long as possible with the doughboys at the front. At this stage of the drive against the Germans in the breakthrough area, we’re gaining little ground, due to the fierce weather and the fierce German resistance. However, we’re killing lots of Krauts, which is more important than ground gaining. An American general once told me, ‘‘I came here not to take real estate, but to kill Germans.’’ Once this Third Army starts rolling, we’re going places, I’m convinced. Patton never takes ‘‘no’’ for an answer and is a good bet to be first in Berlin. I hope so—and I hope I’m with him when he enters that seat of the world’s misery. Our morning briefing is about to start, so I’ll have to wind this up. Love, Toby LUXEMBOURG January 13, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve fallen behind in my correspondence somewhat lately, principally because I haven’t felt like writing letters after jeeping all day in freezing weather and writing copy two or three hours at night. But today I succeeded in returning to the press camp early and will bang out a few paragraphs before supper. I’m still having to jeep more than 100 miles daily in order to cover my section of the front. Our jeeps have the tops down so we can easily Back to Battle : 245

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spot any Jerry planes, and the frigid wind really bites into us when we are doing about 50 miles an hour. We usually travel about that fast for two reasons: Snipers would have a harder time hitting us, and, if we traveled slower, we wouldn’t get our jobs done. The temperature here for days has been below freezing. By trial and error, I’ve learned how to keep all of my parts warm, excepting my feet. The first chance I get, I’m going to buy some Arctics to slip over my combat boots. Flying boots would be even better, but they’re hard to scrounge. A great incentive to hurrying back to camp nightly is the steamheated hotel in which we’re staying. I’m in a double room with Lew Hawkins, the other AP staffer here. Our mess so far has been good, although one night the mess officer had a lapse and served cold cuts for supper. You can imagine the storm of protests from those of us who had been jeeping all day through a snowstorm. It’s now quite obvious the Germans failed to achieve their mission in the salient between the First and the Third Armies. They have taken heavy losses in men and materiel, which may be impossible to replace. Their offensive has not prolonged the war, but may have shortened it. However, next fall is still my guess for the windup. And I’m still sticking to my estimate of two years more for the finale of the Japan show. I’ve seen several hundred German prisoners in recent days. The ulcered, broken-down, aged Krauts are decidedly in the minority. Most of the POWs are a rugged lot—and still full of beans for the Fuhrer. Love, Toby As American ammunition slammed into the town of Diekirch and was met by German rockets, my father jeeped his way to an observation point where he hoped to report on the town’s destruction. When he realized that another AP correspondent was already there, Dad was disappointed but soon found another story just as compelling. LUXEMBOURG January 18, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve just finished a 500-word story on two Americans who passed through a part of the Siegfried Line still manned by the Germans, stayed all night, and returned safely the following day. They’re probably the only Allied soldiers who ever have done—or ever will—do that. The 246 : Back to Battle

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catch is they went under a flag of truce, requested by the Germans, who claimed some of our big shells were landing close to a hospital. The two Americans went across no-man’s-land, through the Siegfried, and about six miles to the rear to make sure they were telling the truth. I started out after the morning conference with another story in mind—a crossing of the Sure River near Diekirch. I jeeped through half-rain, half-snow, over icy roads, to the division headquarters, along with Larry Newman (INS) and Will Lang (Time). From there, we were escorted by an armored reconnaissance vehicle past a sign ‘‘You Are Now Under Enemy Observation’’ to a point on the other side of a hill from Diekirch. It was a mighty noisy place. Our artillery was whooshing over our heads and whamming into the town, only three or four hundred yards away. The Germans were replying with heavy mortars and those spinetingling Nebelwerfers,* or the ‘‘screamin’ meemees.’’ Then, our tanks, within sight to our right, opened up in a thunderous chorus. I was just about to climb the hill to an OP (observation post), where I could watch the destruction of the town, when I learned Lew Hawkins, my AP associate here, already was up there. Since he was first to the place, it was his story. So I didn’t go up, later heading to another division nearby, where I was lucky enough to pick up the story about the two Americans going through the Siegfried. That’s about the way it works here. Of course, I rarely run into Lew, because we tell each other where we’re going, but as a rule, I pick up a story about which I had no idea when I started out. That helps to make these trips interesting, somewhat compensating for the hardships, danger, and discomfort involved. Love, Toby LUXEMBOURG January 27, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: Everyone here is talking about the great Russian offensive, instead of the Western Front. I still believe the war will last until next summer *The German Nebelwerfer (code word for ‘‘smoke launcher’’) was a six-barrel, towed rocket launcher that could fire multiple rockets in a matter of seconds. The loud, screeching noise the rockets made as they hurtled toward their targets was coined ‘‘Screaming Meemie’’ by American soldiers. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/Nebelwerfer (accessed May 19, 2010).

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or fall, but if anyone can prove me wrong, the Russians can—and more power to ’em. The Russians’ drive undoubtedly will have beneficial effects on our front. Although the Germans never have engaged in much shuttling of troops from one front to the other, they undoubtedly will be forced to do so, if the Russians keep pushing. As a result of the Eastern Front news, we’re filing very little now, except features. Of course, there’s always the chance we may get busy again suddenly. One possibility: that we’ll find a hole in the Siegfried and pour through, simultaneous with the Russian drive. If we could hit the Germans hard from two directions at the same time, the war would be over much sooner than otherwise. So far, the Germans have had to contend with big offensives separately. The weather has improved somewhat, although we had a slight additional snowfall last night. At the front, the snow is knee deep, with drifts up to eight feet. That’s just my luck for the weather to better when I don’t have to jeep every day! I hope that you realize I’m restricted in letters and stories from going into the other side of the war, as far as we’re concerned. I can tell about horrible things happening to the Krauts, but not about the Americans. I hope the American readers are not misled about news that’s mostly favorable. There’s the other side, the one that will be told after the war. Love, Toby After a harrowing few days, my father needed a break from the atrocities he’d seen but couldn’t share with his family—or his country. Despite his own discomfort, he continued to compare his circumstances with what the ‘‘doughboys’’ were facing and expressed his gratitude for their sacrifices. When a colleague was nearly killed trying to get a story that wasn’t worth the price, Dad was reminded of his own mortality. LUXEMBOURG January 30, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve been having it rough the past several days, so decided to ease up a bit today. Our front now is so spread out that we’re lucky to visit one division a day. The weather has continued severe, with fresh snowfall nearly every day. Of course, when I say I’ve been having it rough, I don’t mean rough in comparison with the doughboys. I don’t know how they keep alive in such weather, fighting the Krauts all the time, as 248 : Back to Battle

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well. My respect for them—and deep gratitude—grows every day I work with them. Two days ago, I spent seven hours in a jeep and, through no fault of my own, wound up without a story. So, yesterday, I wangled an airplane for the afternoon, along with my running mate, Larry Newman of INS, and covered the same ground in less than an hour. As a result, we scored nice beats on the crossing of the Our River into Germany. That’s the way it goes, though. Work like the devil one day for nothing, take it easy the next and land a good story. Since working here in Europe, I believe I’ve learned why quite a few correspondents wound up under six feet of sod. They took chances quite unnecessary and foolhardy. Some of the ‘‘spear-head’’ boys still are alive, but they won’t last long unless they mend their ways. I always can tell a correspondent who has had a lot of experience. He’s more cautious, plays ’em ‘‘close to the belly,’’ to use a poker expression. There are times, of course, when we all must take a chance. But, as for me, I always weigh the story possibilities against the chance, and act accordingly. My associate here, Lew Hawkins, almost was killed the other day, and the story wasn’t worth it at all. He wanted to do a yarn on a platoon leader throughout one day. The trouble was he picked out the leader of a platoon clear out in front, with nothing between them and the Krauts but a lot of lead. They got into a house and barely had time to set up their guns when a Mark V tank poked its snout over the crest of a hill. They, of course, couldn’t compete with a tank, so they radioed for artillery, which luckily started landing in the nick of time. However, the tank fired several shots into the house, killing one boy and wounding several others. That would have been enough for almost anyone, but not Lew. He succeeded in running through knee-deep snow to our lines about 600 yards away. Then, when our tanks started moving up toward the house, he followed one. That particular tank hit a mine, luckily on the side opposite Lew. He still wouldn’t give up. A company commander volunteered to take him to the house, and they started off across an open field. Before they had taken a dozen steps, the Krauts opened up with burp-guns, creasing the company commander on the backside. Lew managed somehow to get the guy out of range and to an aid station. Back to Battle : 249

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After all of that, Lew gave up. He finally ‘‘got religion,’’ and I don’t believe he’ll pull anything like that again very soon. Love, Toby luxembourg february 2, 1945 dear mom and dad: this typewriter has gone on the blink—hard usage and banging around in jeeps, i guess. the capital lever won’t work, and there are other keys badly in need of repair. but for the time being, i’ll just have to make the best of it, for typewriter repair hereabouts is either impossible or a bad risk. your january 16 and 19 letters have arrived to bolster my morale at a time when it needed bolstering. i’ve been working in high gear for several weeks, in weather and under conditions leaving much to be desired. due to the fact that news from our front has died down somewhat, it may be possible for either hawkins or i to take some leave. i could use a few days of loafing, but hawkins has been out on the grindstone longer than i and deserves the first break. since my last letter, we have moved our camp to another city, but only slightly closer to the front—not close enough to make much difference in jeeping time. the weather has improved somewhat. today, for example, was comparatively warm. rain during the past two or three days has melted most of the snow, but swollen the streams considerably, washing away some of the temporary bridges constructed by our engineers after the germans blew up the original structures. our camp now is located in a steam-heated, electrically lighted hotel. we work and eat on the first floor and live on the ones above. hawkins and i have an even better double room than the one we had previously, with two comfortable beds, two wash basins, plenty of closet space, a table, and some more-or-less comfortable chairs. the food so far hasn’t been as good as we used to have, but that undoubtedly will improve as soon as our kaypees get straightened out. here in luxembourg, we’ve been able to have all of the ice cream we could eat, a dish which i used to miss much out in cbi. the russian news has made us as happy as all of you back in the states, although i suppose we’re inclined to be less optimistic about the end of the war. of course, the war could end tomorrow, or the next day, 250 : Back to Battle

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but i feel the krauts intend to stick it out through the winter, even if they have to fight guerilla fashion toward the end. they probably figure they have nothing to lose; that the peace terms would be almost as bad as fighting on to the end. perhaps, that’s where our propaganda has been weak. we haven’t given even the less guilty ones much hope for the future. sorry i didn’t run into george tanner when i was with his organization for a short time. perhaps we’ll be able to get together later. love, toby Frustrated by the beating his typewriter had taken, my father borrowed a colleague’s for the next few days until his was repaired. LUXEMBOURG February 6, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: After nearly getting shot (1) by the Krauts and (2) by the Yanks yesterday, I took it easy today. The story about yesterday’s experience could be long, but I’ll slice it down to this: We were told the Krauts were ‘‘several hundred yards’’ from a little town in Germany, beyond the Siegfried’s dragon teeth.* Several hundred yards is a safe distance, so we barged past the dragon teeth, past some burned-out tanks, into the town. We should have become suspicious when we could see no doughboys, but could hear some sporadic rifle and machine gun fire. Instead, we drove to the edge of the town. When we reached the last house, some doughboys jumped out with machine guns at ‘‘ready’’ and surrounded our jeep. They were not at all friendly, ordered us out of the jeep, and told us to walk back into the town to the command post. There, the atmosphere was icy until a major recognized the public relations officer with us. The major then explained (1) we were within 50 yards of the Krauts when the doughboys stopped us; (2) the doughboys were suspicious of us because, only the day before, they had caught five Krauts, dressed in American clothes, in the town. It was a warm day, but when I heard that, I felt rather chilly! *Tank traps resembling a dragon’s tooth and built from reinforced concrete. The Germans constructed the ‘‘teeth’’ in rows with the objective of destroying the underbodies of Allied tanks. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/DragonTeeth (accessed May 19, 2010).

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I had planned to make a short trip today, but some air corps officers arrived to get some information from me on a story Bob Eunson and I wrote last October. Someone in Washington apparently had gotten the wind-up over the story and tried to crucify two fliers whom Eunson and I had quoted. Eunson previously had given them a statement. I did likewise. I’m sure, on a basis of what Eunson and I said, those two fliers won’t be made the goats. These things happen occasionally. I’ve been in the business so long they don’t worry me in the least. Love, Toby Growing up, I knew that my father had the innate ability to empathize with challenges that people in his life were facing—and then step forward to help. He demonstrated the same empathy when he wrote a story about a private who was chased by the Germans and who hid from them in a German command post for nearly a month. LUXEMBOURG February 9, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I put in a hard day’s work yesterday—for a private!—so I took it relatively easy today. About that private: His name is Lee Godfrey. After the Germans broke through in December, Lee was chased four days, then spent 28 days and nights hidden in a German command post, after which he sweated out artillery and small-arms fire two additional days before being liberated. I caught Lee a few hours after his return and thought I had the story sewed up. But the story was held in censorship so long the other correspondents were able to climb aboard, and all the stories were released at the same time, for morning papers of Sunday, Jan. 28, 1945, I believe. However, Lee agreed not to give magazine material to anyone except me, whereupon I queried NYC about the salability of an article, by Lee as told to me. That was Jan. 27, and I didn’t hear anything until Feb. 7, by which time I’d given up hope. However, a message came through then to the effect the Saturday Evening Post was interested enough to gamble on the cable tolls, and that there was a ‘‘good chance’’ of acceptance. So I sat myself down yesterday and wrote more than 3,000 words, filing the batch last night. Now, I have my fingers crossed, principally 252 : Back to Battle

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for Lee—because I’ve promised that 80% of the net proceeds will go to his wife and year-old son, who have been having a tough time getting along on a private’s pay. I wouldn’t have a clear conscience if most of the proceeds didn’t go to Lee and his family. I’m an old softie, I admit, in a case like this. I know several correspondents hard-hearted enough to deprive Lee of any part of the proceeds. That’s why I told him not to give the material to anyone else. In the case of a story about a general, a battle, a division, or a town, I wouldn’t hesitate a second to take all of the proceeds. But the case of this private is different, I’m sure you’ll agree. He needs the money badly. I can use money, too, but I’m not that hard up—not at the cost of a guilty conscience. Love, Toby As far as I know, my father’s story about Private Lee Godfrey was never published in a magazine or newspaper. A Stars and Stripes staff writer, Jimmy Cannon, published Godfrey’s story in that paper on January 30, 1945. I was proud of Dad’s altruism and concern for Godfrey and his family at the expense of a sizable monetary reward for himself. LUXEMBOURG February 23, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I spent most of today driving through the Saar-Moselle triangle to the western bank of the Saar River. It was a beautiful day, and the sights I saw were just as beautiful: German towns completely destroyed, or horribly misfigured; miles and miles of anti-tank ditches and trenches that never served the purpose for which they were dug; evidences that the Germans had pulled out with great haste in the path of Patton’s sparkling drive northward. The Germans obviously had intended to defend every town as strongly as possible. There were strong roadblocks built of big logs, stones, and dirt at each approach to the towns. But Patton’s speed and his overpowering artillery kept the Krauts on the run. I talked to several members of the Volkssturm, the bottom of Hitler’s manpower barrel, through interpreters, of course. They were mostly old men for soldiering—40 years, or more. Forty years doesn’t seem as old Back to Battle : 253

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to me as it once did, I’ll admit, but that’s too old for effectiveness in combat. One Volkssturm officer, 46 years old and a former school teacher, said the Germans were continuing to fight because they feared the Russians. When I asked why the Germans didn’t quit on the Western Front, he said he didn’t know—but I could tell by the expression on his face that he thought it a good idea. I wrote all of this in a story today—passed by censorship, of course—but decided to incorporate it in a letter, because you have been missing some of my stuff. The show in the north seems to be going great guns. My old friend, Bob Eunson, should be turning out some good stories about now—more power to him. As you’ll remember, he was my roommate during those five weeks I spent in London. Thatsall for now. Love, Toby My father usually didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve. When he covered the fall of Germany’s oldest city, though, scattered sniper fire and the sight of bombed American trucks and dead GIs affected him more than he let on. LUXEMBOURG March 5, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve taken it easy the past two or three days after working like a horse on the capture of Trier, Germany’s oldest city and the Third Army’s juiciest prize for a long time. I had to handle the Trier story alone because Ed Ball was in Paris on business. He had figured the city wouldn’t fall immediately, and that he had plenty of time to get back. My principal opposition, UP, had two men on the job, but I more than broke even. As a matter of fact, I had a beat of 45 minutes to an hour on the 10th Armored Division entering the city. UP’s number-one man, Bob Richards, made the mistake of not going to an observation post where he could watch the tanks reach the outskirts—and his story was held up several hours because it was not an eye-witnesser. But Larry Newman (INS) and I played it smart by getting eye-witnessers, and our stories went out at once. The following day, I had to stay for the morning conference. The UP men split up, one heading for Trier right after breakfast and the other 254 : Back to Battle

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staying here for the conference. So I had two strikes against me. However, I must have done alright, despite the fact I was behind UP by an hour or so. I didn’t get any ‘‘beefs’’ from NYC. I don’t know when I’ve hated going into a ‘‘hot’’ town more than I did Trier. I figured the place would be lousy with snipers, in addition to the usual artillery and mortar fire. Newman and I took Major Jim Quirk, Third Army Public Relations Officer, with us up ‘‘88 Alley,’’ so nicknamed because the Germans were working their 88 millimeter guns overtime on the road leading into Trier. A town six miles southeast of Trier still was burning as we passed through. Up the road, we had to detour around smoking American trucks and charred GIs. We were all alone on the road at a point about three miles southeast of Trier, and, believe me, it was lonesome! Then, we ran into a task force of tanks, jeeps, and armored reconnaissance cars heading into Trier. We joined them, but quickly! We were all amazed to find Trier a deadly quiet city. There was only scattered sniper fire, none close to us. There were six or seven large fires and several smaller ones, all under control. I spent about an hour in Trier, then got out—and haven’t been back since. Love, Toby As the weeks went by and he witnessed a steady stream of war casualties, the tone of Dad’s letters became more disillusioned and, at times, angry. Although his parents weren’t aware of it, his alcoholism had him in its vise. Fueled by the adrenaline of battle and its inevitable deadly aftermath, my father was walking a precarious emotional and physical path. LUXEMBOURG March 13, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I’ve been feeling rocky the past three days, following a hard trip to the Rhine, and consequently have fallen behind in my correspondence. As a matter of fact, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything except sleep, but now I seem back on the road to recovery. I don’t believe I have the strength I once had—at least the strength to throw off ailments headed my way. The past four months of war reporting on this front have been difficult, mentally as well as physically. I’ve been averaging 100 miles or more a day, and that in itself is enough to wear out a person. But, in addition, there’s the ever-present Back to Battle : 255

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mental strain of being in areas where live ammunition is being expended. That’s a factor one is unlikely to consider until it catches up with you. The war now seems much nearer to the end in Europe—and the end can’t come any too soon for me. As the British put it, I’ve just about ‘‘had it.’’ When I came abroad on this tour of war correspondence, I figured I could keep on going through the war against Japan. But now my thinking runs differently. I’m anxious to return to a more normal way of life—in a home and with Betts, instead of living like a tramp. I was happy to hear my letters finally were reaching you. I can’t understand those long delays, although it appears obvious many of them are being routed to the States by boat, rather than air. The mail service to this area has been erratic, too, but I can’t kick about the one just received. During the Third Army’s drive to the Rhine, I saw thousands of Germans walking into our lines, their hands above their heads, absolutely beaten, obviously happy they were getting out alive. They were a far cry from the Supermen about whom we used to hear so much. They were badly disorganized, hungry, and bewildered by the sudden turn of events. Our armor moved so fast, many of the German villages were virtually untouched. The Krauts didn’t have time to prepare their defenses. There were white flags hanging from every building. Love, Toby LUXEMBOURG March 15, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m glad to report I’m greatly improved physically today, after forcing myself to make a short trip to a nearby part of the front in sunshiny, only slightly brisk weather yesterday. A few minutes after leaving with John Bryson (Blue Network), I was feeling much better, even though my cough still sounded as if it came from the bottom of a barrel. There wasn’t much spot news at the spot which I visited—certainly nothing to compete with the First Army’s Rhine bridgehead—but I saw and talked to many interesting prisoners, mostly Austrians. One was a battalion commander, a captain and a count, and a most military person. He gave us the official line—that the Germans were continuing to fight principally because of the Russians. 256 : Back to Battle

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‘‘The consensus of the Germans I know believe Stalin holds the whiphand over Roosevelt and Churchill, and that Britain and America won’t have much of a say-so in the post-war handling of Germany,’’ he said. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps that’s the way it should be. We Americans, and probably the British, are too soft-hearted, too civilized, I guess, to handle a vicious nation like Germany properly. Other prisoners said mountain hideouts in Germany and Austria were packed with men who had deserted from the German army and hoped to evade the SS and Gestapo until the war in Europe had finished. Most of these prisoners, as well as many others about whom I’ve gathered information, believe Germany certainly has lost the war, unless she quickly brings out that long-promised, all-powerful secret weapon. And more than a few are rapidly becoming skeptical that such a weapon ever will emerge. They still believe the war will not end suddenly, but in piece-meal fashion, because the Nazis still are extremely powerful. Love, Toby It had been a long, cold, and tiring three months since my father joined Patton’s Third Army. His desire for action was now tempered with the reality that he’d finally seen enough.

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.. .. c h a p t e r fif t e e n .. .. ........................................................... .. .. . .. .. the curtain goes down, ... .. ..

march–aug. 1945

You’ve probably guessed already why my letter writing has been sporadic in recent weeks. Patton has been going so fast and so far he’s kept me panting. I’ve expended more energy and lost more sleep since Patton let fly with his Sunday haymaker than during any other period I can remember. That’s alright with me, though, because each additional mile gained and German killed means the end of the war in Europe is nearer. toby wiant, March 28, 1945 By the end of March 1945, my father was moving so fast with Patton’s troops that he could barely catch his breath, let alone keep up with his letter writing. With the end of the war in sight, Dad confessed to his parents that he was ‘‘fed up with the awfulness of it all,’’ especially the heart-wrenching tours of Nazi prisoner-of-war (POW) camps where he interviewed nearly starved survivors. The battle with alcohol that plagued him in his earlier years was becoming its own war. Although there was no evidence of impairment in his well-written newspaper articles, as the war in Europe drew to a close a growing sadness and depression filtered through his letters. A 1989 note from the wife of former AP correspondent Edward Ball revealed that my father’s drinking had cost him more than just morning-after hangovers—it cost him stories. Because Ed was in poor health and unable to write, he related an incident to his wife about a firsthand experience he’d had with my father: Patton got to the Rhine, and orders were sent for the Commander of the Fourth Armored Division. That night Toby was sent to cover it, but he ran into a bottle of booze and didn’t come back for days.

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Reading Ed’s two-sentence summary of how Dad lost that story, I remembered my uncle Howard’s descriptions of his brother’s struggles with alcohol. As the war escalated toward its end, my father’s alcoholism was escalating, too. Just when he thought he was headed home, Dad was recalled to Paris when AP bureau chief Ed Kennedy broke a security agreement with the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF)* to keep the German surrender story under wraps until censors were given permission to release it. With the possibility of home leave now reduced to zero, Dad’s already sagging spirits hit bottom, and he told his parents that he would resign from the AP if it continued to deny his request for time off—a difficult ultimatum for a dedicated reporter whose earliest career goal had been ‘‘to go as high as possible in newspaper work.’’ From the New York Post, March 21, 1945 (Associated Press article): KAISERSLAUTERN FALLS—TO 25 GIs AND ONE GRENADE by Thoburn Wiant KAISERSLAUTERN, Germany, March 20 (Delayed) (AP)—This road and rail center fell today to one hand grenade and 25 doughboys. A city with a peacetime population of 61,000, Kaiserslautern long had been figured by Lt. Gen. Patton’s strategists as a tough nut to crack. They reasoned that Field Marshal von Rundstedt would order the stiffest resistance because Kaiserslautern is the key in an important network of roads and rails. But Patton’s armor stirred up such bewilderment and terror that an American party led by T/Sgt. Byron Hoover of Chicago, moved in and took over almost without a fight. For about an hour, Hoover was in charge of Kaiserslautern, where 45,000 civilians surprisingly had remained. Then Col. N.A. Costello of Arlington, Va., took over. ‘‘A few snipers provided the only opposition we found,’’ Hoover said. For more than 50 miles along the 10th Armored Division’s drive to Kaiserslautern and eastward to the Rhine, the route was lined with abandoned vehicles, dead horses, charred carts, and many dead *SHAEF was the headquarters of the commander of the Allied forces in northwest Europe. From 1943 until the end of World War II in 1945, General Dwight D. Eisenhower was in command of SHAEF. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/SHAEF (accessed May 23, 2010).

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Germans—all victims of aerial attacks. Several civilians were seen cutting meat from dead horses. . . . In the reconstruction period following the first World War, Kaiserslautern was one of the many German cities to float loans in the U.S. American loans to Kaiserslautern exceeded $675,000, used largely for the extension of public utilities and other public works. A British radio correspondent reported today that 20,000 foreign workers had liberated themselves and passed through the 3rd Army lines. Circumstances, the broadcaster said, seemed to indicate a breakup of Nazi control. The freed workers included Russians, Poles, Frenchmen, Yugoslavs and Greeks, many of whom were employed as serfs in farm areas immediately behind the German lines. From the New York Daily News, March 22, 1945 (Associated Press article): PATTON’S TANKS MAKE IT A RACE by Thoburn Wiant WITH AMERICAN ARMOR AT LUDWIGSHAFEN, Germany, March 21 (AP)—Lieut. Gen. George S. Patton’s newest and still unidentified tank division slammed into this Rhine city today after probably the wildest scramble in the history of armored warfare. Four armored divisions with single-track minds—to get to the Rhine and chew up as many German forces as possible—ran all over one another’s toes in a hectic race, but no one got sore. Besides this new armored outfit, the 10th, 11th, and 4th Armored Divisions swarmed over roads to the Rhine in the comparatively small area from Ludwigshafen to north of Worms. The scene seemed to be one of utter confusion. No one apparently knew what the other fellow was doing or where he was doing it. Yet, when the time came, all the pieces in this massed armored movement fell exactly into place. It was almost unbelievable that so many men and tanks could do so much in so short a time. It is not far from the truth to say that the new tank divisions rushed into Ludwigshafen to get out of the way of the enormous concentration of tanks and infantry pushing from behind.

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There is no will to fight left in the Germans west of the Rhine. They are badly beaten and know it. Some still are putting up a token resistance, but those are decidedly in the minority. The great majority seems to be happy to surrender and get away from the shooting. During the last 48 hours, I have driven by jeep more than 500 miles in areas along the Rhine and immediately to the west, and have seen thousands of Germans who came out of the woods and walked in columns westward along the roads, carrying white flags. It is possible to jeep almost anywhere from Mainz southward to Ludwigshafen without any interference from the whacked-up Germans. The enemy on the east bank of the Rhine has been lobbing over a few shells, about enough to keep a tired driver from going to sleep. About 25 German fighter planes stooged around Worms during the morning, doing some strafing, but mostly bluffing. They headed for home quickly when American P-47 Thunderbolts arrived. Through all this section, ancient structures appear to have survived modern warfare better than modern buildings. The central section of Worms, through which the railroads run, had been reduced to rubble by Allied bombers. Amazingly, standing in the center of the debris, was the ancient Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, dating back to 1018. Its interior was gutted, but the walls and towers stood intact. Keeping up with Patton was an extreme challenge, and it took all the strength my father could summon. An ambush in a Frankfurt suburb claimed what little energy he had left—but he could rest only a day or two before heading out on another long trip with Patton’s troops. March 28, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: You’ve probably guessed already why my letter writing has been sporadic in recent weeks. Patton has been going so fast and so far he’s kept me panting. I’ve expended more energy and lost more sleep since Patton let fly with his Sunday haymaker than during any other period I can remember. That’s alright with me, though, because each additional mile gained and German killed means the end of the war in Europe is nearer.

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Never unduly optimistic, I nevertheless believe Germany is at the end of its rope. The end might come any time, certainly before summer. I have some grounds for belief that the Wehrmacht* has largely ceased fighting and that the Nazis are responsible for the continued resistance in some sections. Patton’s stabs, of course, have been utterly fantastic. He told us what he was going to do—and he’s surprised most of us by doing it. He’s always believed in smacking a guy before the guy can unreel. He’s always held an offensive costs fewer lives than a defensive—and proved his theory time and again. Our casualties, of course, are not released during operations such as this, but they’re amazingly low. I’ve been doing most of the ‘‘legwork’’ since Patton struck out for the Rhine and beyond. I’ve covered the capture of town after town— Trier, Worms, Mainz, Coblenz, Kaiserslautern, Ludwigshafen, and Frankfurt, to mention a few—and was phenomenally lucky. But I did plenty of sweating at Frankfurt, being pinned down in a cellar for nearly 20 hours by the worst shelling I’ve ever experienced. I went into a Frankfurt suburb with an armored task force. Civilians lined our route, waving and smiling and shouting greetings, in great contrast to the way we were received along the Siegfried. It was quiet when we entered the suburb—too quiet. We went to the bridge which the doughboys were going to use for the crossing into Frankfurt. Suddenly, the Krauts opened up with everything in the artillery book. Lesser experienced correspondents ducked into cellars near the bridge, but I sprinted madly for a place about three blocks away. I figured rightly the Krauts would concentrate on the end of the bridge. Our cellar—with walls and ceiling several feet thick—soon was filled with wounded doughboys and others seeking shelter. Eight shells hit the floors above us, but we were perfectly safe in that cellar. I had hoped to go into Frankfurt and leave right away to file my story. But I decided to spend the night in the cellar when one of our press drivers was wounded in the leg. He was making an effort to start a jeep for our getaway when a shell hit nearby. None of the correspondents was hit, but two of our jeeps were riddled. I finally got back to the new press camp in Germany yesterday afternoon. I was groggy, for I hadn’t slept for two nights and had been *Wehrmacht, or ‘‘defense force,’’ was the name of the German armed forces.

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traveling and working hard for three days. I turned out about 1,000 words, then dropped into bed. I’ve taken it comparatively easy today, covering only the regular press conferences. But I must light out again tomorrow—another long, difficult trip east of the Rhine and some more town captures to report, I suppose. Love, Toby A few days later Dad met with American soldiers just liberated by the Sixth Army from a POW camp, and he was visibly moved by their stories. Angry at the way American prisoners had been treated, he lashed out at the Germans. SOMEWHERE IN GERMANY April 2, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I’m still being cast hither and yon by the dizzy whirlpool which Patton stirred up when he broke clear through the German defenses and started stabbing in almost all directions. I’ve had virtually no time for letter writing, except for sporadic notes to you and Betts. My pile of unanswered correspondence grows daily, but there’s nothing I can do about it presently. Our press camp has moved twice in recent days, but we’re still too far from the speartips. I returned last night from a 48-hour assignment south of Kassel, one of Germany’s great industrial centers. I went up there with the Sixth Armored Division, hoping to cover the capture of Kassel, but the tanks ran into a pocket of fanatics south of the city. Meanwhile, I learned the Sixth Army had liberated a prisoner of war camp in which there were 1,277 Americans, plus thousands of other nationalities. I spent quite some time with the liberated Americans and don’t know when I’ve been so touched. They had been kept on a semi-starvation diet for more than three months, each losing 25 to 40 pounds as a result. Ribs and collar bones showed through the shirts of some. They snatched food from a rations truck like starving wolves. When I got out some cigarettes, I was nearly mobbed. It makes me boil to think of how well we’ve treated German POWs in the States. The treatment of our boys has been absolutely outrageous. The Sixth Armored also liberated 900 Hungarian Jewish girls between the ages of 16 and 35, who had been forced to work in poison The Curtain Goes Down : 263

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gas and arms factories. Whenever a girl became ill, she was stripped naked, thrown onto a truck containing the bodies of dead girls and carted off for cremation. Nice people, these Germans! The end of the war in Europe is at hand, for which I’m duly thankful. We now can go virtually anywhere we please. Of course, we run into pockets of fanatics occasionally, but it doesn’t take long to liquidate them. I’m hopeful of returning to the States soon after this winds up. If that’s impossible, then I’m going to take some much-needed rest somewhere, possibly on the Riviera. Love, Toby From the New York News, April 12, 1945 (Associated Press article): FIVE MILLION JEWS KILLED IN ONE NAZI CAMP: FABIAN by Thoburn Wiant NEAR ERFURT, Germany, April 11 (AP)—Dr. Bela Fabian, president of the dissolved Hungarian Independent Democratic Party, accused the Germans today of killing 5,000,000 Jews at the Auschwitz extermination camp in Polish Silesia from which he himself narrowly escaped. The Polish Ministry of Information more than a year ago reported 500,000 Jews had been gassed and cremated at this camp, and the International Church Movement Ecumenical Refugee Committee in a subsequent report on Auschwitz and its sister camp of Birkenau said 1,715,000 Jews had been killed at the two places. A spokesman for the American Jewish Committee Library in New York said it had been estimated 4,000,000 to 5,000,000 Jews had been exterminated since the war began in Europe, but the library had no figures to substantiate the report that 5,000,000 had been exterminated in one camp. Fabian declared the executions were carried out in a 10-month period. He said all Jews over 50 were automatically condemned to the gas chamber and crematory, as were the weak and sickly, and young mothers who refused to leave their children. ‘‘If the captain did not like the looks of anyone else, they were gassed, too,’’ he said. 264 : The Curtain Goes Down

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Many died of overwork, starvation, and beatings before the gas chamber could receive them, Fabian said. The officer in charge, Fabian added, employed a dramatic flourish of the hand in ordering entire groups taken away to be gassed and cremated—without questioning or examining them to learn if they were guilty of any wrong. The 56-year-old author and politician told his story of the notorious camp, since captured by the Red Army, after his liberation by American troops from another camp at Ohrdruf, southwest of Erfurt. Three others freed with Fabian corroborated his story and said it was a ‘‘miracle’’ that Fabian still lived. They said he owed his life to the fact that Germans believed him when he said he was only 46 years old, and that his services as an interpreter were needed by the Nazis. The other three are Heinz Myer, 22, Hungarian violinist; Desider Kohlmann, 34, a Bratislavan; and Sam Ezratty, 28, a Greek medical student. Fabian, who said he once had lunch with President Roosevelt, asked that Congressman Sol Bloom (D-N.Y.) be notified he is safe. He is the author of the book, One Thousand Men Without a Woman. By mid-April Dad’s exhaustion and strong desire to leave war and its atrocities behind were foremost in his mind. SOMEWHERE IN GERMANY April 14, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: The curtain is about to go down on the final act of this war in Europe, thank God! Although the Wehrmacht actually ceased to exist as a fighting machine several days ago, some of the die-hards are still holding out. They, of course, have nothing to gain by surrendering, but it’s too bad they’re carrying so many people down with them. I’ve never worked as hard, nor been under such pressure as in the past few weeks. I’ve returned from trip after trip to the front, convinced I couldn’t do it again—ever. But a full night’s sleep and some warm food always put me in the running again. I’m still in fairly good shape, although I badly need a rest, or at least a change of pace. I’ve seen a lot of war in the past five months on the Western Front and will admit I’m fed up with the awfulness of it all. I’ve seen concentration and prison camps unbelievably inhuman, and The Curtain Goes Down : 265

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come away wondering what, if anything, ever could be done with such bestial people. The news of Roosevelt’s death,* which reached me at the front, came as a severe shock. I never voted for FDR, which I’ll never regret, but we needed him at this particular time. We would have had difficulty holding our own at the peace table even with FDR representing our interests. With tin-horn Truman trying to cope with Stalin and Churchill, we hardly stand a ghost of a chance. But we survived characters such as Harding, and I guess we can do it again. We’ve moved our press camp several times but still are hours by jeep from the front. Lately, Eddie Ball and I have taken turns at the front, staying overnight with some division. It has been imperative that one of us remain close to the transmitter, for transcendent news might break at any time. My latest trip took me to Jena, home of the world-famous Zeiss optical firm. Jena fell easily, although the German commander declined a surrender ultimatum. He merely wanted a brief, bloodless ‘‘battle of honor,’’ and we accommodated him, spilling some blood, however. I hope this war will be over by the time you receive this. And I hope I will be able to go somewhere and rest, preferably at home, of course. Love, Toby From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, April 21, 1945 (Associated Press article): NAZI TREATMENT OF YANK PRISONERS ANGERS TROOPS OF THIRD ARMY Soldiers Hear Horror Tales and See Victims After Each Camp Is Overrun by Americans by Thoburn Wiant UNITED STATES THIRD ARMY, Germany, April 20 (AP)—Third Army troops are becoming increasingly bitter over German treatment of American prisoners of war. Lieutenant General George S. Patton’s divisions already have liberated several camps containing thousands of Americans from every state. The situation was about the same in every prison: The Americans had been forced to walk 100 or more miles to camps and were assigned *President Franklin D. Roosevelt died in Warm Springs, Georgia, on April 12, 1945.

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to filthy quarters which were unheated in cold weather. They were fed barely enough to keep alive. In some cases, men were forced to do heavy work, although weak from starvation. Some fainted on jobs. In at least one prison camp, Americans told of beatings received from German guards wielding rifle butts. Army censors have been wary of passing stories about conditions in these camps. Everything indicating severe cruelty has been stopped until recently. The censors have contended that unfounded exaggerations might be printed, provoking the Germans to retaliate. They also contended that undue anxiety would be created among prisoners’ relatives. The policy now has been relaxed. Correspondents may report what they see but still cannot write of what liberated Americans tell them, if severe cruelty is involved. Such reports still must be referred to higher authorities, who may or may not release them, depending upon verification. Perhaps the German captors have been unable to transport American prisoners of war to camps by rail or truck, as do Patton’s divisions. It is true that Allied bombers have reduced such facilities to a minimum. However, there is no excuse for assigning Americans to cramped and filthy quarters, or for feeding them minute quantities of watery soup, bread, and margarine. Nor is there an excuse for beating them. This correspondent has yet to see a German soldier or civilian who appeared underfed. His birthday on April 23—the third one overseas—was a non-event as Dad spent the day working. The sickening horror of what he’d seen in German concentration camps made celebrating birthdays seem inappropriate to him. THIRD ARMY PRESS CAMP, SOMEWHERE IN GERMANY April 25, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: Your birthday card and letter, both dated April 11, were timed perfectly. They arrived on April 23, the day when I started a new year, unbelievably my 34th. My birthday celebration was exactly like the ones I spent in 1943 and 1944. I worked all day, as usual. I hope the next one will be somewhat different. The Curtain Goes Down : 267

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Although to all intents and purposes, the war in Europe has finished, we have to do a job that may keep us plugging away several weeks more. Presently, I can’t write much about it, but you should be fully cognizant of the mission by the time this reaches you. We moved four days ago to a city deep in southeastern Germany and not far from the Czechoslovakian border. The move cut down our jeep time considerably, but if Patton continues to go as in the past, we’ll be back on the old schedule of 10 hours a day in a jeep. I noticed somewhere that Willys-Overland had offered post-war jeeps to the first correspondents filing stories from Berlin and Tokyo. If those correspondents are like me, they will tell Willys-Overland to stick those jeeps you-knowwhere. I never want to see a jeep again after this deal is finished. Almost every day, I find new evidence of German atrocities. You have to see to believe, I suppose. I’ve seen bodies stacked alongside ovens, awaiting their turns; thousands of political prisoners dying from starvation; hundreds of Americans suffering from disease and malnutrition; quarters unfit for pigs; lampshades made from human skin, with tattoos prominently displayed. The concentration camp I visited yesterday—the place where Schussnigg [sic]* was murdered April 15—was one of the worse yet. Only 1,600—those who were so sick or feeble they couldn’t be marched away with the others—remained. Of that number, 800 were suffering typhus. God only knows what other diseases were raging. I was glad to get out. Germans understand only the voice of force. They must be controlled with an iron hand, possibly forever. They have shown by their acts in the past 30 years they can’t be trusted to rule themselves. They have everything in their country—the most beautiful I’ve seen abroad—yet ever so often they get hoggish and throw the whole world into turmoil. Remember how Hitler used to moan about living room? That, like everything else he said, was pure bull. The Germans have *My father’s statement that Schuschnigg was murdered on April 15, 1945, appears to be incorrect. I’m not certain where he obtained that information. According to a U.S. Department of State web site (www.state.gov), Kurt von Schuschnigg, attorney and former Chancellor of Austria, was imprisoned by the Nazis in 1938 and liberated by the Allied forces in 1945. Accounts of what happened to Schuschnigg after the war contradict each other, but multiple sources state that he immigrated to the United States and became a professor of political science at St. Louis University (SLU) in Missouri. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/Schuschnigg831 (accessed May 20, 2010).

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plenty of room, more than most states in America, certainly more than we ever had in Indiana or Ohio! Love, Toby After accompanying armored troops for seven days toward a story that never materialized, my father finally lost what little patience he had left for the war. As it drew to a close in Europe, he wondered what lay ahead for him. THIRD ARMY PRESS CAMP, SOMEWHERE IN GERMANY May 6, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I was unable to write letters during the past week, being constantly on the move with an armored division at Patton’s easternmost penetration of Austria. It was one of the most discouraging trips, from a news standpoint, I ever made. I rushed over there on what appeared to be a hot tip, but it turned out to be as cold as a dead Kraut. For seven days, I traveled near the front of armored columns. The radio kept blaring about the end of the war, but it hadn’t ended where we were. Krauts were still using burp-guns and panzerfausts* and machine pistols and flak guns. Americans were still being wounded and killed. A major near me was hit in the forehead with a piece of shrapnel, beside a tank just knocked out by a panzerfaust. A house in which I took refuge during an artillery shellacking was encircled by shells. The place shook like an old man with palsy. Since I’ve been abroad, I’ve learned how to be patient. But my supply of patience ran out yesterday morning, and I decided to return to the press camp, which had moved closer to the Austrian border during my absence. Enroute, I covered the fall of Linz, Austria, where Hitler went to school. Linz once was one of the most charming cities (113,000 peacetime population) on the Danube. But now it’s badly whacked. Hitler intended to make Linz the center of Austria’s heavy industry. The Hermann Goering works, among others, was there. The bombings were frequent, as a result. It was a beautiful, but unwarlike setting when we entered. Snowcapped mountains, about 75 miles away, formed a stunning background. The civilians, overjoyed that the war for them had ended, threw flowers *The Panzerfaust or ‘‘armor fist’’ was a small, inexpensive German anti-tank weapon operated by one person and capable of penetrating nearly six inches of tank armor. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/Panzerfaust (accessed May 20, 2010).

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into our jeeps, handed out thousands of bottles of wine, played accordions, and sang. Adolf Hitler Platz resembled a Mardi gras, with everyone, including about 100 German prisoners of war, in carnival spirit. Linz fell without a shot being fired. The preceding two days, though, were hellish. The Krauts let fly with everything on hand, until the civilians took over. They prevented the Wehrmachters and SS-ers from blowing up two bridges over the Danube. When we arrived, the police were standing guard at the Linz ends of both bridges. The Third Army is the last to remain in action, but its job should be finished in the next few days. After that? I dunno. Love, Toby The following day, news of Germany’s surrender at Rheims was prematurely announced when Ed Kennedy, chief of AP’s Paris bureau—and one of my father’s good friends—released a story without the censors’ permission. For his transgression, Kennedy was immediately relieved as the bureau chief and replaced by Wes Gallagher. I contacted Wes in 1987 in Santa Barbara, California, and he provided an insightful description of the Kennedy situation—one that underscored the censorship dilemma that correspondents faced: By the end of the war, there were not too many fights between SHAEF censors and correspondents. Then came the Ed Kennedy affair, which created a huge uproar. When the Germans indicated they wanted to surrender, arrangements were made to do so at Rheims, Eisenhower’s headquarters. A group of correspondents was selected by SHAEF and flown to headquarters. While in the plane, they were told what they were going to witness. The press relations officers demanded pledges from everyone not to try to get the biggest story of the war out except through SHAEF censorship channels. Everyone filed their stories in the regular manner. Then, the German-controlled Flensburg station broadcast the terms of surrender—in short, told the end of the war. There was an iron-clad rule by that time which stated if security was broken on a story, if you had a similar story resting in censorship, it was automatically released. SHAEF censors refused to release any of the stories, so Ed told them he was going to get the AP story out—that the American people had a right to know when the war was over. The censors did not believe him. But we had learned we could phone London on a Stars and Stripes line. Censors there assumed it had been 270 : The Curtain Goes Down

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passed by SHAEF and let it through to the United States and around the world by AP. All hell broke loose. Kennedy was arrested, and all AP communications were shut down everywhere in Europe. SHAEF claimed that it was a security violation. Other correspondents, to their shame, also denounced the AP, since they had been beaten on the story, and demanded all sorts of punishment. I had been on the 9th Army front on the Elbe and drove all night to Paris to take over the bureau. I immediately went to Rheims and saw Ike, who was a good friend, and requested he release our communications, which he did. I had told him beforehand that I would have done the same thing if I had been in Paris but would have called him first. He said he would have thrown me in jail, but I replied the story would have gotten out. In any case, this was all said in a light vein, and, at the same time, I wondered if there was any security why he took it so lightly. We later learned that Ike was taking his orders directly from the War Department and the White House. There never was a security issue, despite all the breast-beating. The reason for the holdup was that Joe Stalin had requested everything be held until there was an ‘‘official’’ surrender in Berlin, where the Russians controlled things two days later! It was all political, with Stalin prevailing. I dare say you will not find any Russian history books telling of the real surrender at Rheims. Ike was ordered by Washington to take the steps he did. A week later, my father received a personal letter from General Patton expressing his appreciation for Dad’s excellent reporting abilities and for the years he spent with frontline troops getting to know them and telling their stories.* On May 17, 1945, Dad was one of a select group of war correspondents to stand beside General Patton at his last press conference after Germany’s surrender.† THIRD ARMY PRESS CAMP Regensburg, Germany May 21, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I had hoped to be home long before this, but even now the chances seem remote. After learning about the peace, I took off for Paris, *See photo section. †See photo section.

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arriving there the night of May 8. I figured I could wangle a flight on one of the first planes, but ran head on into the furor caused by Ed Kennedy’s story. Everyone around the AP bureau there was excited—and no wonder. NYC recalled Ed, one of my oldest and best friends, to the States for a report to Kent Cooper, and Wes Gallagher became acting bureau chief. NYC also ordered that everyone stand pat, apparently until some of the heat subsided. There were so many of us in Paris that Gallagher told us to fan out again. The assignment was so distasteful that I hung around Paris nearly a week, hoping the plans would be changed so that I could return home after all. But, I finally had to do something and took off for the Third Army again, right back where I’d started and where I’d said goodbye to everyone only a few days previously. I’ve managed to keep occupied so far, although—as you can imagine—there’s a news famine now. With Irish Seaghan Maynes of Reuter, I jeeped to Czechoslovakia and spent three days in and around Pilsen, home of the notorious Skoda warworks. Gallagher had asked me to go to Prague on a business trip, but that turned out to be a huge order. Just east of Pilsen, on the dividing line between the Americans and the Russians, I encountered five roadblocks—one guarded by the Americans and the others by the Russians. The Russians, I was told, would permit no one to pass through their roadblocks without a permit—and permits were next to impossible to obtain, because there was no liaison between the Americans and the Russians. A major general told me he had tried to take a shortcut from one American position to another through the Russian-controlled part of Czechoslovakia but had been turned back because he lacked a permit. It seemed impossible, but we made it by using our wits and guts. We spent two hours in Prague, luckily obtaining the information Gallagher desired, as well as stories on the situation there. I picked up three other stories before returning to the Third Army press camp. It was as different as night and day to go from American-occupied Pilsen into Russian-occupied Prague. I’ll go into this later when I see you. Suffice it to say now, I wasn’t entirely pleased with everything I saw. Love, Toby 272 : The Curtain Goes Down

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A Bavarian hotel was the next stop for Dad, a welcome change from the harsh conditions under which he’d lived for months. Although he enjoyed the relative luxury of the accommodations the AP provided, he couldn’t understand why he and another AP correspondent were sent there—there wasn’t enough news for one reporter, let alone two. BAD WIESSEE, BAVARIA May 24, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: If I weren’t so anxious to see Betts again, I’d probably be content to remain here indefinitely. This is one of the most beautiful spots I’ve seen anywhere. We are living in a hotel right on a lake, with snow-covered alps all around us. It’s still too chilly for comfortable swimming, but we’re making the most of the boating facilities. There’s virtually no news, so we have plenty of time to relax and enjoy ourselves. I find it hard to understand why AP is keeping not only me here, but my partner, Eddie Ball. There’s not enough for one man to do, let alone two. However, I’m not going to squawk too loudly until I’ve had a chance to get my fill of this lovely country, which I figure will be in a week to ten days. I still don’t know much about future plans for me, although I’ve renewed my request for home leave at the earliest possible moment. I’ve been able to ascertain one thing, though: I’m not going to have to return to Czechoslovakia, at least for awhile. I gave my Paris office a complete report on the difficulties of getting into Russian-controlled Czechoslovakia and received a message in reply that I wouldn’t have to make a similar excursion. I’m thankful for that, because it was no fun wriggling past one American and four Russian roadblocks. We’re now within easy jeep distance of Berchtesgaden and Salzburg. The weather today has been bad, but if it clears up tomorrow, I’ll probably head in that direction. The sightseeing should be good, even if there’s no news. However, I’ve found I’ve become less and less enthusiastic about sightseeing, now that the war in Europe has ended. The one desire which I couldn’t put from my mind, even if I wanted to do so, is to return to the States and be back with Betts somewhere—anywhere, in fact. Love, Toby The Curtain Goes Down : 273

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My father’s fierce desire for home leave—and his anger that it hadn’t been granted—so overwhelmed him that he returned to the AP’s Paris headquarters for a confrontational meeting with the new bureau chief, Wes Gallagher, and told him that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. PARIS June 7, 1945 Dear Mom and Dad: I hope to be back in the States long before this could reach you, but here goes anyway, for my plans have gone awry before. I flew to Paris two days ago for a showdown on my home leave. I had tried for nearly a month after the peace to resume field work, as my Paris office desired, but it just didn’t work. I was too worn down physically and fed up mentally even to do what little reporting there was to be done. It took three messages and a letter for me to wangle permission to return to Paris for a talk with Wes Gallagher, acting chief of bureau. The first two messages were mild and ineffective, so I turned on all possible pressure in the third. Gallagher told me he couldn’t recommend home leave for me at once because there were others ahead. However, after I frankly told him I feared I might crack up if forced to continue working over here, he agreed to send a message to my New York office, outlining my views. That message went out two days ago, and I’m expecting a reply any time now. In the message, which I drafted for Gallagher, I went all out. After pointing out I’d had nearly nine straight months of combat reporting without a single break, I said my need of home leave was so urgent that I would resign, if there were no other way in which I could get home. I felt that way then—and still do. I’m in bad condition and simply don’t feel capable of continuing to work over here. Besides, my lack of knowledge of French or German would be a terrific handicap, even if I felt up to par. It all adds up to this: I came over here as a war correspondent; the war has ended; my job is done, and I’m burned out. I feel extremely confident that a month or six weeks of change of scenery and complete relaxation with Betts somewhere in the States would put me back on my feet again. I would hate to leave the AP without having another job lined up, but I feel I must do even that, if the AP won’t permit me to come home 274 : The Curtain Goes Down

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otherwise. I realize there are others over here also badly in need of home leave, but it’s every man for himself in a case such as this. It’s too bad I have to wind up my assignment over here like this, but it just has to be done. As the British say, I’ve ‘‘had it,’’ and I must go back to the States and get myself into shape again. Love, Toby That was my father’s final letter to his parents as an Associated Press correspondent. With an increasingly despondent attitude, he lost what little control over his alcoholism he had left. According to Wes Gallagher, by the end of the war my father’s drinking was a serious concern for the AP. Reports of his erratic behavior prompted the AP’s decision to recall him to New York. Not only was my father damaging his own reputation by his reckless actions—he was tarnishing the name of his employer. As my father’s immediate supervisor, Wes recognized the value of his colleague’s work—and the strain under which he had operated for so long without a reprieve. Instead of sending Dad back to New York, Wes agreed to be responsible for my father’s actions with the hope that the situation would improve. Unfortunately for my father, it did not. ‘‘One evening,’’ Wes told me, ‘‘Toby decided he was a werewolf and tore up a night club.’’ After nearly wrecking the Paris club in a drunken rage, my father reached the limits of his employer’s patience, and the AP was forced to take disciplinary action. Wes had no choice but to order Dad to return to New York. Despite his excellent war reporting, the AP gave my father an ultimatum: either resign or be fired. After turning his career dream into reality, Dad watched that dream dissolve into a nightmare. My father booked passage back to New York on a troop ship to allow him more time to recover—physically and emotionally—from the Paris incident. He said nothing to his parents about what had occurred. On June 28, 1945, the ship docked in the States, and my father went ashore to pick up the pieces of his career. What happened next is unclear. I found no documentation in either my father’s personnel folder or the AP’s files other than a ‘‘resigned 6/26/45’’ notation. As Wes explained to me, the date was incorrect because Dad would have had to wait until he returned to New York to resign formally. The first days back in New York were some of the most difficult of my father’s life, especially because he couldn’t tell his parents the truth. As far as they knew, he was the one who had made the decision to quit the AP. I’m not sure if he The Curtain Goes Down : 275

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even told my mother the real story at the time. Shortly before she died in 1984, she shared with me Dad’s traumatic tug-of-war with alcohol. In late-night conversations we talked about his struggles, but she was reluctant to go into much detail. I think the memories were simply too painful for her. A month after his return to the States, my father was interviewed by a reporter from his hometown newspaper. The comprehensive story summarized well what correspondent Toby Wiant had experienced—and what his predictions were for the war against Japan. Maintaining his silence about the real reason for returning to the U.S. by ship, my father told the reporter that he’d grown tired of flying and wanted to see what it was like to travel by boat. From the Indianapolis Star, August 2, 1945: V-J DAY YEAR OR MORE AWAY, AP’S TOBY WIANT BELIEVES by Mary E. Bostwick Thoburn H. (Toby) Wiant, former Indianapolis newspaperman, who for nearly three years has been an Associated Press war correspondent in both the China-Burma-India and the European theaters of operations, believes that the war with Japan may well last a year or a year and a half longer, in spite of optimistic predictions to the contrary. ‘‘All you have to do is look at the map,’’ said Mr. Wiant, who, with his wife, is visiting at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick J. Smith, 5688 Central Avenue. ‘‘A map of the Pacific area will show you what we still have to do—all of Japan, Manchuria, China, Formosa, Malaya, Sumatra, Thailand, French Indo-China and part of The Netherlands East Indies. We can knock down the Japs’ buildings and factories and houses by air power, but we will still have to go in and root them out one by one. It’s the doughs who will have to do it, and it will mean a lot of casualties. ‘‘I’ve had the privilege of serving with the three greatest generals in the Army—Gen. Joe Stilwell, Maj. Gen. Claire Chennault and Gen. George Patton,’’ said Mr. Wiant. Mr. Wiant has spent seven years in newspaper work in Indianapolis, five of them with the AP, before going to the New York bureau of the AP in 1939. He went overseas in September, 1942, spent two months at Cairo and in the western desert, then flew to India, where he remained with the CBI command for two years with the 10th and the 14th United States Air Forces. ‘‘The Japs had taken Burma and about everything else, and we were the forgotten front all right,’’ he said. ‘‘We were operating on a 276 : The Curtain Goes Down

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shoestring. All the 10th had was one heavy bomber group, one medium bomber group and one fighter group operating out of India, and the 14th, over the Hump in China, had even less. I’ve gone on raids over Rangoon with only four bombers and no fighter protection at all. We didn’t have enough gas, and we didn’t have enough bombs for the B29s. We had to fly them across the Hump from India and for every gallon of gas for the B-29s that we got across, we had to use up seven gallons getting it there. There was excitement in those days, all right.’’ Mr. Wiant flew about 20 missions over Burma, Thailand, French Indo-China and Japan, and went along on the first B-29 mission against Yawata, Japan, in June, 1944. They took off from the northwest of Chungking, and flew 3,200 miles, 15 hours’ flying time; he made two other 15-hour flights, both from Calcutta to Bangkok, and after his 15th mission he received the Air Medal and a citation signed by President Roosevelt a few weeks before his death. As a sort of ‘‘reward’’ after the June raid, he returned to New York and spent several weeks. ‘‘At that time I made a good many talks to various groups,’’ he said, ‘‘and I said then what I still think—that the Jap war would last a year and a half to two years after V-E Day. People didn’t believe me, though. I’d been in the jungle with Vinegar Joe Stilwell for six months, and they seemed to think I was ‘jungle happy.’’’ Last September Mr. Wiant was transferred to the ETO, and before going to the continent, spent several weeks in London. The German V2 bomb raids were on in full force. ‘‘Guys used to come to London from the front lines on leave,’’ he said, ‘‘and after half a dozen V-2 raids every night they’d say they wished they could get back in the front lines where they felt safer. ‘‘We were stationed around in the Vosges,’’ he said. ‘‘The Army took Saverne, Alsace and Strasbourg, and then went north against the Siegfried Line. A kind of stalemate developed, and I was transferred to Gen. Patton’s Third Army, getting there at the tail end of the Ardennes offensive, and was with them when they took Coblenz, Trier, and Frankfurt on the Main. ‘‘There may be some things about Patton you don’t like, but he’s a great general. He’s one of the finest looking soldiers you ever saw, too—over 6 feet tall, white haired, and he wears a uniform he designed himself and ivory-handled side arms. So far as I know the alleged goldplated helmet never existed, though he did have his helmet shellacked, The Curtain Goes Down : 277

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with the result that it shone brightly. But a lot of legends have grown up around Patton already and I think the gold-plated helmet was one of them. ‘‘We had the press camp near his headquarters, wherever they happened to be, and the facilities for sending out our stuff were wonderful. There was a transmitter right there at the camp, and we could get New York in a few seconds. In the CBI theater, especially Burma, it sometimes took two or three days to get a story out.’’ It was while serving in the ETO that Mr. Wiant got a deep and lasting respect for the ordinary GI—‘‘the dough.’’ ‘‘Our favorite crack was that the doughboy was our secret weapon,’’ he said. ‘‘Those doughs! The unbelievable hardships they underwent, the physical and mental strain they were under! Anything the correspondents suffered was trivial in comparison—at least we always got a warm place to sleep and some food. I talked to the doughs a lot last winter, especially during those weeks when they didn’t have adequate winter clothes or shoes—the German soldiers were much better equipped the early part of last winter, though later our men got the stuff they needed. ‘‘There they were, out in the deep snow, sometimes for days at a time; when they got where there was food, they were so keyed up that half the time they couldn’t eat. I can’t see how they lived through it, and when you asked them how they could stand it, they couldn’t tell you. Something carried them through, but I don’t know what it was. ‘‘In the hot area, the wounded would sometimes lie out in the snow for a couple of days before the medics could get to them. Once the medics got to them, their chances were good—we had wonderful medics, wonderful hospitals, and, thanks to them, a lot of the kids pulled through.’’ Mr. Wiant did first aid himself on more than one occasion. Once was at Frankfurt. ‘‘We got pinned down there in a cellar of a house for 22 hours,’’ he said. ‘‘The Germans had blown up all but one bridge; I started across with the doughs, but we had to come back, and my jeep driver and another GI and I dived into the cellar. The Germans made eight direct hits on the house, and before long there were about 30 wounded GIs in there. The German woman who owned the house had left a lot of sheets, and we tore them up for bandages.’’ 278 : The Curtain Goes Down

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Mr. Wiant arrived in New York June 26 from Le Havre; he had had plenty of flying, had never been on a boat, and so he chose to come back by boat instead of by plane. Upon arriving in Indianapolis, one of the first things he did was to hunt up his brother, Chaplain Howard Wiant, stationed at Fort Harrison, whom he had not seen for four years. His father, the Rev. W.W. Wiant, was formerly pastor of the North M.E. Church, but moved to Pittsburgh, Pa., several years ago. Mrs. Wiant’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. C. Lewis Green, live near Noblesville. After taking a much needed rest, Mr. Wiant will go to Detroit, Mich., where he will enter the public relations department of an automobile manufacturing concern. Four days after the interview, my father’s opinion that the war with Japan would last another year or more was negated in a way the world would never forget. On the morning of August 6, 1945, the crew of the Enola Gay, a B-29 bomber with an atomic bomb nicknamed ‘‘Little Boy’’ in its belly, set its sights on Hiroshima—the primary Japanese port for transferring supplies and soldiers. In one hellish instant that would reverberate for decades, the Enola Gay dropped its deadly weapon on the city—altering the course of the war, the lives of the estimated 100,000 Japanese who died that day, and the future of military weaponry. On August 9, the city of Nagasaki (where torpedoes were made for the attack on Pearl Harbor four years earlier) became the target of a second atomic bomb—‘‘Fat Man.’’ The surrender of the Japanese empire was all but complete. On the evening of August 14, 1945, President Harry Truman announced victory over Japan. The following day became V-J Day—victory over Japan—a day of celebration for the Allies. The ‘‘Good War’’ had ended, but with a terrible price tag of human lives. More than 16 million Americans had served in the armed forces during the war. At its end, nearly 300,000 had died and more than 670,000 were wounded— three times the total casualty toll of World War I.* After three long years reporting from two theaters of war, my father was exhausted and disillusioned by what he’d experienced. On top of that, he had to accept that he was no longer an AP correspondent. He began looking for work immediately, hoping that his proven skills as a journalist would outweigh the damage done by his drinking. Unwilling to admit that he was an alcoholic, Dad thought he could handle the ‘‘problem’’ by himself. He did—for awhile. *World War II, A 50th Anniversary History (New York: The Associated Press, 1989), front and back flaps.

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.. .. chapter sixteen .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. one day at a time, .. .. .. aug. 1945–aug. 1949 I discovered we are actually small cogs in the big wheel, no matter how important we may think we are. Illness reduces people to true size. toby wiant, from ‘‘The Man with Many Lives’’ On August 9, 1945, the Empire of Japan was reeling from the Allied bombing that obliterated the city of Nagasaki. Victory over Japan had been achieved at last. My father achieved a victory that day, too: He overcame his depression about having to resign from the AP and joined a New York advertising agency, Young and Rubicam, Inc. (Y&R). On August 20 he transferred to the Detroit office as public relations director for the Packard Motor Car Company account and head of Y&R’s Bureau of Industrial Service. With the new job my father resolved to ‘‘start living, instead of existing.’’ Returning to post-war America after three years in a war zone was a major transition for Dad. A self-described action seeker, he’d pushed his adrenaline level to the maximum while overseas and needed to redirect his energy. He focused on settling in to his new job—and settling down. His first project was to secure a loan for a house. Asking for help was difficult for my father, especially from his parents, but a fierce desire to change his lifestyle gave him the courage. He called upon his logical and tactful writing to persuade his parents to loan him money—but he kept the reason for his job change to himself. August 22, 1945 2224 Seminole Detroit, Michigan Dear Mom and Dad: Here we are, in Detroit, but far from settled. If we hadn’t been fortunate in having friends who hung out the latch-string, I’m afraid we would have been forced to head for the nearest park bench.

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Despite the layoffs which followed V-J Day, the housing problem in this city is simply terrific—and the suburbs aren’t much better. Detroit, as a place to live, seems absolutely hopeless. Betts and I feel that, after all these years, we owe it to ourselves to start living, instead of existing. Consequently, we are going to make every effort to settle in a suburb such as Birmingham or the neighboring Royal Oak. Houses, we have learned, are hard—but not impossible—to get. We found two in Birmingham that would be suitable. The houses which we have in mind are listed at $15,000 each. That’s more than we would like to pay, but not out of line with other pricings in the suburbs. Houses listed at less than that are not at all desirable—and they would be much harder to sell later. I feel certain we could dispose of either of the two outstanding houses in two years without loss, except possibly for an amount equivalent to the rent we would have to pay otherwise. Now I get to the point of this letter: Do you have $5,000 you would loan me at a reasonable rate of interest? Strictly a business deal, of course. We have saved $3,200 in cash and $2,000 in war bonds having a cash value of about $1,500, I believe. If we converted the bonds, therefore, we would have a total of about $4,700 in cash. But, of course, we don’t want to put all of that into a house and strip ourselves of working capital. We have to get a car (used) for shopping and mobility to the trains or buses. And there are other items such as a refrigerator, stove, and vacuum sweeper. We have figured out the whole deal very carefully and know exactly what such a deal would involve. We can get a loan of $8,000 from a Birmingham bank, leaving a balance of $7,000. If we could borrow an additional $5,000 from you, or someone else, that would require us to nick our cash reserve for only $2,000—leaving a cash balance of $1,200 and our war bonds intact. A deal like this isn’t, of course, over our heads, because I’m now making a salary of $8,000 a year, plus an annual bonus that amounts to about $600. And Young and Rubicam has a past record of giving raises at least once a year to deserving persons, which brightens my future financial prospects additionally. I want you to feel perfectly free to say what you wish in this matter. I could repay the loan from you in five years, or possibly less. I could take more time than that, of course, to pay off the bank. Love, Toby One Day at a Time : 281

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Despite his well-crafted letter my father’s request wasn’t granted, primarily because of his parents’ tenuous financial situation. There was another unspoken reason: They didn’t trust him to keep his life on an even keel. Dad made no reference to his drinking, but his parents knew more than they would admit. My mother, who had endured Dad’s drinking binges and absences from home for nearly ten years, told me that more than once she started divorce proceedings against him even though she loved him deeply. Until he wanted to help himself, the three most important people in his life had to stand aside and watch him struggle. After several attempts to follow the Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) twelve-step program, my father’s drinking took a disastrous turn that autumn when, after a week-long binge, the police found him unconscious on a downtown Detroit sidewalk. He had finally arrived at that critical point faced by many alcoholics—‘‘reaching the bottom’’—where he would either die or choose to pick himself up and start a new life. He later admitted to his brother that at that point, ‘‘I was really just a bum.’’ My mother issued an ultimatum: either he stop drinking for good or she would divorce him. Faced with losing all that was dear to him, my father made the choice to change—and this time he kept his promise. Howard recalled painful memories of his brother’s daily battles with alcohol. Only years later did I understand how terrible it must have been. I remember Toby saying to me that before he could get out of bed and get on his feet he would consume a full tumbler glass of straight whiskey. He told me how when he was down as low as anyone could get, that he was picked up by Alcoholics Anonymous, which was his salvation. It was from that time on that he began to see light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Through AA and close friends he was able to claw his way back up the ladder to where he gained some self-respect and understanding from others. He was always proud to be a part of AA. He went to a weekly meeting of his home-base organization, and then he would attend others as well. He was active in the organization so much that he, too, would go out and pick up drunks, and do his best to see that they [entered] a detoxification program. As 1946 began, my mother was hopeful that their future together would be bright. In January, my father asked his parents again for their financial help. 282 : One Day at a Time

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Without telling him, my mother clandestinely wrote a letter to her in-laws that she hoped would arrive before they could respond to his request. The letter revealed both insecurity and optimism that ‘‘Tobe’’ was indeed on a better path. January 16, 1946 Dear Dad and Mother Wiant, This follows a letter mailed to you last night by Tobe, and will be written in a hurry because I’m hoping it will reach you before you answer his. Tobe has asked for a loan from you to help on our down payment of a house. If you feel you can’t do it, please try to make it very plain why you can’t—you know Tobe well enough to know he’s very independent and hates to ask for anything from anyone—but he has changed tremendously in the last three months. He very definitely wants ‘‘roots’’—a home and a family—and feels that if we keep putting it off, we’ll never have anything. As I told you, when he first came home, things were not going too well, but since he’s gone back into AA he has been like a different person. I don’t know how much you know about AA, but it definitely has strong religious aspects to it—and Tobe is following them. I have every reason to believe that Tobe is very sincere in his desire to change his way of living. I realize, too, that if we do buy this house, it will mean giving up lots of things and really living on a shoestring for about two years. But I’m willing to do it if Tobe wants it that badly. I’ve never felt secure enough before to really try a venture like this, but now I do. This seems to mean so much to Tobe that I wanted you to know how he really felt. I know that if you feel you can do it, Tobe will do everything in his power to repay you as quickly as possible. Please don’t let Tobe know I’ve written, and, of course, he doesn’t dream that you know anything of AA. I don’t think he would object to your knowing, but feel he should tell you himself—although I imagine he feels you wouldn’t understand. As Tobe said, we will be forever grateful if you can do this. If not, we’ll understand. Sincerely and love, Betty My grandfather responded with an offer to lend Dad the money he needed with the hope that my father wouldn’t let him down. One Day at a Time : 283

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. . . We both want to see you get on in your new field, and nothing will contribute more to your success than to have a home of your own. It will be something that is yours, something to work for and something to sacrifice for—which will make it all the more valuable in many ways. As you know, our savings are not large and we do not know how soon we might need them, so the loan we make to you will have [in] back of it a lot of faith in both of you, daily prayer for your success in your chosen field and in your personal lives. Needless to say, Dad’s spirits were soaring when he wrote back to thank his parents, assuring them lightheartedly that ‘‘we’ll name the best bedroom in your honor!’’ His responsibilities with Y&R kept him going at a pace not unlike what he experienced with General Patton. To handle the stress, Dad continued to smoke three packs of cigarettes a day and replaced his addiction to the bottle with another addiction: work. His daily schedule became more complex as automobile-industry layoffs, advertising presentations, company meetings, and public-speaking engagements crowded out any time for leisure activities. BUREAU OF INDUSTRIAL SERVICE, INC. February 12, 1946 Dear Mom and Dad: Packard is in the throes of the worst layoff in its 46-year history, so you can understand how extremely busy I’ve been. Public relations men always are busiest when conditions are very good or very bad. The layoff—the second since my arrival on the Detroit scene—began February 1. We announced in our press release at that time Packard could not resume operations until 30 days after the GM and steel mill workers returned to their jobs. That still is the situation. The layoff was not caused in any way by the alleged collusion among the automobile manufacturers. If Packard could still make cars, the assembly lines would be rolling. But GM bearings, used in the engines, are lacking. Packard scraped the bottom of the barrel before throwing in the sponge. Besides, there’s a scarcity of cold-drawn steel sheets, used in bodies—and little indication that adequate supplies of this most necessary item will be available for many months. Packard right now is in the midst of negotiations with the UAWCIO. The question of wage increases has not been discussed yet. Nor will it be until other, more important, issues are settled. 284 : One Day at a Time

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We don’t feel any worse than can be expected, in view of the hectic conditions everywhere. With a two-bit politician in the White House, this was the natural result, I suppose. I’m so utterly disgusted with the tin-horn tactics of the No. 1 piano player* that I can hardly see his name in print or hear it on the radio without a feeling of intense revulsion. If this unhappy and decidedly unfortunate experience doesn’t sweep the Democrats out of power in 1948, nothing ever will! Last night (Monday), I addressed nearly 300 members of the Detroit chapter, American Society for Metals, in the beautiful studio-type auditorium in Rackham Memorial Building. It apparently went over alright, but I found them slightly cold at first. They wound up laughing, though! All three Detroit papers carried announcements of last night’s meeting—and used my name, plus advertising affiliation. I spoke on the same program with a Dr. Herty, vice-president of Bethlehem Steel—tough competition, but very friendly. I must wind this up and head for a meeting tonight. I have another session tomorrow night. We are going to dine together in the swanky Recess Club, after which I’ll interview George T. Christopher, president and general manager of Packard, for additional information needed in a personality profile. I’m hoping to be able to place the profile in one of the leading magazines. If I succeed, my reputation should soar considerably. No further word as to when we can get into our house, although OPA† is presently working toward a decision on the eviction date. We have lost none of our enthusiasm, believe me. It will be a great day when we can move into our own house—and thumb our noses at any and all landlords! You’ll be hearing from us again on February 15, when we’ll send the first check under our loan repayment program. Love, Toby P.S. The Bureau of Industrial Service, Inc. on these letterheads is me and my secretary! Some day, though, we’ll have a department. A Y&R man from New York and Chicago joined us last week to concentrate on new business! *My father’s opinionated name for President Harry Truman. †Office of Price Administration, established in 1941 to stabilize wartime prices by setting maximum limits on rent and rationed items.

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In November, Dad received an official letter from the War Department inviting him to participate in an award ceremony for his service as a war correspondent. Business obligations, however, prevented him from attending the presentation dinner. WAR DEPARTMENT War Department Special Staff Public Relations Division WASHINGTON 25, D.C. MEMORANDUM TO FORMER ACCREDITED WAR CORRESPONDENTS: SUBJECT: Award of Theater Ribbons 1. It is my pleasure to inform you that as a result of your service as an accredited War Correspondent you have been authorized the appropriate theater ribbon by the theater commander of the area in which you served. 2. In addition to the theater ribbon it is the plan of the War Department to award a certificate of appreciation for the patriotic service rendered as a news correspondent serving with our armed forces in an overseas theater of combat. 3. The initial awards will be presented at a dinner sponsored by the Overseas Press Club of America to be held at the Statler Hotel in Washington, D.C., on the night of 23 November 1946. The Secretary of War will be present to award these ribbons to the correspondents who elect to attend this function. It is not necessary to be present at this dinner as plans are now completed for awards to be given through the commanding generals of the various field armies in the United States. 4. It is my understanding that the Overseas Press Club is writing you direct to invite you to attend the Washington dinner. You should make the necessary reservations with that organization, and if you intend to be present or represented I would appreciate knowing of your plans in order that my office can have the proper awards available. 5. In the event you are not present at the award ceremony on the evening of 23 November, you will be contacted through the nearest Army Area headquarters in the near future regarding plans for awarding these ribbons locally. F. L. Parkes Major General, U.S.A. Chief, Public Relations Division 286 : One Day at a Time

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A letter dated July 15, 1947, had special significance for me. It was a ‘‘roundrobin’’ note to his parents and friends announcing my birth. Using his journalist jargon, Dad provided step-by-step coverage of the arrival of his latest ‘‘news flash.’’ July 15, 1947 Dear Mom and Dad: Round-robin letters are apt to seem impersonal, regardless of intentions. That’s why I’ve always shunned them. But now I have no choice. So many people have asked so many flattering questions about our flash that I’d have to be an octopus to answer each individually. This round-robin letter is meant to be personal, despite the format. This was a great day at 780 Barrington Road. Betts and Sue came home from Jennings Hospital. It was Sue’s eighth ‘‘birthday’’! Both beautiful blackheads were effervescing health. Sue tipped the scales gently at seven pounds, two ounces and a quarter—a gain of 12 terrific ounces since making her first headline at 1:47 a.m. Tuesday, July 8. Betts weighed in at a gratifying 123, a loss of 17 pounds—with, she claimed, about that much more to come off in the next few weeks. (We’ll see!) Sue—or Susan Elizabeth Wiant, if you wish to stand on formality, which I don’t—moved right into the nursery which Mom McGuire and I had readied while Betts and Sue were at Jennings. Susie apparently liked her new home because she went right to sleep after her 2 p.m. feeding; merely opened one eye for the 6 p.m. feast; and slept solidly until 10 p.m. chow call. Some of you may not know Mom McGuire. She’s the indispensable woman in our book. Three weeks ago, she arrived from New York, rolled up her sleeves—and, before we realized what was happening, everything was shipshape. It has been that way ever since! She says she feels we’re members of her family. It’s mutual, believe me. Mom McGuire and Glennie Green, Betts’ mother (who flew up from Indianapolis on short notice), helped me to whisk Betts to the hospital Monday night, July 7. That was a long day for all of us. Betts had awakened Mom McGuire and me about 5 a.m. to report an unmistakable sign of our flash. After telephoning Glennie in Indianapolis to ‘‘hit the road,’’ we made last-minute preparations—and sat back to One Day at a Time : 287

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await developments. We sat all morning; all afternoon, too. Glennie landed at Detroit and made a ‘‘dry run’’ direct to the hospital, only to learn we were still home. Finally, at 9 p.m. that night, Betts said, ‘‘This is it!’’ We gunned the Packard and checked Betts into Jennings at 9:20 p.m. The story unfolded quickly from then on. The head nurse said Betts should not have been so brave—that she should have checked in an hour earlier. Betts had to sweat it out considerably until the caudal anesthesia was applied about 11 p.m. From then until Sue poked her head into this atomic age, Betts had virtually no pain—thanks to the amazing anesthesia so expertly administered by Dr. Raymond Baer, one of the best obstetricians and nicest guys to be found anywhere. The nurses and doctors at Jennings were unbelievably thoughtful. They kept us fully informed—almost on a play-by-play basis. After Betts had the caudal, we were able to talk to her until time for delivery. As they wheeled her into the Forbidden Chamber, Betts said to Glennie, Mom McGuire, and me, ‘‘Go down to the Toddle House and have coffee and hamburgers. Susie will be here when you get back!’’ That’s almost what happened. Five minutes after we returned, the delivery room nurse walked up with our flash, as purty a little bundle as you’ll ever see. And it was Susie, not Barry—which made our happiness unanimous and complete. I talked with Betts for several minutes after Sue’s arrival. Betts still felt hardly any pain—although, of course, she knew she had been through something real! I didn’t get to bed until 5 a.m.—or 24 hours after the first alert. So if I forgot to telephone, telegraph, or write some of you, I’m sure you’ll understand—and hope you’ll forgive! Glennie had to return to Indianapolis Tuesday night, July 9, after being satisfied everything was under control. The remainder of that week was somewhat hectic for me, as well as Betts. In addition to visiting Betts in the morning and evenings, I had to try to do my office work without the help of a secretary. (The girl who had been with me since October, 1945, left with my blessing July 3 to sing with an orchestra.) Only today, I was able to land a replacement—so everything should run smoothly now at the office, too. Mom McGuire, as might be expected, has taken everything in stride. Betts will have to remain fairly quiet for 10 days to two weeks, Dr. Baer said—with no company during the period. You know how difficult such orders will be for Betts! 288 : One Day at a Time

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In retrospect, we know we’re mighty lucky people—in every way. When you see Susie, you’ll understand what we mean. Best regards, Toby I’ve often said to friends that if it weren’t for AA, I wouldn’t have been born. Just before she died in 1984, my mother confided to me that she had told my father she’d never have children with him as long as he was drinking. From a selfish standpoint I’m grateful that he chose to stop. By 1949, Dad’s life was more hectic than ever, and he showed no signs of slackening his pace. Ironically, he chastised his father for working too hard. Feb. 26, 1949 Dear Mom and Dad: I can’t remember a tougher week than this one—and I’m surprised at the way I held up! I had a heavy writing schedule, including George T. Christopher’s letter to stockholders—to appear in the 1948 Annual Report. I get little or no guidance on these writing jobs. I just have to decide on the best possible angles and keep my fingers crossed. Luckily, I’ve been able to guess right 99% of the time. (Perhaps, judgment and experience are involved, too!) By the way, you may be interested in a difficult assignment I filled last week—the attached copy of Christopher’s statement to the Senate Labor Committee on unionization of foremen. This was difficult mainly because I had so little time to do the research and creation. I got the assignment Wednesday noon, Feb. 16; worked until after midnight; and had the first draft in Christopher’s hands by Thursday noon, Feb. 17. Only a few minor changes were necessary, and the statement was ‘‘in the mill’’ before the end of the day. By Tuesday, Feb. 22, when we released the statement to the press, copies had been sent to over 10,000 contacts—Congress, Washington press gallery, business and industrial leaders all over the country, about 3,000 newspapers and radio stations, columnists and other opinion-makers. On top of everything else, I had to make three speeches this week— within 24 hours! They included the talk before about 80 journalism students at the University of Michigan. Afterwards, I went around to the University Hospital, but learned Clyde Yeomans had checked out the preceding Saturday. At least, I tried to see him. One Day at a Time : 289

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But you’re not interested in how busy I’ve been. After all, you’ve been busy yourselves! I hope you’re taking care of that cold, Dad, No wonder your resistance was low, going all of the time as you have been for months. Do you think it’s smart to keep on knocking yourself out? Or don’t you want to live long? (I advise the Packard people, and they listen to me. Why don’t you? It doesn’t cost you anything!) Every time I start typing in the dining room, Susie wants to get into the act. She pecks away at the keys like a veteran, using about as many fingers as the two with which her father has made a living all these years! Susie asked me to say ‘‘Hello, Boppa’’ to you both. She just told me I’m going to have pork chops for dinner. What a gal! Betts insists that, one of these days soon, she may have to call in a psychologist or sumpin’. That Susie is just getting too smart. If you can’t stay away from work in Springfield, why don’t you come over here for a couple of days—and relax? I know you would get a big kick out of Susie now. She has changed much—for the better, of course—since Thanksgiving. We would like to see you, too. That goes without saying—but I’ll say it anyway. How about it, work-horses? Love, Toby Six months later on a hot August night in 1949 at the age of 38, my father had no choice but to slow down. Without warning, two heart attacks made the decision for him. Near death, he spent the next seventy-seven days in a hospital bed. In his unpublished autobiographical essay, ‘‘The Man with Many Lives,’’ he credited his wartime experiences for preparing him for this ultimate test of courage. . . . I never was, and still am not, a sickly person. I had been so well the first 38 years of my life that I didn’t even have a doctor when the heart attack awakened me one night in August, 1949. Prior to then, I had the notion that I was indestructible. There was some basis for that belief. I had scarlet fever and measles as a child but escaped other diseases and rarely was laid up with a sore throat or a cold. In addition, I had spent three and a half years as a war correspondent for the Associated Press in China, Burma, India, England, 290 : One Day at a Time

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and the Continent, and had so many close calls I couldn’t even remember them all. One time I had flown as an observer in one of four B-24 heavy bombers which attacked shipping [ports] at Rangoon, Burma. In those days, back in 1942 and 1943, bombers had no fighter-plane protection. As we neared the target, Japanese Zeros swarmed like bees all around us. We fought them off, roared on in, and dropped our 500-pound bombs on enemy supply ships. But only two of the four B-24s returned to our base back in India. I was in one of the surviving bombers, and sections of our plane looked like a sieve. All told, I flew over 300 hours of combat missions in the CBI theater. Almost every raid was a narrow escape. But the planes in which I flew always got back to base. The crews called me ‘‘Lucky’’ and competed with each other to get me to ride with them. My last combat mission was the first B-29 Superfort raid on Japan. We flew hundreds of miles—the longest mission to date then—and hit Yawata, the ‘‘Pittsburgh’’ of Japan, at midnight. The flak was so concentrated and heavy it reminded me of the biggest display of Fourth of July fireworks I’d ever seen. But it was deadly, and planes just ahead and behind us plummeted down in flames. One contained a war correspondent friend of mine. Once again, I was lucky and got back to base with a whole skin.* Another time, I was on a jungle trail in Northern Burma with General Joseph W. Stilwell, and our party was bracketed by Japanese artillery. Shells hit so close we were deafened. Fragments sheared off limbs of trees nearby. Explosions threw mud in our faces. But I got out of that, too—without a scratch. In the Far East, diseases of all types and descriptions are rampant. I had a touch of malaria, with no recurrences, and two or three colds. But I escaped all other sickness, which increased my feeling of indestructibility. . . . Yes, I had brushed against death many times but experienced no trouble with my heart until the attack that put me into the hospital for 77 days and kept me from the office for five and a half months. *Because of strict censorship regulations and the need to maintain troop morale, my father’s eyewitness account of the B-29 raid on Yawata, Japan, that appeared in the New York Sun on June 16, 1944, made no reference to any Allied casualties or downed

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On that night in August, 1949, I had felt tired and had gone to bed around 10 p.m. During the preceding weeks, I hadn’t been conscious of working too hard or being under undue pressure. Compared with the tensions I had experienced during 12 years as a reporter in Indianapolis, New York, and overseas, my life had been fairly calm. But at 1 a.m., I awakened with the greatest pain in my chest, left shoulder, and left arm I’d ever felt. A year or so previously, I had suffered some attacks of pleurisy. This pain, though, was 10 times worse. I called my wife, Betty. My mother and father, who fortunately were visiting us at the time, also awakened. So did our daughter, Susan, who then was only two years old. I was in such pain and so nervous I smoked one cigarette after another as we tried by telephone to get a doctor. That was just about the worst thing I could have done because—as I learned later— smoking contracts the veins and arteries. Finally, we roused a doctor out of bed. ‘‘It might be indigestion,’’ he said. ‘‘Try some baking soda.’’ But the pain had me in an ever-tightening vise, and we phoned back in a few minutes. ‘‘Try some aspirin,’’ the doctor suggested. Instead of easing, the pain grew still worse. I knew by then I was in real trouble, but it didn’t occur to me I was in the throes of a heart attack. Not indestructible me! Although I was a college graduate, veteran newsman, and otherwise fairly intelligent, I mistakenly thought only old folks got heart attacks. . . . I was so sick from the pain I couldn’t call the doctor back. So Betty dialed the phone and told him I was in bad shape. ‘‘All right. Go to the hospital, and I’ll meet you there,’’ he said. Period. Nothing about taking it easy enroute. So I walked out of the house, down some steps, and into the car. Betty drove. Dad was in the back seat. Mother stayed home with our little Susie. When we got to the hospital, I climbed out of the car, walked up several more steps, and reported to the nurse in charge. She gave me a visual once-over and apparently concluded something was definitely wrong. planes. This later description of the event lends perspective to the actual risks he took—and to the American lives that were lost that day.

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‘‘Go into that little room and lie down until the doctor comes,’’ she advised. I did. But I stayed longer than she or I had figured. Seventy-seven days later, I left the room on a stretcher and went home to convalesce. . . . For weeks, I had been coming home nights utterly exhausted. I kept figuring sleep would put me back in shape. Instead of going to a doctor for a checkup, I thought I could solve the problem myself. I paid dearly for that mistake—over $5,000, in fact. That’s what doctors, hospitals, and medication cost me. Being indestructible, I had only a small hospitalization insurance policy, which paid only a fraction of the bills. But my failure to recognize any of the symptoms could have been even more costly. I might have died. In fact, I almost did die two or three times before recovering. . . . Delay usually has a dramatic result—the kind you read in the obituary columns every day. I’m not proud of the fact I was an exception. Never before, nor since, have I experienced such pain as I did the first few hours after the heart attack. Even now, six years later, I can clearly remember that shots of morphine had little effect—then only for a short time. . . . The thought of death didn’t occur to me. I was too occupied with my immediate problem. I don’t recall when the doctor came in, or what he said. Perhaps the morphine was working better than I realized. I didn’t know I was having a heart attack. Nobody told me. So the following night, I got up, went to the bathroom, smoked a couple of cigarettes—and had another heart attack. . . . After the initial pain was under control, I found self-pity taking over. Why did this have to happen to me when I was only 38 and getting along so well in my profession? Even if I survived the attack, wouldn’t I be washed up entirely in business? Who would want a man with a history of heart disease? How could I take care of Betty and Susan? What would become of the home we were buying? How could we possibly pay the bills that were mounting astronomically? The more I thought along these negative lines, the worse I got. How sorry I was for myself. Tears came easily to my eyes. . . . One Day at a Time : 293

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I decided the thing to do was live one day at a time. Forget about yesterday, because it’s past, and there’s nothing I can do about what occurred. Don’t be concerned with tomorrow, because it isn’t here yet, and the things you worry about rarely happen. This sort of philosophy was easier said than done at first, of course. But soon I found myself thinking this way—with only occasional lapses. . . . My worst periods weren’t confined to the days immediately after the heart attacks. I had several ‘‘lows.’’ During some of them, I learned later, the doctors almost gave up on me. But they never stopped doing everything possible. In addition, friends and acquaintances all over Detroit and elsewhere said prayers for me. I know they helped, too. After one very low spell, Betty and the doctor decided to call in a consulting specialist in internal medicine. I’ll never forget him. At the time, I was fearful I wouldn’t last much longer. But after a thorough checkup and study of the EKGs, he leaned over, took my hand, and said, ‘‘You’re going to make it all right. You’re going to get well.’’ That was a turning point. I just knew he was telling the truth. I had faith in him. I was confident that someday, somehow, I would get back on my feet again. Beyond that, I didn’t dare think. But that was enough. . . . There had been times, before the heart attacks, when I thought I was fairly important—sometimes even indispensable. There were some jobs I believed only I could do. But I discovered that, even with me out of circulation, everything proceeded satisfactorily. Months later, I saw evidence showing how well the men who took over my work had done. It was fortunate I didn’t know all that while I was in the hospital or at home convalescing. I would have had something else to worry about. But, from this first-hand experience, I discovered we are actually small cogs in the big wheel, no matter how important we may think we are. Illness reduces people to true size. Even the presidents of big corporations are amazed, and sometimes chagrined, to discover how quickly and competently others can take over and run their businesses. That set me to thinking along more positive lines. Instead of selfpity, I took inventory of the things for which I should be grateful. I was still very much alive. I was in a good hospital, with wonderfully thoughtful doctors and nurses taking personal interest in me and my recovery. I was comfortable. Whenever I had aches and pains, I could get something to ease them. How thankful I should be for the progress 294 : One Day at a Time

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of medical research! For example, there was the chemical that kept my blood thin so no new clots could form and threaten my existence. My inventory also showed I should be especially grateful for Betty, who stuck by me constantly and never let me see the terrific strain she was under. For my little daughter. For my mother and dad, who were ever present and boosting my morale. For my brother. For my in-laws. For the thoughtful, generous people in the advertising agency where I worked and those in the client automobile manufacturing company, which I had been serving as public relations consultant. For my friends who kept hoping and praying. For the opportunities that still would be mine when I got back on my feet. For the ministers who saw me so often and gave me so much incentive to survive and succeed. I thought how thankful I should be for having had the heart attacks in this country, instead of the remote places where I had lived and worked during World War II. What if I had been laid low in the Burma jungle? In the backward areas of India? In China? I had been in Calcutta in January, 1943, when millions of people starved to death in Bengal Province, which includes Calcutta and the immediate area. I recalled coming out of the Great Eastern Hotel many mornings and seeing 20 or 30 dead people in the gutter or on the sidewalk. Life in the Far East was, and still is, cheap. Instead of being depressed for having a heart attack at 38, I should be thankful I already had lived so long and seen and done so much. There were thousands of GI fliers and combat infantrymen who had died in their 20s, who never had half the chances that came my way. Many of them had been my friends. I had written stories about them and had fun on leave with them. One day, we were talking to each other; the next day, they were gone, before they really got started in life. By comparison, I was extremely fortunate. . . . After the initial shock of the heart attacks wore off, the doctors told me I probably would have to stay in the hospital only four weeks if all went well. That was a bigger ‘‘if ’’ than they or I realized. Before the period had passed, I was experiencing another crisis. . . . Before I reached the four-week mark, I developed some sort of infection, which made me weaker and more uncomfortable. The doctors prescribed sulfa, antibiotics, and other drugs, which, for some reason nobody could understand, didn’t eliminate the infection. Then, they thought I was developing pneumonia. One Day at a Time : 295

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All this—and more which I won’t take time to detail—was added strain on my damaged heart. I knew I was quite sick, but didn’t learn until later that I almost took long, one-way trips two or three times. It would have shocked me to know I had been dying and that special prayers were being said for me. . . . About the fifth or sixth week, the doctors decided to tap my right lung because X-rays showed it was partly filled with fluid of some sort. When they told me what they planned to do, I didn’t like the sound of it. I liked it even less afterwards. Have you ever had a red-hot poker stuck into your back? That will give you some idea of how it felt. In the seventh week, doctors decided to give me a blood transfusion. I was weak and run down. They thought the extra blood might perk me up. It did—dramatically. Three or four days later, I was on my way home. Before they would discharge me from the hospital, I had to sit up for a few minutes each day and dangle my legs. That was the hardest work I ever did. Seventy-seven days in the same position on the same bed had made my muscles forget what they were supposed to do. Just the effort required to sit up was stupendous. When, on top of that, I was told to move my legs, it was like asking me to swing barrels of cement back and forth. But I wanted a change of scenery in the worst way, and I dangled until they finally said I could go home in an ambulance. . . . The ride home in the ambulance was thrilling. Everything was utterly beautiful—homes, trees, yards, flowers, even the traffic. After spending three and a half years in CBI and Europe, I had said, ‘‘To fully appreciate America, everyone should go abroad for awhile.’’ That’s how I now felt about home, although I wouldn’t wish 77 days in the hospital on anyone. I don’t think I ever was filled with more happiness than when they wheeled me into our house. There had been many times when I feared I might not see it again. Betty rented a wheelchair so I wouldn’t be as immobile as I’d been in the hospital. I could go from room to room. The freedom was exciting. A week later, I had progressed to the point where I could get out of the chair and walk a few steps. That encouraged me to give up the wheelchair altogether and go it alone. Nothing I’d accomplished in my life gave me greater satisfaction. 296 : One Day at a Time

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Soon I was making plans to return to the office. Now that I was moving around on my own, I began to fret some more about my future in business. Had my office and our clients learned they could do without me? Could I stand competition again? Would I be able to do eight hours of work a day, five days a week? Had I lost the ‘‘touch’’ required to write stories, speeches, and statements? . . . I followed my doctor’s convalescence instructions to the letter, and they paid big dividends. He told me to take it easy—real easy—until I got my strength back, then ‘‘take it easy permanently.’’ No more mowing grass, raking leaves, or shoveling snow. No more painting the house. No more washing the car. My affection for the doctor increased! He told me to stop working on office matters at night or on the weekends. I didn’t know how I could get everything done in eight hours a day, five days a week. But I was determined to try. I had too many friends, and had heard of too many other men, who figured they could go back to their old working habits after regaining their strength. Their cockiness had been deadly. . . . I’ll never forget Thanksgiving, 1949. I had been home only a few days and couldn’t sit up very long. Betty had roasted a turkey, and the table was loaded with everything that goes with it. The realization I had lived to enjoy another Thanksgiving, the sight of the food, and the presence of my family choked me up. Indestructible me couldn’t even say grace. My wife took over and said what actually was on my mind. I never had so much for which to be grateful. I had survived the heart attack. But, even more important, I was beginning to learn what’s really important in life. My father’s convalescence lasted over two and a half months. The heart attacks were actually blessings in disguise—for the first time in his adult life he put his zealous work ethic on hold.

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.. .. chapter seventeen .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. first things first, .. ..

aug. 1949 –jan. 1960

It’s natural, I suppose, for a person with either heart disease or cancer—or both—to wonder whether lightning will strike again. That negative thinking is absurd, and it gets you exactly nowhere. Nobody, regardless of the condition of his or her health, knows what the future holds for them. We can drive ourselves daffy by constantly crossing bridges before we get to them. toby wiant, from ‘‘The Man with Many Lives’’ Following his discharge from the hospital, my father learned how to be ‘‘lazy’’ and described the feeling in ‘‘The Man with Many Lives.’’ . . . I don’t think I ever had it so good. I got caught up on my reading after years of wishing I could find more time for books. I watched television and listened to the radio. I ate the best of food and had some wonderful visits with my family and friends. We got to know each other better than ever before. So it’s not surprising that when the time came for me to start back to the office I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave my easy life of convalescence. I had grown lazy. I was afraid of getting back into the competitive world. I honestly wasn’t sure I could ‘‘cut it’’ again. I was shaky and sentimental when I returned to work that first day. I stayed only two hours; they were like two days. I was happy to be back, yet everything was strange. I was depressed that night. But I got rid of the feeling and many subsequent ‘‘low’’ periods by reminding myself how lucky I was to be still breathing. I learned self-pity is stubborn, as well as vicious. By taking inventory of things for which I should be thankful, I could quickly get out of those negative moods. I also could do it by thinking about someone else.

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Everyone has troubles, and I learned I frequently could help by just calling others on the phone. I guess when they heard my voice, they thought about the shape I was in and decided maybe their troubles weren’t so bad after all. . . . Three months later, Dad assured his parents that even though he wasn’t 100 percent recovered, he was well on his way. December 3, 1949 Dear Mom and Dad: My ‘‘world’’ is broadening gradually. Yesterday afternoon, Betts took me for a ride along Lake St. Clair. She drove only 25–30 miles an hour, but it seemed like we were going 1,000 miles an hour after so many weeks without motion. I’ve picked up eight pounds to date, as a result of Betts’ home cooking. The food agrees with her, too, for she has gained around five pounds. Susie, of course, is doing alright—as usual. Betts and I plan to start addressing our Christmas cards next week. I want to add brief notes to the Catastrophe Club* members on my ‘‘office’’ cards—and that probably will require several days, because I’m still weak. Speaking of Christmas, Betts took Susie out to Grosse Pointe Memorial Church this week to see Santa Claus. Susie wasn’t the least bit bashful. In fact, she yelled her request for a ‘‘bicycle with a horn on it and a big red ribbon.’’ Santa gave her a little rubber doll, and then Susie tried to get into his bag for another present. What a gal! I don’t know when I’ll be able to go back to work, but I’m not worrying about it. I’m still somewhat weak and wobbly—but have made much progress in the past three weeks. Love, Toby Slowly my father resumed his responsibilities at work. He received a hefty salary increase; took on Y&R’s new Parke, Davis & Company account; and was elected president of the Detroit chapter of the Public Relations Society of America. He began focusing on one thing at a time and gave up his tendency to ‘‘multitask’’ (a word that would not be coined until decades after his death). He described his new routine in ‘‘The Man with Many Lives.’’ *My father organized this group to help victims of catastrophic illness meet their financial needs years before his heart attacks placed him in the same position.

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. . . My doctor told me to work only two hours or so a day the first week; three hours daily, the second; and so on until I was back on a regular schedule—provided I felt up to it. Gradually my confidence returned. I wanted to do more and more office work, but couldn’t accomplish much on my abbreviated schedule. Occasionally, I’d forget and stay a little longer than I was supposed to. Then my secretary or associates would move in, handing over my coat and hat and pointing toward the door. They made sure I didn’t over-do. As time went by and I got into the ‘‘groove’’ again, I learned how to become more competent. The doctor had said ‘‘take it easy.’’ To do that, I had to find short-cuts and better ways of doing my work. I discovered that by simplifying my procedures, I could wind up a day with much more done. Prior to the heart attacks, I frequently had tried to handle three or four matters at once—‘‘keeping several balls in the air,’’ I used to say. That set up inner tension, although I didn’t realize it at the time. By trying to do several things simultaneously, I couldn’t do anything outstandingly well. But I wouldn’t have admitted it then. Now, under doctor’s orders to slow down, I reorganized myself. I put first things first and worked on only one project at a time. For example, I went through the morning mail, put the most important matters on top and graded them down to the least important on the bottom. Then, I would take the top one and handle it before doing anything else, shedding most distractions. My system had to have some flexibility. If something with top priority came up, I put it on the peak of the pile and tackled it after I had finished what I was doing. Most of my short-cuts were so simple and obvious I wondered why I hadn’t thought of them years before. If I were tempted to write a twopage letter, I would hold it to a single page. If I felt a matter could be disposed of in one page, I wrote only half a page. Many letters, I realized, were entirely unnecessary. Other replies could best be handled by telephone. I cut down the number of meetings I attended. If a meeting became too long, I’d find an excuse to walk out. I almost eliminated the extra-curricular demands on my time. My thinking became more concise, more logical. Brevity and efficiency were constant guides. In the old days, I had walked out of the office every night with an arm-load of things to do at home. Likewise, 300 : First Things First

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every weekend. After the heart attacks, I realized I had worked so much at home because I wasn’t well organized at the office. I had procrastinated too often, saying to myself, ‘‘No use doing that now. Stick it in your brief case and do it at home tonight.’’ I had allowed people and situations to take up time that should have been used otherwise. Don’t get the idea my heart attacks made me a model executive. I’ll never be a model of anything. But I did a better job for my agency and our clients after learning to put first things first and to do one thing at a time. . . . My morale soared to new heights when the Detroit Chapter of the Public Relations Society of America—consisting of about 150 men and women in my field—elected me president. Their action indicated they expected me to be around for some time to come—at least for the year of my term—and inspired more confidence in myself. A new lift came when another advertising agency offered me an attractive post. Somebody else wanted me, besides those in our agency who had stuck by me so faithfully. I turned down the offer, but always will remember—with gratitude—they weren’t afraid to take a chance on my health. In the subsequent four years, I was extremely well. I followed my doctor’s order precisely. I got regular checkups—once a month at first, then every three months. The electrocardiograms showed gradual improvement. Our office obtained hospitalization and surgery insurance, and that made me feel more secure. But I wrote a new will and got my affairs in good order before taking my first trip alone. I didn’t lock the door of my bedroom in the Pullman, so they could reach me easily if anything happened. But again, my morbid fears didn’t materialize. Everything worked out perfectly. From then on, I never hesitated to make a trip anywhere—by train, plane or automobile. I was able to live almost as energetically as people without heart problems by just following the doctor’s simple suggestions. Nevertheless, I ‘‘thought’’ myself into some phoney heart pains many times during the first year. I decided to stop carrying nitroglycerin pills and get my mind off the possibility of pain. The strategy worked. The second, third and fourth years passed uneventfully, as far as my health was concerned. I continued doing exactly what the doctor said. I kept my weight at 170–175 pounds. I didn’t smoke. I was careful about First Things First : 301

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exercise, doing only those things which would put no strain on my heart. That meant I had to hire a lawn service, instead of working in the yard myself. I paid someone to shovel the snow. I didn’t clean the walls and ceilings or climb up and down ladders to paint anymore. I shunned tiring social events and late parties—and got eight hours sleep almost every night. No matter what I was doing, or how important, I stopped instantly if I found myself under tension or getting tired. We landed another fine account, a manufacturer of photographic and optical equipment, and I added another man to our staff. That meant more responsibility for me, but by now I felt able to cope with almost anything. In the third year after the heart attacks, I noticed three moles on my head—one behind my left ear, another behind my right ear and the third in the hair about two inches above my right ear. I didn’t worry about them, but decided to have them off because they were rather unsightly. I stayed in the hospital overnight, and the minor operation was performed the next morning. Tests showed the moles were benign—in other words, not harmful. In September 1953, my father’s courage was tested again. Doctors discovered malignant melanomas in his neck. He contemplated this new threat to his health—and acknowledged in ‘‘The Man with Many Lives’’ the fear that came with it. My confidence in my health approached cockiness as the months passed. Then, in the fourth year, cancer struck. I never dreamed I would be the target of still another great killer. More people die of heart disease than any other malady. For some reason, I felt secure in surviving coronary thrombosis. I guess I figured I had my share. I had taken good care of myself. I had tried to live a constructive life. To help other people whenever I had the opportunity. These and other things, had lulled me into the belief I was ‘‘out of the woods’’ as far as health was concerned. But I learned that, no matter what kind of life you lead, good or bad, cancer can strike. It’s no respecter of persons, character, station in life, sex, or age. Like a sniper’s bullet, it can suddenly and drastically alter a person’s life. 302 : First Things First

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I thought about the time in Western Burma when another war correspondent and I were walking on a jungle trail just a few hundred feet from the front line. The Japs were holed up in deep fox holes dug into a dry creek bed. It was quiet, and we were talking about an interview we’d just had with a British major. Suddenly, a rifle shot—and we dove to the ground. My friend was groaning. ‘‘Get out of here before they hit you, too!’’ he cried. I stuck with him, pulling him behind some rocks. I couldn’t tell where the sniper was perched. But it was almost nightfall. We waited a few minutes. Then, in the dark, I carried him to an aid station. The wound wasn’t serious. But he and I will never forget the stark terror we both felt. Cancer is something like that—sudden, unexpected, terrifying. I knew any kind of cancer is serious. But I also realized my best chances for survival lay in early detection of symptoms and immediate treatment. Half of the people who die of cancer do so because the malignancy is found too late. By coincidence, just before I discovered I had the disease, our agency had prepared and published an advertisement on cancer for our client, the pharmaceutical company. In the copy, we had pointed out that doctors were saving about one in four cancer patients. We had quoted the American Cancer Society as saying the cure rate could be increased to two in four—without any further knowledge—if people would report symptoms in time for prompt, thorough treatment. . . . When the advertisement was prepared, I didn’t dream any of it might apply to me. I was like the millions of people who daily read in their newspapers about persons being killed or injured in automobile accidents, but who figure that will never happen to them. . . . Sometime during the summer of 1953, a small lump appeared on the surface of the skin just back of my left ear. I didn’t think much about it because, for years, I had had cysts on my arms and body which the doctors had pronounced harmless. Otherwise, my health was excellent. Regular checkups showed my heart was doing fine. My weight was normal and my color was good. . . . Then, in August of 1953, I made a business trip to Salt Lake City. Four years to the month when I suffered the heart attacks, I noticed a lump about the size of a dime just under the skin on the left side of my throat. I didn’t say anything to the others who were making the trip. I First Things First : 303

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didn’t want to alarm anyone, especially when I wasn’t sure. But I was suspicious. I remembered what we had said in the advertisement about early detection and immediate treatment. I resolved to go to the doctor just as soon as I got home. . . . Back in Detroit, I had some matters I wanted to wind up. But I didn’t delay any longer after the swelling under the skin on the left side of my throat became bigger and sore. I tried to kill or dull the pain with aspirin, but the tablets had little or no effect. I was sure then I was in serious trouble. I went to my doctor and told him the story. He checked my heart again and said, ‘‘You have nothing to worry about there.’’ But when he examined the lump behind my left ear and the swelling on my throat, he added, ‘‘I don’t mean to alarm you, but I want you to go immediately to one of the two cancer specialists whose names I’ll give you.’’ He knew he didn’t have to pull any punches with me. We had been through a lot together. He’s the man who, four years before, had checked my heart and said, ‘‘You’re going to make it.’’ I had complete faith in him then and now. One of the specialists he recommended was a young surgeon, only 37, who had spent four years at Memorial Hospital in New York, connected with the Sloan-Kettering Institute for Cancer Research. . . . We couldn’t reach him immediately, and my doctor suggested that I wait until the first thing the next morning. I went home not knowing quite what to say to Betty. She had been through several torturous periods—the death of her younger brother, my heart attacks, and other ordeals—and I hated to put her through still another. Yet, I had learned from experience that I couldn’t keep much—if anything—from her, no matter how slyly I tried. When I was in the Far East, 15,000 miles from her during World War II, she had been able to keep close tabs on my activities. Certainly I couldn’t be in the same house and keep anything from her. So I ‘‘came clean’’ after we had put Susan to bed. I tried to minimize the possibilities, but she had the same hunch as I did. Nevertheless, as in the past, she was a good soldier. ‘‘Let’s don’t cross any bridges before we get to them,’’ she said. ‘‘But if it’s cancer, we’ll lick it some way.’’ We didn’t get much sleep that night. 304 : First Things First

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The next morning, I telephoned the doctor and was able to arrange an appointment for 4:30 that afternoon. I liked and trusted the young surgeon from the moment I first saw him. He gave me a very careful examination, told me to put on my shirt and to come into his office. I sat down beside his desk and, before he could say a word, I declared, ‘‘Put all of the cards on the table. Long ago, I learned how to take bad news, as well as good. If it’s bad, I want to know it right away and do what we can about it.’’ ‘‘You have the right attitude,’’ he replied. ‘‘We’re going to get along fine. ‘‘There’s no accurate way for me to tell exactly what the full story is right now. But the lump on the surface of the skin behind your left ear and the swelling under the skin on the left side of your throat are tumors. They could be malignant or benign. We won’t know for sure until we take them out and put them through laboratory tests.’’ I was familiar with the caution of MDs, having dealt with many of them in my work. But I sensed he knew, or at least felt, more than he was telling me. So I pressed him with the question, ‘‘Would you say the chances that I have cancer are greater than those that I don’t?’’ He hesitated, momentarily acting as if he’d rather not say anything, then replied, ‘‘You said you wanted it straight. I’ll give it to you. Yes, the indications are that the tumors are malignant. But we’ve caught them early, and the chances of success are great.’’ So there it was. The verdict I’d expected. Yet, I wasn’t nearly as brave as I had thought I was. Would my heart stand the strain and shock of an operation? How far had the cancer spread? Immediately, there welled up in me fears that were far greater than any I’d experienced during the bombing raids or the heart attacks. I was downright scared. But I remembered what the pilot of a B-24 heavy bomber had told me one night over Thailand as we led a raid to important targets in Bangkok. ‘‘I’m not ashamed to admit I’m scared,’’ he had said. ‘‘. . . No hero I ever met was fearless.’’. . . I once asked a heavily decorated rifleman how he mustered up enough courage to advance when the chances were great that he’d be wounded. ‘‘Let’s put it another way,’’ he said. ‘‘You lose fear through faith. With faith, you have courage. If you have enough faith, you can do anything.’’. . . First Things First : 305

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I thought of a prayer I’d heard: ‘‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference.’’* . . . I went home feeling I had a fighting chance. But I slept very little that night. I went into the office the next morning and, between then and noon, handled all pressing matters and assigned others to my assistants. The telephone rang. It was the hospital saying they had a cancellation and I could have a room. That was a good omen, I felt. With a friend, I went to a hotel for lunch. I figured I might not be able to eat another big meal for awhile and ordered everything from soup to dessert. It tasted good. We even joked about the fact that ‘‘the condemned man ate a hearty last meal.’’ Betty drove me to the hospital, and I went through some red tape that took only a few minutes. An orderly led me to the fourth floor. My room was large, quiet, and comfortable. Another night of suspense faced me. The surgeon must have anticipated that because the nurses gave me a sleeping capsule. It held until about midnight, and they gave me another. That kept me quiet until about 6 a.m. Then it was time for us to make the final preparations for the operation. The doctor had said he would examine the tumors while I was on the operating table. If they were malignant, he would go ahead and perform what he called a radical neck dissection, which, in layman language, meant he would open up the entire left side of my neck and clean out everything to which the cancer might have spread. A nurse gave me a shot of something which worked wonders. I calmed down and actually felt at peace with the world when they put me on a cart and wheeled me into the operating room. The anesthesia was to be local, which meant I would be conscious throughout the operation. It lasted two hours. As I listened to the surgeon, his assistant, and the nurses, I felt strangely objective. They seemed far off, working on someone else. All this couldn’t be happening to me. Yet I knew they were cutting out the two tumors. I asked question after question, and they must have grown tired of answering. *My father was referring to what is commonly known as ‘‘The Serenity Prayer,’’ written by theologian Reinhold Niebuhr and incorporated in AA and other twelve-step meetings. Wikipedia. http://tiny.cc/SerenityPrayer (accessed June 3, 2010).

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Until I was wheeled back to my room, I didn’t realize they hadn’t performed the radical neck dissection. Did that mean the tumors weren’t cancerous? Was I to get out of this tight spot after all? . . . [The surgeon] gave it to me straight, as he had promised. ‘‘We couldn’t tell with absolute certainty whether they were malignant,’’ he explained. ‘‘That being the case, I ordered thorough laboratory tests. The lab is closed tomorrow, Sunday, and two days are required for the study. So we can’t get the report until Tuesday.’’ ‘‘What if the report shows the tumors were bad?’’ I asked. ‘‘When can you do the radical neck dissection?’’ ‘‘Wednesday morning.’’ Before the first operation, I had asked my nurse to pin my good luck chain inside my hospital gown pocket. On the silver chain were a silver rabbit, which Betty had given me in 1942 before I started overseas, and a Saint Christopher medal, presented to me at the same time by one of our Catholic friends. I had worn this chain during the three and a half years I spent as a war correspondent. Subsequently, as a civilian, I wore it whenever I flew anywhere. I never was exactly superstitious, but I got mighty attached to that chain. After the operation, I discovered my gown had been changed while I was still woozy, and the chain was gone. I reported the loss to the head nurse, who started everybody in the laundry looking for it. But the chain was nowhere to be found. All this didn’t make my waiting until Wednesday morning any easier. I faced four nights and three days of inaction and suspense until the analysis was completed. I guess I forgot most of the lessons I thought I had learned during the heart attacks. Instead of calmly resigning myself to the situation and trying to think constructively, I began to worry about what might happen. I became resentful and filled with self-pity over the possibility I had cancer. I reached the conclusion that they were fairly sure I did, otherwise they wouldn’t keep me in the hospital. Pressure within me began building up, despite the efforts of Betty, Mother, Dad, and my friends to keep me looking at the less gloomy side. The uncertainty was maddening. With facts, I could keep myself under control. Without them, anything could happen. I tried to get my mind on something else and remembered a harrowing night I’d spent with British troops in western Burma. It was First Things First : 307

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a graphic example of how fear destroys reason. About midnight, the Japs shot off hundreds of multi-colored flares and laid down a heavy artillery concentration on the front line. For hours previously, the area had been quiet. The thunderous action came with shocking surprise. I was several hundred feet from the front when I heard a man scream, ‘‘They’ve broken through. Run for your lives!’’ I saw the sickening sight of soldiers breaking and fleeing like mad to the rear, instead of fanning out across the field and dropping on their bellies in battle formation as they had been trained to do. The fear was so contagious that I, too, started to run. I didn’t even take time to grab my typewriter. With scores of nearby soldiers, I sprinted until I fell down exhausted behind a machine-gun emplacement, unable to go an inch further. I was absolutely positive I was going to be captured. We had heard frightening stories about methods the Japs used to pry information out of war correspondents. I was sure this was going to happen to me. Just then, a motorcycle came slowly up the road. Its spotlight flashed back and forth, and a British officer shouted, ‘‘Go back to your posts. There are no Japs anywhere near you. It was a false alarm. Our front line has held firm. Start back now.’’ How ashamed we had been as we got to our feet and headed back. How downright yellow. How stupid not to have found out the actual situation before we broke and ran. We had been like scared sheep. I vowed then never to let fear destroy reason again. Yet, that’s what I was doing now before getting the facts about the tumors. . . . By living one day at a time—minus any unpleasant memories of yesterday or the worries of tomorrow—I knew I could get the most out of the present. Nothing else made much sense, as the infantrymen and the fliers found out in war time. Not knowing what might happen the next minute, or hour, they squeezed the best out of right now. With that philosophy, a person would have no time for inconsequentials. When you’re living life up as you go, you concentrate on things that bring happiness, peace of mind and contentment. I knew all of this, but didn’t always practice what I preached. I’m afraid I forgot most of what I’d learned as the terrible Tuesday wore on. The surgeon had promised to give me the report around 3 p.m. At 3:30, I started inquiring and was told he was tied up in a long operation that already had lasted several hours. So there was nothing to do but 308 : First Things First

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wait, and sweat some more. The pressure within me kept on building up. The suspense was even worse than the time I started out to catch up with one of General Patton’s divisions. He believed in moving fast and keeping the enemy off-balance. ‘‘If you let ’em get set, they’ll murder you,’’ he declared. His tactics had saved thousands of lives and held down the number of men wounded. But they were hard on the nerves. Frequently, units would get so far out in front they couldn’t depend on support from anyone else. That was the case with the division I was trying to catch. The Germans were definitely on the run, and General Patton figured their will to fight was about gone. He had ordered this division to stab 30–40 miles out in front of the Third U.S. Army front. The daring tactic was successful, splitting the Germans into smaller and more disorganized units which were easier to destroy or capture. With another correspondent and driver, I set out by jeep to reach the division command post. Our interviews would be exclusive, and we would have impressive scoops over the competing war correspondents. We felt mighty lonely as we left the Third Army front and headed in the direction the division had gone. I’ll never forget the suspense. We drove miles and passed through several villages without seeing American or other Allied soldiers. At one village, we were told the enemy was in the immediate area, and we should be careful. We drove slowly until, rounding a turn, we ran into what seemed like hundreds of German soldiers, fully armed. Before the driver could slam on the brakes and back out, the Germans threw down their guns and raised their hands high into the air. Our hearts were pounding, but we had enough presence of mind left to act brave. We waved them back toward the Third Army, and they followed our command. We drove right through the Germans, some so close they could touch us. When we got into the clear, our driver whammed the accelerator to the floor board. Even then, the suspense wasn’t over. We weren’t sure how the next group of Germans would react. They might not think we were so important. We kept on going as fast as the jeep would travel, racing through towns and scattering civilians right and left. Finally, we went around another curve and spotted some GIs. They were amazed to see us, and we were almost hysterical with relief to see them. First Things First : 309

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One spoke up. ‘‘You correspondents don’t have good sense to come through such a hot sector just for a story. You’re not paid to take such crazy chances, are you? So why do you do it?’’ We didn’t answer for the simple reason we didn’t know what to say. The suspense was bad that day, but it was even worse as I waited for the surgeon to tell me whether I had cancer. . . . It was now 7 o’clock. I didn’t think I could hold out much longer when an orderly poked his head in the door and said, ‘‘I’ve been told to shave you.’’ ‘‘Are you sure you have the right room?’’ I asked, hoping he had made a mistake. ‘‘How do you spell my last name?’’ He was sure—and he correctly spelled my name. I didn’t have any other out. So I meekly took off my pajama top and lay down on the bed. While the barber worked, my imagination—which normally is in high gear—ran rampant. I had been shaved prior to the first operation. At that time, they didn’t know whether they would open up the entire left side of my throat or not. The point is I thought I was shaved for any eventuality then. Now, the barber was shaving the right side of my chest. Did that mean cancer had spread throughout my chest? My spirits hit a new low. I had a fierce desire to escape—to anywhere. Yet that wouldn’t solve anything, but only would make the problem worse. I had to face up to it. . . . Finally, the surgeon arrived. He was exhausted and hadn’t had anything to eat since he went into the operating room nearly 10 hours before. ‘‘What time will you operate on me?’’ I asked, figuring there was no point in asking whether he was going to operate. ‘‘At 8 a.m. tomorrow,’’ he said. ‘‘The tests showed both tumors were malignant melanomas. We have every reason to believe the cancer is localized; we’re going to make sure it hasn’t spread. We’ll do the radical neck dissection, opening up the left side of your throat and shoulder. We’ll remove some glands, muscles, and other tissue. That will enable us to be positive—positive as we can be—that no cancer cells are left.’’ ‘‘But how about the right side of my chest that the orderly shaved? Does that mean you’re going in there?’’ ‘‘No, no,’’ the surgeon explained. ‘‘We’re just going to do the neck operation we discussed the first time we met. The orderly shaved you 310 : First Things First

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on the right side so no hairs would be pulled off by the adhesive tape.’’ . . . I was surrounded by ministers that night before the second operation. My father, a retired Methodist minister; my brother, pastor of the Kent (Ohio) Methodist Church; and my own minister. I was in good company—no doubt about that! After my minister said a restful, inspirational prayer, my brother declared he was going to spend the night with me. I was glad to hear him say that, for I didn’t relish staying in the room alone during the few night hours left before the operation. The others bid us goodnight because they intended to be back early in the morning. One friend left me a Saint Christopher medal to replace the lost one temporarily. . . . My brother and I hadn’t been together much for years, except for occasional visits. We got closer to each other that night than we had been since we were kids. Despite sleeping capsules, I awakened several times, and we talked about many things. The night went faster than I dared hope. As the time for the second operation approached, I grew still more calm. I clearly understood the urgency of making sure the cancer hadn’t spread. In the audiotape that I had asked my uncle to record, Howard movingly recalled how he felt during this time when his brother was gravely ill. Everything seemed to be going along real well until 1953 when Toby had the first inkling about the cancer that was diagnosed as melanoma on his neck. He was operated on in September of 1953. From that time on he carried his head at a very slight angle because of the muscle tension that he had and the muscle that was taken out of his neck. It was a radical surgery through his neck and every part of his chest. In those days that was a very critical operation. It was amazing that he lived through it with the kind of life that he lived prior to that. You’d think that he would not have had the stamina to withstand that kind of operation. I remember visiting Toby at the hospital at this time. I remember how faithful your mother was, being there every day at the hospital, fighting to make sure that the nurses took care of him, that the doctors did what they said they would do. She was always on top of his situation every moment of the day and night. Your mother was a heroic person. First Things First : 311

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Indeed, my mother was heroic. She always knew how to make things flow smoothly even though her own fears were growing. After a long night of waiting, my father’s surgery began. It was hours later before he was back in his hospital room. As he describes in ‘‘The Man with Many Lives,’’ awakening from the anesthesia was quite a shock. . . . The anesthesia wore off very slowly. For hours after being brought back to my room, I didn’t know what was going on. I came to occasionally and, during those periods, gradually learned the second operation had been a complete success. ‘‘You’re very lucky,’’ my day nurse kept saying. ‘‘I’ve seen lots of cancer operations. Yours was one of the best.’’ I looked like something from outer space. I wore a pressure bandage—a cap from which yards of bandage and tape wound tightly around my throat, neck, and left shoulder. ‘‘You’ll be quite uncomfortable for awhile,’’ the surgeon warned. ‘‘But the pressure bandage insures the best possible healing, with only the faintest trace of scars to show what you’ve been through.’’ I was greatly disturbed at first because of intense pain in my throat. Again my imagination rocketed away, and I asked whether they had done any cutting there. ‘‘No,’’ the surgeon emphasized. ‘‘We did exactly what I told you we were going to do—nothing more. Your throat hurts because we had to put tubes in there. We also put a clamp on your tongue to keep you from swallowing it. Your throat should feel normal in a few days.’’ For 48 hours after the operation, I could barely swallow water. The strength and endurance of my heart surprised everyone, including me. . . . The answers I got from the surgeon and the nurses, and the attitude of my family and friends were convincing proof the operation had turned out well. But I wanted still more evidence—and got it. . . . ‘‘All the tests were negative,’’ the surgeon said. ‘‘In other words, the cancer didn’t spread. The second operation turned out to be purely preventive. We took out some glands, muscles, and other tissues to make sure no stray cells were left behind.’’ Knowing I still had much of an ex-reporter’s skepticism in me, he authorized the nurse to show me the laboratory report. With my own eyes, I saw the word ‘‘negative’’ after the description of each test. I had 312 : First Things First

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done considerable praying before and after the operation. When the nurse left the room, I said a long prayer of gratitude that I had been spared once again and now had an excellent chance for survival. . . . Six days after the second operation, I was allowed to go home. I was intensely proud I could walk out of the hospital, the same way I came in. I was still weak but able to make it under my own steam. As I climbed into the front seat of our car, with Betts at the wheel, I was filled to overflowing with more thoughts of gratitude. . . . Ten days later, the surgeon allowed me to return to the office. Before the operations, he had told me how I would look. I had said then, ‘‘I’m not concerned about my looks. As long as my brains aren’t affected, I’m all right. I could do my work if I were the ugliest man in the world. The main thing is to get the tumors out, regardless of scars or anything else.’’ But he had done what the nurses described as a ‘‘beautiful job.’’ Somehow, I’d never thought of the word ‘‘beautiful’’ being applied to operations or scars. But after the shock wore off and I regained my strength, I began to see what they meant. My scar ran from back of my left ear down along the left side of my throat to just under my chin. From about the midway point, an extension of the scar went about six inches toward my left shoulder and ended in a sort of inverted ‘‘Y.’’ As the days passed, the scar faded—a tribute to the patience and skill of the surgeon who had matched the ends of skin perfectly as he sewed me back up. Nevertheless, when I returned to work, I was sure I looked like I’d been in a knife fight. . . . The people at my office were wonderful. They thought I was returning to work too soon. I stayed two to three hours a day the first week; four hours daily the second week; five hours the third week; and six hours the fourth week. Then I went back to my regular schedule. My associates not only cooperated, but they kept an eagle eye on me. If I stayed five minutes longer than I had planned, they came around and said, ‘‘You’re supposed to be out of here. So scram!’’ . . . It’s natural, I suppose, for a person with either heart disease or cancer—or both—to wonder whether lightning will strike again. That negative thinking is absurd, and it gets you exactly nowhere. Nobody, regardless of the condition of his or her health, knows what the future First Things First : 313

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holds for them. We can drive ourselves daffy by constantly crossing bridges before we get to them. The road to recovery was rocky, but Dad fought back with his usual grit. He and my mother celebrated their nineteenth wedding anniversary by buying another house, and his health appeared to be improving each day. He even felt well enough to take me with him on regular fishing trips to a nearby lake. At seven years of age, I can remember sitting next to him on the pier as I traced the scar on his neck with my fingers—I had no idea what he had endured. In his letters Dad described exciting endeavors of his company and its clients, relaxing vacations shared by the entire family, and a stalwart belief that his health would remain good. He was also trying his best to sell ‘‘The Man with Many Lives’’ to a high-profile magazine. Nov. 8 Dear Mom and Dad: The weather back was perfect. So was the trip. And so was the weekend with you. Hope you can get back on a normal sleeping schedule soon, Mom. My prediction: One of these days you’ll realize you’ve been sleeping good for a couple of nights, and that you just might keep it up! My magazine piece came back again, and I’ve sent it to another New York agent who has sold several things for a man in another advertising agency here. I don’t give up easily, as you know. Attached is a summary of the replies to date. Nobody says the piece stinks; therefore, somebody somewhere may like its odor. Love, Toby The editors liked the essay but felt it was too long for their publications. Your personal victory in this crisis is impressive. . . . (Mary Bass, executive editor, Ladies’ Home Journal) Your story would certainly bring a message of hope to many persons afflicted with heart disease or cancer and for this reason it grieves me to have to say ‘‘no.’’ But, unfortunately, we buy so few medical stories and articles—they usually come from our staff writers or from our regular reprint sources. . . . (H. B. Given, editorial assistant, Reader’s Digest) I was shocked to read of the rough deal you have had and am delighted you came out of it so well. It was with a good deal of fascination that I 314 : First Things First

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read the account of your travails. Still leaves me sweating. . . . (Vance Packard, staff writer and personal friend of my father, American) It is a well-written and courageous story. . . . (Barbara Lawrence, associate editor, McCall’s) In 1955, the announcement of the commercial production of a vaccine against polio by one of my father’s top clients, Parke, Davis & Company, shifted his work pace into overdrive. March 26, 1955 Dear Mom and Dad: We had to delay our vacation due to the [forthcoming] polio vaccine announcement at the University of Michigan April 12. We’ve been besieged by newsmen for the past 10 days and expect this to continue right up to the announcement. You may have seen the terrific plug Parke, Davis & Company got Friday night, March 25, on ‘‘Douglas Edwards and The News’’ (CBS-TV network). He ran more than two minutes of film shot two nights before at Parke-Davis. We’ve had stories on the wire service ‘‘trunk lines’’ and in many publications, such as the Wall Street Journal, telling how Parke-Davis will go into production of a commercial polio vaccine in May. Parke-Davis was the biggest supplier of polio vaccine to the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis in 1954 and 1955. I’ve been in New York twice in the past 10 days and will go to Ottawa, Canada, Tuesday on advertising missions in connection with the polio vaccine announcement. As I told you, it appears I may be given broader responsibilities, handling Parke-Davis advertising as well as its public relations. The decision probably will be made in the next two weeks—as soon as the head of our office has a chance to discuss it with Harry Loynd, Parke-Davis president, and Ralph Sickels, director of advertising and public relations. So keep your fingers crossed! It would mean more responsibility, greater opportunities—and more money, all of which are most attractive. Love, Toby My father spread his message of hope and perseverance whenever he had the chance. Asked to speak at the twenty-five-year reunion of his DePauw University class on June 8, 1957, my father delivered a speech entitled ‘‘Let’s Never Graduate.’’ First Things First : 315

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. . . I decided to pull a switch and talk about a subject that’s been on my mind for some time. It’s ‘‘Let’s Never Graduate.’’ I can hear some wag in the back of the room saying, ‘‘He almost didn’t’’—and that’s the truth. I suppose some of you think, ‘‘That’s a strange title. Is he trying to be funny, live perpetually in the past—or what?’’ The answer is ‘‘no.’’ Because the more you study that title, the more you realize it has a great deal to do with a healthy attitude toward life—one that promotes success, happiness, and peace of mind. I suggest, first of all, that we never graduate from a desire to learn. As a reporter, editor, public relations consultant, and advertising man, I’ve had the opportunity and privilege to interview some really big men in our top corporations. Without exception, the more important the man is, the more humble he is—and the more readily he admits he has a great deal to learn, even in his own business. On the other hand, we’ve all had the experience of being around people—usually at lower levels—who think they know it all, and they’re not very nice people to be near, are they? When we hang onto this desire to learn, we become more interested in everything around us—our homes, our families, our communities, our jobs. Everything actually becomes more exciting. Secondly, I suggest that we never graduate from the ideals and principles which we were taught here at DePauw. Of course, we were exposed to many of these ideals and principles when we were children, but at DePauw they began to take on some meaning, and we were told repeatedly that they would be the foundation for happy, successful, satisfying lives. Since leaving school, we’ve encountered some people (from other colleges, of course!) who skirted around these ideals and principles. They seemed to get away with it and prosper, but eventually we saw what happened—and it wasn’t pretty. We learned, once again, that the big payoff comes from strict observances of the ideals and principles that were emphasized on this campus 25 years ago—and for a long time before that. Now, thirdly, I suggest that we never graduate from a determination to grow into our senior years gracefully. How I love that phrase, ‘‘senior years’’! Sounds so much softer than ‘‘growing older.’’ Of course, you’re not going to get any member of the Class of 1932 to admit here tonight that he or she is growing into those senior years. But we’ll all have to concede that we’re headed in that direction. I’ve observed many people who actually have become more attractive as the years go by. As a 316 : First Things First

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matter of fact, all you have to do is to look around you here tonight. Why do people become more attractive with the years? Because they accept the years in good grace. They don’t ignore them, or fight ’em. They build upon them and gain a lot of success and happiness thereby. Finally, I suggest that we never graduate from the joy of constructive accomplishment. We hear a great deal of talk these days about retirement. We even hear it from young men just out of college who inquire about positions at our office and ask about our retirement plan. Can you imagine that? They think about quitting before they start! The right kind of retirement, of course, is fine. We’ll all have to retire someday. The right kind of retirement—in my book—is one in which you go from one occupation into another. Idleness never bought happiness for anyone. . . . Dad took his own advice. In the too-short years that I spent with my father, I never recall a time when he wasn’t busy: arising at 5 a.m. to practice his Spanish for an adult-education class; rehearsing speeches with his tape recorder; taking scores of color slides of our family vacations; demonstrating extraordinary patience with my clumsy fishing techniques; and simultaneously watching two different television news broadcasts while listening to Paul Harvey’s radio show. ‘‘Idleness’’ wasn’t in my father’s vocabulary. In July 1958, Dad was promoted to vice president of Y&R’s Detroit office, a milestone of which he was very proud.* The promotion was the crowning moment of his career as an advertising executive, and to acknowledge those people who’d taken time to congratulate him he sent each one a personal thank-you letter—just as he’d urged me to do when I was a little girl. July 19, 1958 Dear Mom and Dad: These have been exciting days—personally as well as from the worldwide standpoint. I’m still getting congratulatory letters, which add materially to the satisfaction and enjoyment stemming from the promotion. To date, I’ve received 94 letters and have answered each with a handwritten note (thinking this would be more personal). *See photo section.

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I have two good contact men on the Parke-Davis and Argus accounts, and both are taking over the bulk of the day-to-day work. Thus, the nature of my own work is changing somewhat, but I’m still busy as the dickens, which is the way I like it. . . . Getting back to the promotion, did I tell you that S.S. Larmon, Y&R president, blurted out the news without any buildup whatsoever? I had been in his office, introducing Jim Rast, our new Argus contact man. We were on our way out when Larmon called me back. I just started to sit down when he said, ‘‘Tobe, we’ve decided to make you a vice-president. You’ve really earned it.’’ I was so overwhelmed by the suddenness of the promotion that I couldn’t talk for what seemed like a minute. Of course, this has been an experience I’ll never forget. The letters have come from all sorts of people, some of whom I haven’t seen or heard from in years. One of the nicest came from Harry Loynd, Parke-Davis president. Love, Toby A Mother’s Day telegram to my grandmother in May 1959 reminded her that, despite his hectic schedule, Dad had not forgotten her. May 8, 1959 Myrtle Wiant 542 Sheridan Avenue There are seven Mother’s Days for me: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Love, Toby My father survived two heart attacks and a radical operation to remove two malignant melanomas from his neck; received a well-earned promotion at work; and now was enjoying a renewed sense of hope. His life was finally back on the even keel that his parents and my mother had prayed for.

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.. .. .. chapter eighteen .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. crossing bridges, .. ..

jan. 1960 –feb. 1963

Writing this in longhand so as not to disturb my sleeping beauties. Addressing it mainly to you, Mom, for whizzing past another milestone. The milestones, after awhile, seem as close together as a picket fence. toby wiant, January 5, 1963 Despite my father’s positive outlook, a new and more formidable health bridge loomed ahead. Early in 1960, two years after passing the important five-year, cancer-free milestone, Dad telephoned his brother with the ominous greeting ‘‘I’m in trouble again.’’ Doctors had discovered a new cancer—this time in his colon. He endured another long and debilitating operation and convalescence. As he always did before, he fought back and returned to work as soon as possible. He was determined that nothing—not even a second bout with cancer—would slow him down. In April 1961, he described with a resilient spirit the fallout from losing a major advertising account—and his well-calculated plan to regroup. April 9, 1961 Dear Mom and Dad: . . . Betts, Sue and I are leaving in a few minutes for Ann Arbor, where we’re to have Sunday dinner with Jack and Helen Riggs and their family. They’re still feeling badly about General Telephone & Electronics pulling the rug out from under our very happy and productive client-agency relationship. So are we, but we are trying to concentrate on the present and the future. We certainly can’t do anything about what’s happened.

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I flew to New York this past week to face up to the problems there that resulted from the loss of the account. George Gribbin, president of Y&R, had dinner Tuesday night with Riggs, Al Viebranz of Sylvania and me. Riggs and Viebranz thus could tell Grib first-hand what had happened, and I must say Grib was most kind and understanding toward me. The next morning, I had a meeting with Sig Larmon, our board chairman, who started to work me over a bit, saying, ‘‘It’s no virtue to lose an account.’’ I took just so much and let him know the facts, one of which was his alienation of the General Telephone people several years ago. In fairness to Larmon, he eased off me, once he realized he was getting out of bounds, and later he sent word to me to have lunch with him at the swank Pinnacle Club, which resembles the Top of the Mark in San Francisco. I think it was his way of saying he was sorry, which he wouldn’t do directly. Mac McKelvey and Joe Standart also were there for lunch, and later they agreed with me as to Larmon’s motive. I’ve already started pitching for the Eastman-Kodak account, which is 16 times bigger ($16,000,000 compared with $1,000,000 for Argus). I got a warm reception there, although they said—as I would expect—that they weren’t unhappy with their present agency and weren’t looking for a new one. However, the vice president of marketing said he wanted to hear our story around June 1, when he’ll be back from a European trip. That’s all I want—a hearing. I figure our story is so good that we might wind up with at least part of the business. If we don’t make the grade at Eastman-Kodak, we’ll try Bell & Howell or Polaroid. Love, Toby Less than a year later, test results from a regular check-up revealed an unexpected malignancy in one of his lungs. For the third time in nine years, my father summoned the courage to battle cancer. The medical community was amazed: Never had three totally unique cancers occurred in one patient; most subsequent tumors were metastases of a single cancer. Howard recalled what it was like to hear that his brother was facing another serious medical crisis. It was in January of 1962 in the dead of winter. Once more I heard the telephone ring, and once more it was Toby saying, ‘‘I’m in trouble 320 : Crossing Bridges

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again.’’ I did not know how critically, and so I went up to Detroit immediately and found that he was in serious condition. This time he was operated on for a malignancy in his lung. I remember that he had a big portion of his lung removed. I recall visiting him in the hospital and how painful it was to see him having to be rolled over every so often on the side where his lung was operated. He had to do that because of the fear of pneumonia in his other lung. I remember the agonizing pain that he went through. Later on he told me that of all of his operations that was the most painful one that he had to endure. We had some chats about it—he hadn’t told my father and mother about his illness, and didn’t want to do so until he’d talked with me. Then he asked me to drive down to their home and tell them, which I did. I remember how terrible it was for me to break the news to my dad and mom that Toby was ill once again with cancer. But I did not tell them that it was critical. My father returned home several weeks later and tried to resume as normal a life as he could. In March 1962, he took my mother on a long trip to Portugal, France, Spain, and England—showing her the places he’d stayed in Paris and London during the war. Sadly, Dad never regained the strength that he had after his previous operations. His monthly check-up in December revealed that, despite his indomitable will to fight, he was losing ground—new melanoma tumors had developed. I can still remember that day just before Christmas in 1962 as my parents and I sat in the kitchen waiting for my father’s surgeon to arrive. He had called that morning and said he wanted to talk about Dad’s latest test results. At the time we wondered why he couldn’t just give us the information over the telephone. Although no one wanted to admit it, I think we all knew the answer. I’ve forgotten much of what happened in the weeks ahead—that Christmas was the most difficult holiday we’d ever spent. In his typically upbeat way, my father tried his best to help us forget he was checking into Harper Hospital the following week. He wrote to his parents about the good Christmas he’d spent with family and friends. They had no idea what was in store for him. December 26, 1962 Dear Mom and Dad: It’s back to work today after a fine Christmas holiday, including the telephone call to you yesterday. Crossing Bridges : 321

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After our phone session, we drove to Grosse Pointe for a stop at the Graydon Walkers’ and then to the Romines’, where we had the usual tasty Christmas dinner. Your names came up several times, and we wished you could have been with us (although all agreed you were smart to stay home in this weather). While we were at the Romines’, about half an inch of snow fell, but it didn’t bother us enroute home. The expressways were wet, but clear, and we were home in the usual time. Betts has her hands full today, getting ready for an overnight visit by Eleanor and Gene Kelly, who were transferred to Milwaukee several weeks ago. They came to Fremont, Ohio, for a Christmas visit with their daughter, Ronalee, and her family, and will stop with us enroute back to Wisconsin. (The Romines said they might join us for dinner tonight.) Our Christmas was great (as always). Sue got her ski equipment, which she wanted above all. Betts got her check, which she can always use. I got an AM-FM portable radio, which I wanted. There were many other things, which you’ll see in the pictures. . . . Love, Toby On January 5, 1963—his mother’s seventy-third birthday—Dad was admitted to Harper Hospital for the last time. That morning he wrote what would be the next-to-last letter to his parents. As always, he was thinking of everyone but himself. January 5, 1963 Dear Mom (and Dad): Writing this in longhand so as not to disturb my sleeping beauties. Addressing it mainly to you, Mom, for whizzing past another milestone. The milestones, after awhile, seem as close together as a picket fence. Betts has her big 50th coming up this week. That’s always a hard one to take, but she saw me get past mine—and figures she can do anything I can do (and better!). Sue is still dating her friend, Dave, who seems to be a very nice boy. She is going to try out for a special choir, which goes all over the state. After her fine performance with the Bloomfield Hills group recently, I’m confident she will make it. 322 : Crossing Bridges

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Betts just heard from Glennie, who is really living it up in Saudi Arabia. Betts, Sue, and I sent our greetings to Ted and his family via a tape recording. Glennie said they really enjoyed it. All our love, Toby My father survived the surgery on January 7, but the prognosis was grim. True to his unfailing spirit, he wrote his final letter from his hospital room one week later. His handwriting was shaky—but his optimism was strong. He was planning a family vacation. January 13, 1963 Dear Mom and Dad: Mighty cold here today. In fact, we’re thinking seriously of pulling stakes and heading for Florida and the Romines’ place at Marathon. We all need a change of location and temperature, mainly the latter. If I don’t take some vacation now, I won’t get it later. The summer is our busiest season at the office. If we do go to Florida, we’ll have to postpone our visit with you until later. You’ll not be surprised to hear that Sue is doing very well in school and in her social life. It’s a wonderful age (15—remember, Mom?). Dad, she got a terrific boot out of the line in your letter about saving a place in her heart for a grandpa-sweetheart. She said over and over, ‘‘Isn’t that nice?’’ Love, Toby This was the battle from which he couldn’t retreat. The doctors’ only option was to keep him as pain free as possible. Each day for the next two weeks my mother and I commuted the thirty miles between our house and the hospital. The final week of my father’s life we lived in a motel near the hospital to be closer to him. Howard described to me with sadness those last weeks with his brother. I drove up there quite often to be with Toby. We talked as we’d never talked before, not from the standpoint that I was a clergyman and he was critically ill and needed strengthening of his own faith. It was in more practical matters. He said there were some things that he wanted me to know and things to be taken care of. First of all, he said, he didn’t want his doctors to prolong his life by feeding him intravenously. He wanted his surgeon to know that he Crossing Bridges : 323

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wanted to be kept quiet and as free of pain as possible, and allowed to die with some degree of dignity. It was very difficult for me to talk this way with him even though I’d done so with many people prior to that. But now I was talking with my brother. We talked about our early years, we talked about you, and we talked about my dad and mother. Those were very precious times, and I shall always remember them. A call came, and it appeared that Toby was in his last hours. I immediately went up to Detroit and went to the hospital. You and your mother had taken a hotel room down near the hospital, where I also had a room. I remember being with your dad at the moment of his death. You and your mother had gone back to the motel. It was now close to midnight, and I said that I would stay with him all night. A nurse brought me a pillow, and I propped it up in a chair and sat there with him. Your father talked right up until almost the last moments. He was lucid; the cancer had gone into his brain but had not destroyed the powers of thinking and conversation. It did destroy many of his pain centers, which was merciful. If there were any kind of a medal that you could give him for his heroism in fighting cancer, I’m sure it would have to be the Distinguished Service Cross. Early in the morning on February 5, 1963, despite his remarkable will and the untiring efforts of his surgeon over many years, my father crossed that final bridge with Howard at his side. No soldier in ‘‘Vinegar Joe’’ Stilwell’s army had faced the enemy with greater courage. Less than a week later in the middle of a howling blizzard, we buried my father in Mount Calvary Cemetery, just outside Tremont City, Ohio—the small town where he and Howard had played as young boys. I stood beside my mother that day, watching the driving snow fall silently on my father’s casket and wanting desperately to make sense out of his suffering. At fifteen, I couldn’t accept that he was gone—my world had changed forever. Soon, articles describing his achievements as a war correspondent, public relations specialist, and advertising executive appeared in newspapers across the country. Detroit radio stations announced his passing, and even Paul Harvey—one of Dad’s favorite newscasters—paused during his show to remember him. Columnist John C. Manning eulogized my father in the February 10, 1963 edition of the Detroit Free Press. 324 : Crossing Bridges

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HE WAS A RARITY—A TRUE FRIEND By John C. Manning The death last week of Thoburn H. (Toby) Wiant deprived this corner of a very comfortable friend. In my opinion, that’s the best type. There are ardent friends so eager to make you happy that you rarely have time to rest. There are jealous ones who snub you if they think you are more congenial with somebody else than with them. There are horse-trading ones who do things for you if you do things for them. Comfortable friends, like Toby Wiant, are few and far between. They wear a modesty which would shame you, except that they honestly don’t realize it is one of their assets. A fellow asset of their modesty is the true humility which theologians rank as the highest human virtue. They mind their own business, day in and day out. You don’t see them as frequently as you do casual acquaintances. They seem to possess, though, a psychological knowledge of when you might need them to lean against. At those times, they stroll unobtrusively in. They do not offer help or advice in a bumptious way. They just give it to you as simply as if they were saying hello or so long. Toby Wiant moved modestly to Detroit in 1945 shortly after the end of World War II. He had had an unusually important and exciting newspaper career with the Associated Press. His war assignments included General Joseph Stilwell’s march on the China-Burma-India frontier, coverage of the first B-29 bomber raid on Tokyo, and General Patton’s European campaign. He divorced newspaper work and came here as a public relations executive for the advertising firm of Young & Rubicam. That’s how we happened to meet: Public relations men have to know editors. But the darn selfless, modest fellow said nothing about being a newspaper guy when we were introduced. Had he been me and I him, I would have talked his arm off about my newspaper background and mutual friends we unquestionably knew. Not Toby, however. That would have been, in his gentle mind, taking advantage of me. The most controversial newspaper incident in World War II was the premature bulletin announcing the surrender of Hitler’s Nazi Germany to the Allied forces. Crossing Bridges : 325

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It was premature because one of the correspondents who flew with eight or ten associates to the Eisenhower headquarters at Rheims, where the Nazi generals signed the surrender, broke his word. All of them (U.S., British, and French news service chaps) who covered the historic meeting were compelled to withhold releasing the surrender flash until they got a go signal from Eisenhower’s office. That was because Russian allies had not been represented at the surrender assembly, and Britain and U.S. leaders felt Russian leaders should know before the peace message bounced around the world. The American reporter who jumped the gun, and, as a consequence, lost his job, happened to be on the edge of nervous fatigue. Newspaper workers kept arguing back and forth about the episode for several months. I happened to have lunch in New York with Jim Kilgallen, veteran star of INS, who had covered the affair. He gave me a detailed report, and then, in passing, asked if I knew Toby Wiant. I said yes, and he said Toby had also covered it. The next time I saw Toby here in Detroit, I checked with him. He admitted having covered the surrender assignment. He blushed when I asked him why the dickens he never told me about it. He muttered something about not wanting to impress any newspaper guy by bragging. I didn’t admit to him that day, but if he were still alive, I’d admit now that I’d have bragged full-tilt had I been in his position. His humility and courage brought him through several long-drawn major illnesses. He has written an essay about those critical attacks which I hope may be published for the benefit of sick people. It would help them as would first-rate medicine. In a final tribute to their son, my grandparents sent a thank-you letter to the many friends who had stood by them for so long. March 15, 1963 129 Glencoe Road Columbus, Ohio Dear Friends: Your expressions of sympathy, your prayers and personal interest in us and our family at the time of Thoburn’s last illness and death (from melanoma cancer), February 5, 1963, were deeply appreciated. 326 : Crossing Bridges

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Over nine years ago, Thoburn had his first attack of cancer. In the meantime, he carried his heaviest business, civic, community, and church responsibilities. His accomplishments in that length of time were a constant challenge to his wide circle of friends and to his family. He was at his desk, carrying on his work as a vice president in the Detroit office of Young & Rubicam, Inc., nationally known advertisers, until Friday, January 4. The next day, he entered Harper Hospital in Detroit and was operated on January 7. He had every skill and attention that specialists in cancer treatment, modern medicine, and special nurses around the clock could bring, plus the constant vigil at or near his bedside by Betty, his wife, his family, and friends. The prayers and concern for him by his church, the Kirk-in-the-Hills, Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, its pastor, the officials, and a wide circle of friends of many religious affiliations never wavered. Thoburn’s years of World War II battlefront reporting (Associated Press) had thoroughly acquainted him with the terse words ‘‘mission accomplished’’ in battles waged and won. This, his family and friends feel, fully describes his faith, his courage, and his integrity. Life for all of us within the family circle will be strangely different with him gone, but his spirit will live on in our hearts and memories, giving us courage, assurance, and an example for our ‘‘living of these days. . . .’’ Most sincerely, Warren and Myrtle Wiant On the first anniversary of my father’s death I wrote a poem for my mother, whose depression over losing her husband of twenty-eight years was profound. She and I coped with Dad’s death in our own ways, often not talking to each other for long periods of time. The poem was my teenage attempt to bring us closer together. Those Who Trust One year ago tonight I knew A pain which even now is new, A pain that left in its cold place A scar which time can ne’er erase. A pain that pierced my inner mind, And brought me grief that left behind Crossing Bridges : 327

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The one whom Fate had given nod To go and take his place near God. This man whose memory lingers so Was one to whom we all did go For courage, guidance, faith and peace, Whose own great courage never ceased. Although no more we see his face Or feel the faith in his embrace, His memory with us still flows on And grows with every passing dawn. And might we all learn one thing more From this good man who went before: That God is Love and Love must reign, And those who trust are never slain. In the years that followed, I came and went through many stages of grief over the loss of my father. I was angry that he’d died so young, and I was sad that he’d had to suffer the way he did. Most of all, I missed him deeply. On February 5, 1988—the twenty-fifth anniversary of my father’s death—I returned to Mount Calvary Cemetery for the first time since that cold, dark day in 1963. As I placed a bouquet of flowers on his grave, the epitaph on his tombstone brought tears to my eyes. ‘‘No pain, no palm; no thorns, no throne; no gall, no glory; no cross, no crown.’’ I knew who had lived that story—it didn’t need a byline.

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.. .. .. epilogue .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. a daughter’s tribute .. .. Every time I start typing in the dining room, Susie wants to get into the act. She pecks away at the keys like a veteran, using about as many fingers as the two with which her father has made a living all these years! toby wiant, February 26, 1949 February 5, 2010 Dear Dad, Today marks a special anniversary for me. At first glance it might not seem like a day to celebrate, for it was on this date forty-seven years ago that you crossed the final bridge when your valiant fight ended. Your personal war was unlike any battle you’d witnessed as a reporter—this was one story that ‘‘Good Luck Wiant’’ couldn’t scoop. The news of your death came to me in a way that I still remember—a soft knock on the door of the motel room where Mom and I stayed during those last days so that we could be closer to you. Earlier that evening, Uncle Howard had sent Mom and me back to our room, assuring us that he’d be with you all night. If there were any drastic changes in your condition, Howard would come to the motel. I don’t remember what time that knock came—the quiet tapping seemed like an extension of a dream. When I heard it, I knew your struggle was over. What I didn’t know was that mine had just begun. Looking back, I often reflect on the different identities that I tried on like Halloween costumes as I grew older—unique Susies you never knew. I was learning what kind of person I wanted to be and wishing you were there to help me. I know when you were there we wanted to disown each other at times, especially when I struggled to assert my teenage independence. I was, as you once told me, ‘‘one headstrong kid.’’

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I’m sixty-two years old now—eleven years older than you were when your courage was tested that one last time. That’s hard for me to comprehend because, though the mirror tells another story, I still feel like that headstrong, fifteen-year-old kid inside. I don’t dwell on the fact that we didn’t have many years together. I’d rather focus on the remarkable things I learned about you through your writing, your tape recordings, and the invaluable memories of your family and friends. When I first began this journey to know the ‘‘real’’ Toby, people hesitated to talk about your past—especially Mom. Perhaps she wanted to protect me from discovering something negative about you. It wasn’t until just before she died in 1984 that she shared memories of how courageously you faced your battles with alcoholism, heart disease, and cancer. I think your courage helped her, too, when she waged her own private war with cancer like the ‘‘good soldier’’ you always said she was. Knowing there were times in your life when you weren’t perfect—when you made mistakes and learned from them—helped me to appreciate your courage and unselfishness even more. It also made it easier to forgive myself when things in my life didn’t go perfectly. I’m sorry that you never had the opportunity to share my successes or to help put into perspective what I deemed my ‘‘failures.’’ How I would have loved to hear you applaud as I graduated from high school, college, and graduate school; to have you stand with me at my wedding; to ask you for guidance when that marriage ended in divorce; and even to risk your disapproval when I took a sabbatical from my job as a college counselor to become a long-distance truck driver. I knew you for only a few short years, Dad, but your influence on my life was—and still is—significant. Because you led the way, I tried my hand as a reporter for a small-town newspaper and covered many of the same types of beats that you did—including writing feature stories that focused on the unique characteristics of the people I interviewed. When I had the opportunity to join the marketing department of a Fortune 500 company, I managed projects similar to the ones you handled for Young & Rubicam. For more than twenty years now, I’ve been an editor and copywriter. With gratitude to you, the man who introduced me to the wonder of words, I’m carrying on a tradition begun long ago by your grandparents Simeon and Rachel Jones—a tradition perfected by you. 330 : Epilogue: A Daughter’s Tribute

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For a number of reasons I decided not to have children of my own, so passing your story down to grandchildren wasn’t possible. But as your only child, I wanted to honor you in a way that befitted your strength of character and your courage. This book was conceived many years ago as what I think of as your ‘‘grandchild,’’ a tribute to you for instilling in me the values that you held dear. In weaving our words together, it became far more than that. It became your legacy of love. Unlike children whose fathers leave without a trace of themselves or their love, I’m fortunate to have an immortal part of you preserved within your words. I thank you, Dad, for giving me so many reasons to celebrate your life—and in the process, to celebrate my own. With all my love, Your headstrong kid, Susie

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.. .. glossary .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 2-A: The Selective Service category for a person whose military service was deferred because of a non-agricultural occupation. 2-B: The Selective Service category for a person whose military service was deferred because of a war-related occupation. 4-F: The Selective Service category for a person considered not fit for military service. ack-ack: Slang for anti-aircraft fire. Air Medal: An award presented to fliers who recorded more than 100 hours of combat flying. ASC: Air Services Command, an organization that coordinated supplies and troop movements in World War II theaters of operation. AVG: American Volunteer Group, American pilots trained to assist the Chinese Air Force. Blue Train: A unit of vans and tractors with gas engines and transmitters for sending correspondents’ stories. CBI: China-Burma-India theater of operation. Chindits: British India ‘‘Special Force’’ troops trained to penetrate Burmese and Indian jungles on foot and target Japanese communication lines. Clipper: The Boeing 314 Clipper, operated by Pan American Airways, one of the largest planes flying during the early years of World War II. coolie: A derogatory term for manual laborers of Asian descent. doughboy: An informal term for an American soldier. ETO: European Theater of Operation. flash: A bulletin of major importance. Flying Fortress: The nickname for the B-17 bomber. GI: A slang term (from ‘‘government issue’’) for American men and women serving in the armed forces. Hump, The: An air route across the Himalayan mountains for planes to deliver supplies to troops.

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INS: International News Service. jerry: A derogatory term for a German soldier. kraut: A derogatory term for a German soldier. lead all: A final story that covers in detail what a flash outlines. Liberator: An American twin-engine medium bomber that assisted the Chinese Air Force. mailer: A nonpriority story sent by mail or boat instead of by cable. ME109: The Messerschmitt Bf 109, a German fighter plane. Mitchell: American heavy bomber. Nebelwerfer: A German rocket launcher nicknamed ‘‘Screaming Meemie’’ because of the loud, screeching noise it made as it hurtled toward its target. Photo Joe: A single-seated plane equipped to photograph enemy territory at fast speeds and from high altitudes. PRO: Public Relations Officer. Pullman: The Pullman Sleeping Car, invented by George Pullman in 1857 and considered the most comfortable railroad sleeper car. SEAC: South East Asia Command. SHAEF: Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, headquarters of the commander of Allied forces during World War II. S.R.O.: Standing Room Only. Superfortress: The B-29 bomber, considered the most advanced bomber of World War II. UP: United Press. V-1: German autopiloted ‘‘buzz bomb.’’ V-2: German one-ton warhead rocket. V-Mail: Specially formatted letters reduced to thumbnail size on microfilm to increase space on freighters for shipping war materials. WAC: Women’s Army Corps. Zero: Japanese Mitsubishi A6M fighter plane.

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.. p r o m i n e n t i n d i v i d u a l s .. .. .. mentioned in .. .. between the bylines .. . .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .

family and friends and their relationship to toby wiant Green, Edna Glenn ‘‘Glennie’’ and C. Lewis ‘‘Lew’’: parents-in-law Green, Richard ‘‘Dick’’: brother-in-law Jones, Rachel and Simeon: maternal grandparents Kizer, Amber: great-niece Kizer, Rachel: niece McGuire, ‘‘Mom’’: longtime family friend Ross, Miriam ‘‘Misty’’ Green and Jack: sister- and brother-in-law Wiant, Don: nephew Wiant, Doris Elizabeth ‘‘Betty’’ Green: wife (nickname ‘‘Betts’’) Wiant, Howard: brother Wiant, Myrtle and Warren: parents Wiant, Susan Elizabeth: daughter Wick, Constance ‘‘Connie’’ Green: sister-in-law Yeomans, The Reverend Clyde G.: family friend and minister who married Toby and Betty

associated press management Babb, Glenn: Foreign News Editor Bunnelle, Robert: Chief of Bureau, London Chester, John F. ‘‘Jack’’: News Editor; Chief of Bureau, Cairo; war correspondent Cooper, Kent: General Manager (1925–48) Evans, John: Foreign News Editor Gallagher, Wes: Chief of Bureau, Paris and Berlin; war correspondent

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Gould, Alan J.: Executive Editor (1941–63); Assistant General Manager, News and Newsphotos Hagenbuch, Tom: Indianapolis bureau Henderson, Pete: Acting Chief of Bureau, Indianapolis Honce, Charles: General News Editor, NYC; Assistant General Manager, AP Special Services Jagger, Claude A.: Assistant General Manager, Personnel; Promotions; and AP Features Kennedy, Edward ‘‘Ed’’: Chief of Bureau, Algiers and Paris; war correspondent Miller, Paul: Assistant General Manager, Membership and Promotion; Chief of Bureau, Washington Ochiltree, Sam: Chief of Bureau, Indianapolis Price, Byron: Chief of Bureau, Washington (1927–33); Executive Editor Shannon, Fred: Indianapolis bureau Wing, Jo: AP Feature Service Wolfe, Bennett: Indianapolis bureau

associated press correspondents Ball, Edward D. ‘‘Ed’’ Boni, William F. ‘‘Bill’’ Boyle, Hal Cowan, Howard De Luce, Dan (sometimes erroneously spelled ‘‘DeLuce’’) Dixon, Kenneth ‘‘Ken’’ Eunson, Robert ‘‘Bob’’ Farnsworth, Clyde Grover, Preston Grumich, Charles A. ‘‘Charley’’ Haugland, Vern Hawkins, Lewis ‘‘Lew’’ Lee, Clark Lee, Paul K. Martin, Frank L. McGaffin, William ‘‘Bill’’ Moosa, Spencer 336 : List of Prominent Individuals

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Morin, Relman ‘‘Pat’’ O’Sullivan, J. Reilly Snyder, Joe Stinnett, Jack Tucker, George Werner, Wade Whitehead, Don Wilson, Robert ‘‘Bob’’ Yarbrough, Tom

prominent world war ii individuals Andrews, General Frank Maxwell: Commander, military forces in Europe during the first stages of World War II Bissell, Brigadier General Clayton L.: Commander, U.S. Air Forces in India and China Chennault, Major General Claire L.: Commander, 14th Air Force (China) Chiang Kai-shek, Generalissimo: Supreme Commander of Allied Forces (China); leader of China’s Nationalist party, the Kuomintang Linlithgow, Lord (Victor Alexander John Hope, 2nd Marquess of Linlithgow): Scottish statesman who served as India’s Governor-General and Viceroy from 1936 to 1943 Maxwell, Major General Russell L.: Commander, American troops (Egypt) Merrill, Frank D.: leader of the American 5307th Provisional Regiment (‘‘Merrill’s Marauders’’) Mountbatten, Vice Admiral Lord Louis: Supreme Allied Commander, Allied forces in the China-Burma-India theater Patton, General George S. Jr.: Commander, U.S. Third Army Rickenbacker, Eddie: World War I flying ace; President, Eastern Airlines Rommel, Field Marshal Erwin: German field marshal Seagrave, Lieutenant Colonel (Dr.) Gordon S.: former missionary doctor and leader of the Seagrave Hospital unit in Burma Stilwell, General Joseph W.: American Chief of Staff of the Chinese Nationalist Army and Deputy Commander to Vice Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten Strickland, Brigadier General A. C.: Commander, U.S. Army forces in the Mideast Wavell, Sir Archibald P.: British field marshal who commanded British Army troops during the early years of World War II List of Prominent Individuals : 337

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.. .. index .. .. ........................................................... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 2-A, 167; defined, 333 2-B, 167; defined, 333 3rd Army. See Third Army, U.S. 4-F, 238; defined 333 10th United States Air Force. See Tenth Air Force 14th Air Force. See Fourteenth Air Force AA. See Alcoholics Anonymous Aachen, 217, 220, 222, 229 Air Medal, 2, 7, 132, 135, 148, 160, 209, 277; defined, 333 Air Service Command (ASC), 127–29; ASC defined, 333 Akyab, 62–64, 77, 143 Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), 13, 282– 83, 289, 306 All India Radio, 135, 138–39 Alsace, 236, 237, 238, 240, 241, 242, 243, 277 Alvord, Katherine, 15–18 American Volunteer Group (AVG), 116–17; defined, 333. See also Flying Tigers Andrews, Gen. Frank Maxwell, 105, 106; identified, 337 AP. See Associated Press AP Inter-Office, The, 211 Arakan, 63, 94, 106, 167, 206 Arms, Brig. Gen. Thomas S., 121–22 ASC. See Air Service Command

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Associated Press (AP), iv, x, xi, xiii, xiv, 1, 2–4, 7, 10, 23, 24, 25, 29, 30, 31, 32, 37, 38–39, 40, 41, 43, 45, 56, 58, 65–66, 69, 70, 71, 108, 117, 126, 131, 137, 145, 147, 148, 159, 160, 171, 177, 196, 198, 201, 202, 204, 207, 208, 209, 211, 215, 218, 219, 228, 229, 236, 243, 246, 247, 258, 259, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276, 279, 280, 290, 325, 327 AP articles identified, 26, 35, 50, 51, 59, 62, 74, 75, 79, 87, 91, 92, 98, 102, 111, 115, 118, 121, 127, 132, 133, 140, 163, 167, 169, 170, 172, 174, 175, 180, 182, 183, 184, 186, 187, 190, 199, 223, 224, 260, 264, 266 AP management and correspondents identified, 335–336 Atkinson, Brooks, 229, 232 Auschwitz, 264 AVG. See American Volunteer Group B-17. See Flying Fortress B-24. See Liberator B-25. See Mitchell B-29. See Superfortress Babb, Glenn, 148, 202, 203; identified, 335 Ball, Edward D. ‘‘Ed,’’ xiv, 243, 254, 258, 266, 273; identified, 336

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Bangkok, 66–67, 72, 101, 147, 153, 212, 277, 305 Barrett, Monte, 13–14 Bay of Bengal, 63, 64, 76, 109, 156, 206 bearer (Indian servant), 58–59, 61, 65, 149 Belden, Jack, 114 Berrigan, Darrell, 68, 69, 73, 114, 147, 171, 177, 229, 232 Birkenau, 264 Bissell, Brig. Gen. Clayton L., 59–60, 127; identified, 337 Blue Train, 101; defined, 333 Boatner, Brig. Gen. Hayden L., 142, 143 Boni, William F. ‘‘Bill,’’ 147, 177, 179, 191, 240, 243; identified, 336 Boyle, Hal, 126, 210, 211; identified, 336 Brickner, Rabbi Barnett R., 158 Briggs, Walter L. ‘‘Buddy,’’ 77, 78, 86, 96, 141, 206, 213 Brown, Col. Rothwell, 164, 176, 185 Brown, Jim, 171, 177 Brown, Joe E., 132, 145 Bryant, Robert ‘‘Bob,’’ 126, 171 Bunnelle, Robert ‘‘Bob,’’ xiv, 210, 211, 217; identified, 335 Burma, vii, 59, 62–64, 69, 70, 72, 73, 74, 75, 77, 84, 86, 87, 88, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 102, 103, 107, 109, 114, 115, 120, 123, 126, 132, 133, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 142, 144, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 160, 161– 62, 163, 166, 167, 169, 170, 174, 175, 178, 180, 181, 182, 183–84, 187, 189, 190, 191, 194, 198, 203, 205, 206, 208, 212, 213, 218, 226, 227, 228, 276, 277, 278, 290, 291, 295

Northern Burma, 136, 142, 143, 144, 146, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 171, 172, 173, 174, 176, 177, 178, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 187, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 208, 209, 213, 214, 226, 227, 291 Western Burma, 77, 95, 96, 105, 106, 107, 115, 123, 130, 167, 213, 303, 307 Burma Railway, 98, 167 Burma Road, 63, 64, 70, 117, 136, 161– 62, 163, 166, 169, 183, 187, 227 buzz bomb, 216, 334. See also V-1 Cairo, 37, 38, 39, 40, 42–43, 45, 46, 47, 48, 50, 51–53, 54, 55, 56, 58, 59, 60, 69–70, 105, 114, 126, 147, 159, 160, 205, 208, 210, 211, 217, 276 Calcutta, 63, 64, 69, 77, 89, 91, 94, 95, 96, 108, 109, 130, 133, 134, 139, 160, 164, 180, 191, 205, 217, 277, 295 Casey, Richard G., 51 CBI. See China-Burma-India theater CBI Roundup, 98, 117 Cecil Hotel, 58, 61, 64–65 censorship, 3, 18, 61–62, 80, 81, 96, 99, 170, 186, 193, 203, 225, 229, 252, 254, 259, 267, 270, 291 Chennault, Maj. Gen. Claire L., 114, 116–18, 276; identified, 337 Chester, John F. ‘‘Jack,’’ 219; identified, 335 Chiang Kai-shek, Generalissimo, 79, 117, 132, 145–46, 160, 162, 224, 232; identified, 337 Chiang Kai-shek, ‘‘Madame’’ (Soong Mai-ling), 79, 104, 132, 145–46, 160

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China-Burma-India (CBI) theater, 50, 67, 80, 98, 104, 117, 127, 128, 130, 132, 140, 148, 150, 151, 161, 162, 177, 203, 204, 205, 208, 209, 212, 213, 224, 226, 228, 250, 276, 278, 291, 296, 325; CBI defined, 333 Chindits, 161–62, 181, 183, 184–85, 193; defined, 333 Chungking, 63, 80, 90, 112–14, 131, 139, 146, 226, 228, 277 Churchill, Winston, 80, 130, 136, 146, 233, 257, 266 Clipper, Boeing 314, 39, 57; defined, 333 Cochran, Col. Philip ‘‘Flip,’’ 183, 185. See also ‘‘Terry and the Pirates’’ Commaung, 67 ‘‘coolie,’’ xi, 74, 97, 98, 213; defined, 333 Cooper, Bob, 78 Cooper, Kent, 2, 29, 31, 65–66, 203, 229, 232, 272; identified, 335 Cowan, Howard, 215, 216; identified, 336 Coward, Noel, 234 Cox, James M., 11 credentials, Army, 38, 48, 49, 50, 53, 55, 56, 59, 69, 70, 205, 286 Cronkite, Walter, iv, vii, x, xiii Cunningham, Ed, 171 Davidson, Brig. Gen. Howard C., 139, 153 Day, Frances, 234 D-Day, 191, 195, 217 De Luce, Alma, 69 De Luce, Daniel ‘‘Dan,’’ xiv, 56, 69; identified, 336 DeLuce, Dan. See De Luce, Daniel ‘‘Dan’’ de Wiart, Lt. Gen. Carten, 146

Delafield, Capt. Dean, 199 Deming, Ben, 16–17 DePauw University, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 18, 19, 21, 102, 160, 209, 315–16 DePauw, xv, 12, 15, 16, 17, 18, 22 Detroit Free Press, xv, 324 Dewey, Thomas E., 232 Dixon, Kenneth ‘‘Ken,’’ 234; identified, 336 Durdin, Tillman, 171 Earhart, Amelia, 27 Editor & Publisher, xv, 204 Enola Gay, 279 ETO. See European Theater of Operation Eunson, Robert ‘‘Bob,’’ 216, 223, 252, 254; identified, 336 European Theater of Operation (ETO), 195, 210, 214, 277, 278; ETO defined, 333 Evans, John, 37; identified, 335 Everson, Les, 13, 14 Fabian, Dr. Bela, 264–65 Farnsworth, Clyde, 55, 56, 126, 131, 198, 201, 202; identified, 336 ‘‘Fat Man,’’ 279 First Army, U.S., 220, 222, 238, 240, 243, 256 flash (bulletin of major importance), 4, 25, 28, 287, 288, 326; defined, 333 Flying Fortress (B-17), 84, 86, 198; defined, 333 Flying Tigers, 117. See also American Volunteer Group ‘‘Forgotten War, The,’’ 67 Fourteenth Air Force, 112, 113, 114, 115, 120, 125, 127, 131, 208, 212, 276–77

Index : 341

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galahad, 162 Gallagher, Wes, xiv, 215, 270, 272, 274–75; identified, 335 Gandhi, Mahatma (Mohandas Karamchand), 79, 80, 81 ‘‘Gee-eye.’’ See GI Germany, surrender of, 204, 215, 259, 270–71, 325–26 GI, 129, 130, 145, 164, 174, 179, 235, 238, 239, 240, 243, 254, 255, 259, 278, 295, 309; defined, 333 Gilbert, Lt. William M. ‘‘Bill,’’ 152 Gould, Alan, 30, 31, 202, 203; identified, 336 Green, Betty ‘‘Betts.’’ See Wiant, Doris Elizabeth Green ‘‘Betty’’/‘‘Betts’’ Green, C. Lewis ‘‘Lew,’’ 188, 279; identified, 335 Green, Edna Glenn ‘‘Glennie,’’ 188, 287, 288, 323; identified, 335 Green, Richard ‘‘Dick,’’ 187; identified, 335 Grover, Preston, 53, 56, 58, 59, 60, 61, 65, 68, 72, 75, 81, 90, 91, 94, 95, 100, 102, 105, 106, 113, 115, 126, 135, 138–39, 142, 144, 145, 158, 159, 160, 178, 179, 229, 232; identified, 336 Grumich, Charles A. ‘‘Charley,’’ 147, 171, 179, 192, 193; identified, 336 Hagenbuch, Tom, 32; identified, 336 Harding, Warren G., 11, 266 Hargrove, Sgt. Marion, 114 Haugland, Vern, 41; identified, 336 Hawkins, Lewis ‘‘Lew,’’ 242, 243, 246, 247, 249–50; identified, 336 ‘‘Hell for the Japs’’ (unpublished autobiographical essay), 147–57, 158 Henderson, Pete, 30, 31; identified, 336

Hewlett, Frank, 171 Hill, Herb, 40 Hiroshima, 279 Honce, Charles, 32; identified, 336 Hoover, Herbert, 8, 32–33 Hope, Victor Alexander John. See Linlithgow, Lord ‘‘Hump,’’ the, 70, 91, 102, 112, 161, 200, 205, 227, 277; defined, 333 Imperial Hotel, 64–65 Imperial Iron and Steel Works, 197, 199, 200 Indianapolis News, xv, 13, 22, 23, 40, 50, 59, 74, 75, 87, 91, 108, 111, 115, 118, 121, 140, 145, 160, 207, 276 Indianapolis Star, xv, 13, 26, 40, 66, 102, 127, 132, 137, 276 Ingalls, Laura, 27–28 Jagger, Claude, 211; identified, 336 ‘‘Jane Arden’’ (comic strip), 13 Japan, surrender of, 279 Jones, Rachel, 12, 330; identified, 335 Jones, Simeon Henry, 12, 330; identified, 335 Kandy (Ceylon), 180, 182, 183, 184, 187, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 202, 205, 217 Keillor, Garrison, xv, xvii Kennedy, Edward ‘‘Ed,’’ 42, 45, 46, 47, 48, 53, 55, 56, 58, 70, 210, 211, 215, 217, 233, 234, 259, 270–72; identified, 336 Kirk, Alexander, 51 Kuomintang Party, 79, 224 LaBaudt, Lucien, 157 Ledo Road, 162, 163, 166, 169, 170, 190, 208

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Lee, Clark, 124; identified, 336 Lee, Paul K., xiv, 45, 48, 56, 69–71, 126, 159; identified, 336 Leonard, Bishop Adna Wright I, 105, 106 letters, importance of, 1, 6, 49, 76, 80– 81, 94, 95, 102, 106, 123, 125, 171, 196, 218, 228, 233, 250 Lewis, John L., 130 Liberator (B-24), 116, 118, 119, 120, 143, 148, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 157, 217, 291, 305; defined, 334 Linlithgow, Lord, 140–41; identified, 337 ‘‘Little Boy,’’ 279 London, vii, ix, 62, 69, 99, 186, 210, 211, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 223, 225, 228, 229, 232, 233, 234, 242, 254, 270, 277, 321 Luxembourg, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256 MacArthur, Gen. Douglas, 80 mailer, 90, 91, 102, 111, 126, 127, 130, 136, 139, 141, 144, 177, 212; defined, 334 Maingkwan, 167, 175, 178, 207 Mander, Mary Sue, 61–62, 101 Marmagoa, 135, 138, 142 Martin, Frank L., 47, 94, 95, 105, 106, 115, 126, 127, 135, 139, 142, 143, 144, 179; identified, 336 Martin, Lt. Robert, 138, 155 Martin, Robert, 126 Maxwell, Maj. Gen. Russell L., 48, 50–51; identified, 337 Mayu Peninsula, 75, 77, 86, 96 McGaffin, William ‘‘Bill,’’ 53, 58, 60– 61, 65, 72, 94, 95, 105; identified, 336

McGuire, ‘‘Mom,’’ 287, 288; identified, 335 Me 109. See Messerschmidt Bf 109 Merrill, Maj. Gen. Frank D., 162; identified, 337. See also Merrill’s Marauders Merrill’s Marauders, vii, 162, 180, 192, 207, 209 Messerschmidt Bf 109, 54; Me 109 defined, 334 Miller, Capt. Robert, 151 Miller, Glenn, 35–36 Miller, Paul, 26, 37; identified, 336 Mitchell (B-25), 116, 151, 188; defined, 334 Mitsubishi A6M. See Zero Moosa, Spencer, 113, 115; identified, 336 Morin, Relman ‘‘Pat,’’ 39, 179; identified, 336 Morris, John, 129 Mountbatten, Vice Admiral Lord Louis, 80, 130, 136, 139, 140, 142, 146, 151, 160, 162, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 224; identified, 337 Muir, Frances, 81 Muir, Peter, 81 Myitkyina, 162, 181, 183, 187, 189, 190, 192, 193, 194, 207, 208 Myitnge Bridge, 87, 93, 153 Nagasaki, 279, 280 Necrason, Col. Conrad, 84, 87, 88, 94, 96, 148–49 New Delhi, 40, 56, 58, 59, 60, 62, 79, 90, 99, 102, 107, 111, 112, 113, 122, 123, 140, 148, 157, 178 news stories, transmitting, 99, 100–1, 206–7 Normandy, invasion of, 191, 195

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North Africa, 38, 44, 50, 54, 95, 124, 128, 151, 184, 239 O’Sullivan, J. Reilly, 115, 131; identified, 337 Ochiltree, Sam, 25, 26; identified, 336 Oliver, Brig. Gen. Robert C., 127–28 Omaha Beach, 195 Operation Torch, 50 Oxnam, G. Bromley, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 P-40, 112, 116, 117 Patton, Gen. George S. Jr., 7, 8, 104, 210, 221, 233, 234, 235, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 253, 257, 258, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 266, 267, 268, 269, 271, 276, 277, 278, 284, 309, 325; identified, 337 Pearl Harbor, 3, 37, 79, 149, 201, 279 Phillips, William, 81, 82 ‘‘Photo Joes,’’ 136, 137–38, 154–55; defined, 334 Pittsburgh Post Gazette, xv, 62, 65, 79, 174, 175, 186, 207, 208, 266 Post, Wiley, 24–28, 36 POWs. See prisoners of war Price, Byron, 31, 32; identified, 336 prisoners of war (POWs), 135, 222, 230, 246, 256, 257, 263, 264, 266– 67, 268, 270 PRO. See Public Relations Officer Public Relations Officer (PRO), 55, 62, 140, 186, 207, 251, 255; PRO defined, 334 Pullman sleeping car, 41, 75, 198, 199, 301; defined, 334 Rand, Robert ‘‘Bob,’’ 130 Rangoon, 64, 69, 70, 83, 86, 87, 88, 90, 98, 100, 102, 103, 109, 134, 136,

138, 139, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 169, 206, 212, 277, 291 Rickenbacker, Eddie, 111–12, 137; identified, 337 Romeiser, John, xiii, xiv, 39, 339 Rommel, Field Marshal Erwin, 38, 43, 44, 104; identified, 337 Roosevelt, Franklin D., 2, 7, 11, 31, 80, 136, 209, 224, 232, 257, 265, 266, 277 Ross, Jack, 166; identified, 335 Ross, Miriam Green ‘‘Misty,’’ 166; identified, 335 San Antonio News, 13 Sanders, Hazel, 77 Schuschnigg, Kurt von, 268 SEAC. See South East Asia Command Seagrave, Lt. Col. Dr. Gordon S., 169; identified, 337 Second Front, 191, 195, 202 SHAEF. See Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces Shannon, Fred, 160; identified, 336 Shenkel, William ‘‘Bill,’’ 213, 228 Shepley, Jim, 141, 171 Sixth Army Group, U.S., 210, 233, 234, 235 Skulls and Wings (Skull and Bones), 93, 133 Snapka, Staff Sgt. William, 154 Snyder, Joe, 41; identified, 337 soldiers American, 51, 73, 108, 173, 238, 239, 243, 263, 266 Chinese, 121, 163, 168, 169, 173–74 German, 126–27, 137, 261, 309 Japanese, 76, 91, 126, 185 South Bend Tribune, xv, 17 South East Asia Command (SEAC), 162, 186, 191; SEAC defined, 334

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speed limit, in wartime, 40 Spotlight, 12 Springfield Sun, 12 Stark, Lt. Col. William, 154 Stars and Stripes, 240, 253, 270 Steele, Arch, 81, 125, 169, 171 Steinberg, Tech. Sgt. Charles, 152 Stilwell, Lt. Col. Joseph W. Jr., 207 Stilwell, Gen. Joseph W., 7, 80, 111, 114, 120–21, 130, 142, 144, 161– 70, 173, 174, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181–82, 183, 184, 185, 187, 189– 91, 195, 202, 206–7, 208, 209, 210, 213, 214, 223–28, 229, 277, 291, 324, 325; identified, 337 Stinnett, Jack, 32; identified, 337 Strickland, Brig. Gen. A. C., 46; identified, 337 Stuart, Jim, 40 Superfortress (B-29), 197, 198, 199, 200, 204, 205, 208, 277, 279, 291, 325; defined, 334 Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces (SHAEF), 234, 259, 270–71; SHAEF defined, 334 Swartz, Maj. Dale L., 138 Tenth Air Force, 59, 81, 116, 125, 126, 129, 130, 132, 133, 136, 137, 138, 139, 151, 153, 154, 160, 208 ‘‘Terry and the Pirates’’ (comic strip), 183 Thazi Junction, 100, 153 Third Army, U.S., 210, 219, 220, 221, 234, 235, 241, 242, 243, 245, 254, 255, 256, 257, 260, 266, 267, 269, 270, 271, 272, 277, 309 Todd, Michael, 8 Toungoo, 63, 97, 98 trains, Indian, 58, 75, 76, 77, 83 Tseng, Eddie, 172

Tuchman, Barbara, 130, 162, 228 Tucker, George, 56; identified, 337 Tunisia, 104 ‘‘Uncle Joe.’’ See Stilwell, Gen. Joseph W. United Press (UP), 25, 63, 68, 73, 77, 86, 96, 114, 126, 129, 141, 147, 171, 177, 186, 206, 213, 229, 254, 255; defined, 334 UP. See United Press V-1, 216, 218, 219; defined, 334 V-2, 218, 219, 277; defined, 334 V-E Day, 277 V-J Day, 279, 281 ‘‘Vinegar Joe.’’ See Stilwell, Gen. Joseph W. V-mail, 80–81, 231, 232; defined, 334 WAC. See Women’s Army Corps Wavell, Gen. Sir Archibald P., 63, 64, 79, 80, 81–82, 130, 139, 140, 141, 161–62; identified, 337 Wendle, Maj. Cornelius, 175–76 Werner, Wade, 240, 241; identified, 337 White, Theodore H., 209 Whitehead, Donald F. ‘‘Don,’’ xiii, 38– 39, 42, 43, 45, 48, 51, 53, 70, 125, 196, 210, 211, 244; identified, 337 Whitehead, Marie, 233 Wiant, Don, xiv, 187; identified, 335 Wiant, Doris Elizabeth Green ‘‘Betty’’/ ‘‘Betts,’’ xi, 15, 28–30, 32, 40, 49, 56, 61, 77, 79, 85, 91, 94, 102, 106, 107, 110, 137, 140, 145, 146, 157, 159, 172, 177, 188, 196, 207, 215, 223, 228, 232, 233, 256, 263, 273, 274, 281, 283, 287, 288, 290, 292, 293, 294, 295, 296, 297, 299, 304,

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306, 307, 313, 319, 322, 323, 327; identified, 335 Wiant, Howard, xiv, 10, 12, 49, 126, 192, 209, 259, 279, 282, 311, 320, 323–24, 329; identified, 335 Wiant, Myrtle, 10, 318, 327; identified, 335 Wiant, Thoburn Hughes ‘‘Toby’’ at DePauw University, 14–22 early Associated Press career, 23–36 marriage to Betty Green, 28–30 Army credentials delay, 38, 48, 49, 50, 53, 55, 56, 59, 69–70 average work day in India, 98–99 with Gen. Stilwell in Burma, 161, 162, 163–65, 169, 170 death of brother-in-law Dick Green, 187–89 eyewitness report of B-29 raid on Yawata, Japan, 197–201, 203 Air Medal awarded, 2, 7, 132, 135, 148, 160, 209, 277 ‘‘Hoosier High Flyer’’ article, 211–14 in London, 215–19, 223 Chiang-Stilwell incident, 224–29 in Paris, 233–34, 259, 274 with Sixth Army Group, 235–38 fall of Trier, 254–55 with Third Army and Gen. Patton, 241–46, 251, 258, 260–263, 271 AP resignation, 274–76 with Young & Rubicam, 280, 284– 85, 289, 317–18, 319–20

birth of daughter, Susan, 287–89 heart attacks, 290–301 melanoma (initial), 302–14 DePauw University reunion, 315–17 colon cancer, 319 lung cancer, 320–21, 322, 323–24 eulogy by John C. Manning, 324–26 Wiant, Warren W., 10, 18, 19, 20, 21, 207, 327; identified, 335 Wide World Features, AP, 37 Wide World Photos, AP, 37 Wilkinson, Lt. Col. Warren, 198, 199, 200, 201, 205 Wilson, Lt. Gordon, 151–52 Wilson, Robert ‘‘Bob,’’ 236, 240, 242; identified, 337 Wilson, Woodrow, 11 Wing, Jo, 32; identified, 336 Wingate, Brig. Gen. Orde C., 142, 143, 162 Winzer, Lt. Ted, 152–53 Wolfe, Bennett, 31; identified, 336 Women’s Army Corps (WAC), 129, 140; WAC defined, 334 Yarbrough, Tom, 240; identified, 337 Yawata, 197, 199, 200, 203, 204, 205, 213, 277, 291 Yeomans, Rev. Clyde G., 28, 29, 289; identified, 335 Young, Maj. Richard ‘‘Dick,’’ 207, 209 Zero, 87, 98, 103, 117, 134, 138, 149, 152, 206, 291; defined, 334

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World War II: The Global, Human, and Ethical Dimension G. Kurt Piehler, series editor Lawrence Cane, David E. Cane, Judy Barrett Litoff, and David C. Smith, eds., Fighting Fascism in Europe: The World War II Letters of an American Veteran of the Spanish Civil War Angelo M. Spinelli and Lewis H. Carlson, Life behind Barbed Wire: The Secret World War II Photographs of Prisoner of War Angelo M. Spinelli Don Whitehead and John B. Romeiser, ‘‘Beachhead Don’’: Reporting the War from the European Theater, 1942–1945 Scott H. Bennett, ed., Army GI, Pacifist CO: The World War II Letters of Frank and Albert Dietrich Alexander Jefferson with Lewis H. Carlson, Red Tail Captured, Red Tail Free: Memoirs of a Tuskegee Airman and POW Jonathan G. Utley, Going to War with Japan, 1937–1941 Grant K. Goodman, America’s Japan: The First Year, 1945–1946 Patricia Kollander with John O’Sullivan, ‘‘I Must Be a Part of This War’’: One Man’s Fight against Hitler and Nazism Judy Barrett Litoff, An American Heroine in the French Resistance: The Diary and Memoir of Virginia d’Albert-Lake Thomas R. Christofferson and Michael S. Christofferson, France during World War II: From Defeat to Liberation Don Whitehead, Combat Reporter: Don Whitehead’s World War II Diary and Memoirs, edited by John B. Romeiser James M. Gavin, The General and His Daughter: The Wartime Letters of General James M. Gavin to His Daughter Barbara, edited by Barbara Gavin Fauntleroy et al. Carol Adele Kelly, ed., Voices of My Comrades: America’s Reserve Officers Remember World War II, Foreword by Senators Ted Stevens and Daniel K. Inouye John J. Toffey IV, Jack Toffey’s War: A Son’s Memoir Lt. General James V. Edmundson, Letters to Lee: From Pearl Harbor to the War’s Final Mission, edited by Dr. Celia Edmundson John K. Stutterheim, The Diary of Prisoner 17326: A Boy’s Life in a Japanese Labor Camp, Foreword by Mark Parillo G. Kurt Piehler and Sidney Pash, eds., The United States and the Second World War: New Perspectives on Diplomacy, War, and the Home Front

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