Between the Bylines: A Father's Legacy 9780823291069

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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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