Hickey 2 PDF

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Tom Hickeys

India

1945 1946

A Soldiers

Diary

He has exhibited such pluck

time and again, even as a five

foot, six inch Army private in

the 1940s. He and his barracks

mates were still in their skivvieswhen a captain walked in,

spotted the slim Tom Hickey

and asked: "What do you

weigh, soldier?"

"One hundred and twelve

pounds sir." (pause)"ALL

MUSCLE!"

As taken from Toms story at www.thejourneyof.netCopyright 2013 by Thomas Hickey

Send inquiries to:

5024 Saul Street

Piladelphia, PA 19124-2636


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INTRODUCTION

It is hard for me to believe that almost 70 years have passedsince I served in India. No matter, the vivid memories of the

people, living in their enlightened and fascinating culture,combined with my own military presence, are embedded in mymemory and spirit.

I was fortunate to have been designated by the US Army tothe Detached Enlisted Mens List (DEML) branch, available forassignment to nearly anywhere, as an individual soldier.

That gave me, on lucky assignments such as India itself,then Ordnance in New Delhi, and JAG in Calcutta, theunforgettable opportunity to see and experience the bustling,often inscrutable lives of Indians in countryside villages and incrowded, sometimes chaotic center of the countrys largest city.Learning mostly about people.

I wanted to keep the memories alive, and for years Igathered newspaper and magazine accounts, and occasionalbooks, relating to an India evolving through the years.

Ultimately, and I suppose inevitably, I was persuaded toput the memories in writing. So hopefully these pages willpreserve a piece of the history of the people, some in extremepoverty, yet everywhere with life pulsing with activity, and with

an apparent spirit within themselves, holding a sense ofendurance, struggling daily in their own space, barely concernedof the change (Independence!) about to happen.

They did endure, and in a good many respects, thrived. Icontinue to have an expansive respect for Indian people and theirculture, and I certainly hope that you as the reader and my kidsand grandkids, will enjoy what I have written.


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TOM HICKEYS

INDIA1945 - 1946

A SOLDIERS

DIARY

PASSAGE TO INDIA

All I ever knew about India I learned in the second grade.

The Sister at Our Lady of the Rosary School had passed around a

newspaper photo of a man - bald, skin and bones, toothless-


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covered partially with a sheet, lying on a cot. He was, Sister said,

letting himself starve. He was doing this, Sister said, as penance

for people in his country who were fighting each other, and he

didn't want them to be doing that. He wanted them to act

peacefully.

Sister asked us to say a prayer for him when we said our

prayers at bedtime that night, because he was a good man. This

was happening in India, she told us, which was far across the

ocean in Asia, which we would learn about later. I dont

remember learning whether the fighting had stopped, or whether

the man got well, and I don't remember whether I said a prayer

for him that night.

Now here I was, twenty years later, getting off the troop

ship, changing to a flat craft capable of maneuvering the shallow

bay, herding into a railroad car on the bank, and in the semi-dark

an Army sergeant handing us a small bottle of something, telling

us to button up closely, to the wrist, and from the bottle, put on

the "repellicant" to ward off mosquitos.

We were in India.


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Tom Hickey (center) with his buddies (Toms collection)

KANSHAPARA

The train took us slowly in the dark to an Army camp in a

village named Kanshapara, and there we stayed for two weeks or

so while the Army sorted out where each of us would be

assigned, some place in the India-Burma Theater.

I hadn't expected to be in India at all. A couple months before,

about sixty GIs with stenographic skills were sent to Indiantown Gap,

near Harrisburg, PA for ten days of dictation (routine and difficult), at

varying speeds of transcribing and typing. The purpose was to select


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the ten most qualified male GIs for

transfer to China to man the

expanding central headquarters office

there.

I was good. I benefitted from

years of service at hearings with the

State of Pennsylvania, and with the

Army JAG (Judge Advocate General)

office at Fort Eustis, Virginia. And I

was one of the ten.

I was really happy, and I wrote to my folks back home and told

them of the testing. I said the next letter they would receive from me

would be from China.

Actually, the next letter I sent home was from a desolate Army

camp in Louisiana, where I was in training to be an engineer, building

a wooden bridge over a dry river bed. Later on it overflowed during a

heavy thunder storm and completely demolished the bridge. One other

time we all had to give up the right-of-way to a wild razorback hog that

was snorting randomly through the Company HQ tent.

Not China, Louisiana. I had been bumped. By whom and why, I

knew not, and was sent back to the camp I had come from


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I was not happy. But as a maxim I said to myself: "When in the

Army, you go where they send you and do what they tell you.

Happily though, a couple weeks later, my friend Ray, now in the

personnel office, called me in. Ray, a fellow LaSalle College alumnus,

had met me over a basin of pots and pans on KP during our basic

training at Fort Eustis many months before, and we stayed close

friends during the many transfers since. Now in personnel, he had

some control over my fate.

"Tom," he said, "Theres a requisition on the wire for a steno

clerk in India. I'm going to assign you there." That sounded

interesting to me. I was happy to be leaving Louisiana.

I was delighted. Ray had cut the orders shipping me to the West

Coast, and there I got the shots and the uniforms appropriate to the

destination climate. I was off.

PASS TO CALCUTTA

It was a thirty-day trip across the vast Pacific and tumultuous

for three days at the edge of a tornado, during which the only food I

could hold down was two rolls of peppermint Life Savers, courtesy

of Reds, another LaSalle man, serving with the Coast Guard

manning the troop ship.


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Moving on, we had a day re-discovering our land legs at Perth,

on the western tip of Australia, another few days through the Indian

Ocean surprisingly and gratefully placid, then into the Bay of

Bengal and finally, Kanshapara.

Typical village scene (Toms collection)

We had been given two pamphlets orienting us into India's

customs, languages, and some history. They were helpful and

handy, as I would soon learn.


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Basic information from the Department of State 1942

Kanshapara was an interesting introduction to India. We got to

know the natives - smiling, pleasant, and helpful, at the village

stands. I bought two presumably silk handkerchief-like pieces,

heavily dyed red and green, expecting to send them home.

Unfortunately they were shredded to bits by red ants at the foot of my

rope cot the next night.


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I soon learned how things got done in India. For example,

how did the wide lawn at the front of the one-story HQ building get

cut? Simple. A row of men and boys, crouching down and close

together along a line, working in tandem moved along using small

clippers. Later, in Calcutta, we watched as a man moved his goats

along the grass walkway, grazing as they went, keeping the lawn

trimmed.

One night I was given guard duty at eleven PM. I was taken by

an MP in a Jeep to a wire-fence-enclosed power station or water

tower. I didn't inquire which. "You'll be here til daybreak, said the

MP, as he drove away. Dutifully, I patrolled around the enclosure,

and suddenly, at a short distance between my post and the natives'

huts, there was an ominous figure crouching. Could it possibly be a

Bengal tiger resting? This was Bengal, after all. Here I was, a born

and bred city kid many miles from the civilized world as he knew it.

Now I was a soldier guarding US Army property of some value, and

watching some predator waiting to pounce. I snapped a clip into my

carbine, concerned that the click might alert whatever it was out

there and I was ready, watchful.

Dawn was approaching when a native man emerged from one

of the homes, walked in back of the predator, then emptied a pail


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into a nearby ditch, and casually went back into his home. No

movement from the predator.

Daybreak finally came. I now saw the fierce Bengal tiger was

actually a lump of laundry laid there for the people to be washing it

that day. I had a lot to learn.

The MP came on schedule, left another GI for patrol, and took

me back to camp.

With a one-day pass, I jumped at the chance to visit Calcutta.

In an open truck, we barreled through village after village, horn

blasting nearly continuously, scattering people and animals as we

went. There seemed to be no designated roads for much of the thirty

or so miles, but the driver apparently knew the route, and the people

routinely got themselves out of the way.

At one point we could see we were heading into a storm

the monsoon season, June through September, was upon us. When

it came, I sat watching what the experienced guys were doing. They

sat immobile, getting completely drenched, and I did also. When

we passed through the storm I watched as the other GIs stood,

pressed creases into their pants and shirts, stretched out their arms

and in a few minutes the sun and heat did what those GIs had

known about. They and I were completely dried.


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After pulling into the motor pool of the US Headquarters

building near one of the main intersections of the city, I became, what

could be best described, a wild -eyed tourist.

First I wandered into the HQ building, met a friend, Howard,

from my Fort Eustis days, who showed me around, introduced me to

the people in JAG. They all seemed like nice fellows and were glad to

meet me.

Outside, the center of Calcutta took on a face almost

unbelievable in contrast to any major city in the States. I saw

barefooted Indians pulling rickshaws and turban-topped Indians

driving taxis through the clogged streets. There were Indian women in

colorful, beautiful saris and men in western clothes. Other people were

hurrying or lounging in white tee shirts and dhotis (wrap), some with

sandals, some without.


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Street scene (Toms collection)

Also, a chalk-white woman, obviously not Indian,

walking shaded by an umbrella avoiding the sun. Young men

stood at a stand smoking cigarettes.

Young men smoking cigarettes (Toms collection)


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Brick walls were fronting the glass windows of department

stores, protecting the plate glass from possible bombing in event of a

Japanese attack. And a blind beggar stood by with a staff covered with

coins and emblems from all around the world.

Sikhs riding on the side of a taxi (Toms collection)

All this moving, alive with humanity, in a country I never

imagined before. It was much more exciting than the Sister at Our

Lady of the Rosary ever described. It was fascinating, too much to hold

in memory, as I took the motor pool back to Kanshapara and wait for

orders.


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ORDERS TO NEW DELHI

The orders came. I am assigned to Ordnance, New Delhi. Well,

that's the way it goes: From draft pick, to steno clerk, to German

prisoners of war guard, to engineer, to Ordnance. As has been said:

"When in the Army, you go ...etc." That's survival. Or as an

infantryman said one time: "Survive, then advance. So I guess I'm

advancing. But, I was fortunate to have been in war times for two years

and haven't been shot at yet.

Quickly I was on my way to Calcutta. My first stop was a rail

station and I began inching my way through a multitude of humanity

to a tiny booth in a corner where GIs took a look at my orders,

confirmed them, and handed me a ticket, pointing to my platform.


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Rail station (Toms collection)


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If I said "inched my way" even that would be an

understatement. That station was the size of a vast airport-hanger and

was packed with moving, seeming directionless humanity. (Later,

under less hectic moments I would learn that this huge building was

also sleeping-quarters for hundreds and hundreds of people. It was a

roof over their heads at nights or in rotten weather. Where else?

Trains on several tracks were being boarded; mine was on the

right, directly ahead. An Indian grabbed at my large duffle bag as soon

as I had been given a ticket. He was what we would call a Red Cap.

As he took the bag he said "Sahib," wanting me to let him have control

of it. I gave in and he rushed ahead through the crowd toward the

train. He turned once and looked back for me, urging me to follow. I

was concerned about never seeing my bag again so I held a coin aloft

for him to see and acknowledge.

Thankfully, he boarded the train; burst into a compartment

meant for two passengers, dropped my bag and smiled proudly. He

was obviously happy to have gotten for me such a good spot. He then

took the coin and left.

Within a few minutes, another GI, a PFC named Larry, rushed

in. Seeing me, he closed the compartment door, took off his GI tie,


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and tied it around the door knobs, securing us in. I had the immediate

impression Larry had been on this trip before.

A well-dressed Indian man being escorted by his Red Cap, tried

to open the now sealed door and saw American soldiers; swore, and

moved away. He apparently had a reservation for a compartment.

There was a lot of scurrying outside the train while it pulled

away. It was a local train, scheduled to make the roughly 800 mile trip

to Delhi in three days, two nights. The line ran mostly parallel with the

Ganges River, though we saw little of it, and ran, interestingly for me,

through the very heart of mid-northeastern India. The train was

packed. Non-ticketed passengers rode on the roofs, dropping off and

climbing on at each local stop. They slept on the roofs during the

night, managing not falling off. Watching all this I thought of the

hoboes in the US. These were the poor souls hopping freights, hoping

to avoid the rail police and hoping to reach a Promised Land during

our Great Depression.


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People rode everywhere (Google Images)

But in India the situation is different. They werent hoboes.

Watching riders get off the roofs at different local stops I realized they

had specific destinations, but were penniless, and so rode the roofs to

get wherever they needed to be.

The "rest-room" on the train was in the far corner of the car,

with a kind of half-door, and just a hole in the floor, surrounded with a

metal flooring, used obviously only when the train was moving.

We accidently dropped some C-rations on the floor of our

compartment. Within minutes the leavings were swarmed by vermin

of all conceivable colors and sizes, emerging from the very seats we


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were going to sleep on that night. Gingerly, we swabbed it . . .

cleaned it up.

RURAL INDIA

The view out the window that first day was a capsule view of

rural India. Springing into view were villages of small huts set back

from the tracks. Now and then wed see workers reaping what was

probably rice. Once we had a view of some Indian women washing

clothes and animals in a pond. And at every stop, kids hollered

"bahksheesh" and "bahksheesh soldier" as we stuck our heads out

the window. For us bahksheesh became the most used word heard in

all India. It was "charity" in Hindi. The kids were frolicking, kidding

with us, and yet asking plainly for hand-outs. One time Larry tossed a

half-eaten tin of rations to them. A boy picked it up, smelled it, threw it

aside, turned and threw up. Another time an older girl grabbed her

breast, and I swear, squirted some fluid from it. Ill never forget that

sight.


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Rural huts (Toms collection)

At one stop an AWOL GI came aboard, with GI shoes, pants

and GI undershirt. He told us he had been AWOL for more than six

months, pointed out the hut he was living in, with, he said, A great

little Indian girl. Any worry about US MPs? None at all, he said, he

was too far inland. The local people? "They are great," he said. "They

know how to do things I didn't and I know how to do things they

don't. We get along fine." Hows the food? "You mean rather than C-

rations?" Enough said. He said he was there for good, the rest of his

life, not caring when the US Army - and Air Force, he said, pulled out


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entirely and went home. I remember vaguely feeling sorry for him, but

he seemed determined and happy.

At one stop a man was bathing, using a kind of gushing pump.

As the waist-high pump sprayed on him, he pulled his used loincloth

off, swept his clean one on zip, zip. No motion lost. Like Gypsy Rose

Lee? Similar. No one at the busy station paid any attention to him.

Larry and I split shifts at night, keeping watch. He slept the first

night, I the second. On my watch that night I was stretched out on the

top bunk, alert, enjoying the rumble of the train going through the

quiet countryside, when an Indian attempted to come crawling from

the roof through our window. He was assuming, I suppose, that we

were asleep. I watched, carefully braced myself, and then with both

feet kicked him clear out of the window. I could hear him scream as he

flew off the moving train down the embankment.


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Children in a village (Toms collection)

BENARES

It was a little after noon when we reached Benares.

Most of the train's passengers got off; the roof passengers

cleared entirely. This was their destination.

The sight of the humanity crowding the station is hard to

describe but I'll try: A man sitting there, naked, legs crossed, eyes shut;

men in loose white shirts and pants; a big man, naked and other small


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men with dhotis, all covered head to toe with a whitish ash. I also

observed women wearing bright saris; a man sitting cross-legged

reading a book, then gazing skyward; women with masks protecting

their breathing. Odors of incense.

Women in a village (Toms collection)

In all this confusion each person went about their

business with total unconcern about what others were doing,

seeming absorbed only in his or her own ritual.

I didn't understand any of it.


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Larry had been there before, and he filled me in a little: Benares

is the oldest city in the world, he said (3000 years) and Hindus try to

make a pilgrimage to Benares at least once in their lives, to bathe in the

Ganges.

The train stop would be an hour or so, he said, so that gave me a

chance to wander. I bought a bottle of water - the day was hot and

humid - 100 degrees or so.

Knowing we had to be near the Ganges, and guessing that all

that activity at the station was related to some religious rite, I wanted to

see what might be going on there.

I couldn't get close, but through pictures and news stories later,

the drama of Benares as the holiest of India's cities, unfolded.

As the saying apparently goes: Hindus go to Benares to die.

Each year more than a million Hindus make the visit, especially those

for whom death is near. The intention, during a pilgrimage is to dip

into the holy Ganges, and should the stars and planets be in alignment,

the bathing could free them from the traditional cycle of death and

reincarnation. And, for many, the bathing meant washing away their

sins.


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People bathing in the Ganges (Google Images)

All this, as I learned, spoke of the Hindu meaning of life and

death.

It was a religion I couldn't begin to understand. Perhaps I never

would.

ALLAHABAD

After Benares the next major stop was Allahabad, a very large

city and also a holy one. An Indian soldier who had served guard duty

years before during one of the festivals stopped in to talk with us and

told us all about Allahabad.


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Allahabad structure (Google Images)

Sitting at the juncture of the holy Ganges and Jumna Rivers

(Gandhi's ashes were strewn there later), and considered sacred by the

Hindus, a festival was held there once about every twelve years. Many

millions, the soldier stressed, came to the river banks each year.

"They get there by elephant, camel, donkey, horse, bullock,

by rail or car. They walk or crawl or are carried" we read later "The

blind, crippled, diseased who expect cures; barren women hoping for

fertility; sinners seeking salvation," all come to take a dip in the waters.


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AFTERNOON ADVENTURE

After Benares and Allahabad, the late afternoon ride was

peaceful and relaxing. Our short trip was filled with views of the

countryside life of India.

We marveled at groups of tiny huts and small villages, and

observed lakeside activities. All space was occupied.

And as evening came on you could feel the contrast between the

day's earlier excitement with the quiet beauty now of this bewildering,

intense, and sensuous country.

Life on a hillside (Toms collection)


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Children in a working boat (Toms collection)


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Gathering water (Toms collection)

Sunset (Toms collection)

Archway at New Delhi (Toms collection)


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I was now to learn where Id be working. The officer

commanding Ordnance was a regular Army Colonel, an older

man, who greeted me kindly, then turned me over to a Defense

Department secretary, a woman, who I came to enjoy and

appreciate. She controlled the office and ran the department

when the Colonel was away. Since the Theater had been split

into India-Burma, as a support operation, and China as an active

military section, the Colonel was obligated to oversee the

Ordnance function in China. That meant "flying the hump, a

risky flight over the Himalayas. The Colonel would be gone for

nearly a week at a time. As a result I would be working on

routine stuff the secretary would think up, and left spare time for

me to see Delhi. That's New Delhi.

There was a huge archway that separated New Delhi from

entry toward "old" Delhi. "Don't go through there," I w a s

t o l d b y t h e M P s . "Why?"I asked. Just dont go through

there. Let those folks alone. So I didnt, and did.


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RECREATION


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Spare time was considered a luxury, and it was used with

relish. For example, a pal Reilly and I took our requisitioned

bicycles to a quiet section containing a few shops, a movie

theater and a small cafe. In the cafe we met a scholar - a

professional whose specialty was as an interpreter or writer of

correspondence for anyone. He was most articulate and glad to

speak with Americans. With his extensive knowledge of G.B.

Shaw, heembarrassed me, even with my year and a half of liberal

arts college, I knew little.

And Reilly and I had a chance to get in nine holes of golf

one time. The course, used primarily by American and British

officers, was staffed by an Army GI named Johnny Goodman. In

1936 the PGA, as a courtesy, invited selective amateurs to

compete. In one of their major matches Johnny won,

embarrassing all the professionals. Here now in Delhi, he

allotted bags and clubs and balls to us, and two caddies - one to

carry the clubs, one to stand over theball as it landed on the

fairway, protecting it from crows. I well remember getting off a

fine tee shot once and hearingtheone caddy shout out, "Johnny

Goodman shot, Sahib."


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From that one time, however, the ball caddychoseto stay

closer to the drive area rather than getting way out and coming

back to where the balls were landing. Reilly and I wound up both

playing theone ball. Any shotgoing into the brushlining the

narrow fairway was lost. Neithercaddie could find it. But if you

were to offer to buy a ball from either, the question would be

"How many?"

MAHATMA GANDHI

With a couple hours to spare one afternoon, I took a walk

in a quiet, relatively secluded street of New Delhi. Alone, I

walked along the pavement of the wide, noiseless street, trees

bordering the road and high rough-stone walls protecting the

mansion grounds inside. There was the occasional sweet tinkle

of bells signaling the approach of a tonga - a more sedate

rickshaw drawn by a pony, with the tonga wallah seated in front,

similar, I thought to the driver in harness racing at the Allentown

Fair.


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Mahatma Gandhi (Google Images)

I was in no hurry, the walk was too pleasant. I eventually

came to a driveway of a mansion with open iron gates and I

watched as an Indian-type limousine was emerging. Two Indian

chauffeurs were in the open front, with a man seated in the

enclosed rear section. I stopped at the curb of the driveway to let

the car pass. They stopped, checking traffic before entering the

street.

As the limousine stopped, its passenger window was

directly at the level of my chest, within inches near my face. I

found myself looking directly at the man inside; he was looking

directly at me.

The car moved on, and crossing the driveway, I realized

who was inside. He was Mahatma Gandhi.


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Under the Indian concept darshan, a large part of it

unconscious, no blessing or other act on the part of the great soul

is required. Merely to catch a glimpse of the great soul is enough

to enrich or strengthen the small soul.

The mansion Gandhi's limo was leaving was the home of

C.D. Birla, a wealthy Indian industrialist whose financial and

commercial interests spread throughout India, and whose

family's influence and benefactions in the forms of schools,

temples, etc. made the name Birla one of the premier names in

India, even to today.

C.D. Birla had been a follower of Gandhi for many years.

Whenever in Delhi, Gandhi lived in two rooms at the end of the

mansion, with easy access to a large garden area, where he

conducted, on a raised platform, his evening prayer services,

accommodating usually 150 devotees, and, sometimes up to 500.

It was at one of those prayer meetings that Gandhi was

assassinated in 1948 by an agitated Hindu opposed to Gandhi's

sympathetic concern for Moslems. Gandhi's body lay in state at

the Birla House for several days before removal for a formal

funeral. The mansion has since become a museum dedicated to

Gandhi.


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All this I learned months later, after that one unbelievable

event, seeing Gandhi, alone, face to face, in the cab of a limo

pausing for a few seconds.

Gandhi with daughter Indira in 1924 (Google Images)

AGRA

Every so often we had the opportunity to take a sight-

seeing visit to Agra or Kashmir. I chose Agra, and with two


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other GIs, a camera, and rationed film, we took off one spare

morning.

Agra is about 100 miles south of Delhi. Within just a few

miles of the Taj Mahal, Agra was a peaceful area of nicely built

single homes, and not surprisingly, a US Army Air Force base,

and a nearby Indian Army base.

Ill never forget seeing the magnificent Taj Mahal for the

first time. Its undoubtedly one of civilizations most inspiring

sights. Mark Twain called it "That soaring bubble of marble."

We just looked at it in awe: a beautifully clear white marble

edifice with an elegant white dome. Someone described the

dome as "a giant pearl floating above the building."

There was a water-filled canal bordering the grounds with

flower beds, now dormant, but

adding symmetry, stretching in

front. We learned from the young

Indian ladies who volunteered as

tour guides,

that there were four canals, each

having some religious

significance.


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Our tour guides at the Taj Mahal (Toms collection)

We also learned from them, and other readings, that the

Taj Mahal was "The center of Moghul culture when Shah

Jehan built it in 1653. It took two decades to complete and was

built as a monument to his favorite wife, who had given him 14

children but died twenty years before its construction.

One disturbing sight was the evidence of semi-precious

stones that once festooned the front walls, having been chipped

away. This was done apparently by some of the tribal hordes

ransacking India earlier.


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I visited Agra twice, and later viewed the TAJ from the air,

flying home. I could never get enough.

TRANSFER TO CALCUTTA

I was surprised one afternoon with a call to report to the

Colonel's office. They gave me the orders re-assigning me to the

Army JAG office, Calcutta, effective immediately. Wow! The

Colonel's secretary told me I would be on a flight from New Delhi

to Calcutta the next morning. I suspected the secretary told the

Colonel to personally see me off, and that friendly old gentleman

shook my hand rather than accept my final salute.

In no time my bag was packed. I was happy about a plane

trip - no three days, two nights on a train. The next morning

slightly hung over from the farewell party by buddies, I jumped

aboard. Taking a check of my orders and observing the

emergency nature of the trip, the GI boarding me said something

about how important a man I must be. I felt more like

"bewildered."


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Cows at rail station, Calcutta (Toms collection)


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Lt. Col Charles Richardson, JAG, (seated center) and his

office staff. Standing, at far right in this photo, is Tom Hickey(Toms collection)

It took about two hours to reach Calcutta. We landed at an

Air Force base I believe they called Dum Dum. Then I was

taken to the HQ building and from there to the compound, about

a quarter mile away, on a main city avenue. There was a jeep

making constant trips between the barracks and HQ so I arrived

late that morning. I was anxious to get to know the JAG group.

Reporting there, I remembered the two sergeants I had met a few

weeks before on my one-day visit from Kanshapara, realizing


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now what a lucky day that had been for me. They now needed a

court steno and asked for me. I was to report for duty the next

morning although I hadn't met the boss of the outfit yet.

I was put right to work the next morning, after meeting Lt.

Col. Richardson, the JAG leader, and about the best military

officer and nicest gentleman I everhad the good fortune of

meetingin my years of service. Smart, tough, human, counseling,

he was all of those.

I was given notebooks and pens and sat down the next

morning to record an interview by a JAG officer of one of the

defendants in an upcoming general court martial case that as

I learned quickly, was of serious consequence.

Iworked steadily for two weeks transcribing statements

and depositions of defendants. This required putting in a lot of

extra time so I would be familiar with the technical words and

phrases that I would be transcribing at high speed.

Then one day one of the fellows I had gotten to know came

in and said, "Two of us are going to see some Sisters who are

keeping a kind of hospice in the slums for homeless people who

are sick or dying in the streets , and orphan kids needing food.

We thought we would see them, and when we got home we could


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raise some money for them. Can you come along?" I couldn't. I

had to be ready for the interviews the next morning. But I'll be

with you next time you go." I was aware that as many as half the

city's four million people at this time were destitute so the work

of the Sisters they mentioned was enormous.

Two days later I saw the sergeant and asked him how it

went. He mentioned some Sisters' names, and if one of them had

been "Teresa" I would have remembered - my Aunt Theresa is

my godmother. But it is possible the Mother Teresa we all know

about could have been there. Mother Teresa was teaching at

that time in an exclusive school for Indian girls run by the Sisters

of Loreto, an Irish based order. The school overlooked some of

the pitiful slums of that area, and certainly she knew and became

familiar with the plight of the poorest of the poor, for which

she would devote the rest of her life, with kindness.


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Mother Teresa in above photos (Google Images)


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However, as time went onmy buddies never made another

visit and neither did I.

If you should want to describe Calcutta in one phrase, that

phrasewould be "quiet chaos." With about four million people

jammed together in what was India's principal industrial and

commercial center, one must stand back and look at the city's

makeup section by section.

It was a major port, though the harbor was poorly

navigable, as we saw entering via troop ship; personal transport

was rickshaw or taxi; the financial district, reportedly India' s

most active; its commercial side a mix of street-side vendors,

small workshops, and a few up-scale stores. Its people might

live in one-room lodgings, in apartment buildings, in shanties,

on selected pavement spots, or anywhere there was covered

space for families, such as the cavernous rail station. And there

were the cows - considered sacred - roaming at will anywhere.


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Chowringhee, Calcutta (Google Images)


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Our Army compound was on Chowringhee, the city's

main avenue, and across the avenue from us was a collection of

up-scale stores.

In one direction from us was the Maidan, a very large

park, with a monument to Queen Victoria set way back. It was

the site of many important events. Gandhi spoke from a

platform there one time, before a few hundred well-dressed

Indians, while out on Chowringhee the tumult of daily life just

went on as usual, respecting the Mahatma, but with no time to

spare.

In the other direction from our compound, Chowringhee

led into the large intersection of, I believe, Chatterjee, a

quarter-mile distant from us. The US Army HQ was on that

street.

The intersection was the center of transportation, taxis

and an occasional bus, and a building providing entry to the

lower beach of the Hooghly River, a tributary of the holy

Ganges, where hundreds did their daily bathing, often with

religious significance.


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ARMY COMPOUND

Across Chowringhee from our barracks were, as I have

said, higher-quality, multi-level stores, their pane-glass

windows once protected by brick walls, anticipating bombing

during a Japanese invasion. These walls were torn down brick

by brick, with the war being over.

There was a kind of nightclub in an upper level of one of the

stores; you could hear the music playing on a Saturday night

(the band led by an American, incidentally). On my first

weekend in our barracks I watched British officers escort their

ladies out of cars and enter the club.

When Indian beggars picked at the legs of the officers

saying "bahksheesh" the officers unhesitatingly kicked them

away.

That was riveted in my mind. It was my first glimpse of

the English dominance of India, and I thought it was inhuman

and cruel.


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Another view of the Chowringhee. Armybase is in the upper right (origin unknown)

Unfortunately, soon afterwards I found myself kicking

beggars away when they got too aggressive. Kids were

different. If I had some Whitmans candies in my pocket, I

would give them some, then say Jao ( go), don't bother me.

During a riot of some kind, small but it seems regular

occurrences, looters broke into the stores and in one instance,

flung shoes and sneakers over the wire fence into our barracks

area. They had no use for footwear.


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Suddenly, klaxon horn blaring, a flatbed truck with a

pole down its middle charged into the trouble. On the truck

were Gurkhas, who sprang from the truck and rushed at the

gang. No contest. Scattering everywhere for escape, the looters

vanished. The riot was over.

The Gurkhas were a warlike, sturdy race of Hindus who

originated from Nepal, a northeast frontier, independent of

India. They had volunteered for the Indian Army and served

with distinction. I

recall hearing of

their particular

heroism and

initiative in the

battle of Monte

Cessino in Italy

during that invasion.

Now, with wars over, they, with their families, contracted

with whoever needed their expertise -- the city of Calcutta for

example.

According to a booklet provided to us, the Gurkhas

"maintained a spirit of close camaraderie with British soldiers"


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and with their strong military background, they merged well

with the City's security force.

They were a highly disciplined group, and proud of their

ability to perform the responsibilities they had contracted for.

For example:

Gurkhas guarded our US Army compound, day and night. We

rarely talked with them, but knew they were there.

One day one of our sergeants stopped unexpectedly in

our barracks to get something, and found an Indian intruder

rooting through our belongings. He caught him, pulled him

out to our front gate, and said to the Gurkha guard there,

"Hold this guy, would you, while I get our MPs."

The Gurkha grabbed the intruder and with a lathi (heavy

wooden stick), beat him over the head, killing him. On the

spot.

INDIAN WORKERS

Just about all one read in the Hindustani Times or heard

routinely about Calcutta was its devastation, its being the

center of political turmoil, its bleak future. I heard or read no

mention of the quiet, productive, remarkable work being done


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by the many thousands of quiet, productive, remarkable Indian

workers.

As I saw it, the workforce is an integral part of the

economy of the city, keeping it vital and surviving. In various

corners of the city and in adjoining villages, you could visit

merchants, salesmen and women, specialists, all doing their

day's work, staying alive with their families, and prospering.

Like the shoemaker, Lee, down the block from me at home

(he's an accredited poet, also).

And here most are doing the same work their fathers did

before them, and work their sons will be doing when it will be

their

turn; maintaining and improving, through generations, the

expertise, the quality and the dignity of their labor.

And let's not forget the dhobi who picked up our soiled

clothes and returned them fresh and clean every week. Once

one of our

dhobis sons was very sick so we took up a collection to insure

he would get the proper medical care. A week later the smiling

boy and a beaming Dad came into the barracks to thank us.


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Weregularly visited the shops of those Indians and

bought stuff. Jim, for example, bought a handmade filigree

cigarette case for his girl back home, from a most pleasant

Indian craftsman in his own shop at the edge of the city.

Ivory carving (Toms collection)


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Street scenes (Toms collection)


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Vendors (Toms collection)


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Above two photos, Indian workers (Toms collection)


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And lets not forget our dhobi at work (Toms collection)


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Dhobi wallahs children. On the right is

Chico,the officers shoe shine wallahOctober 1945 (Toms collection)

Even the Indian's baby had a job. His job was to sit,

holding the bamboo door open. Everybody had a function in

these hard-working, rewarding businesses.

And when I picture India in years ahead it will be with

them in mind. For me it was a joy to have gotten to know them.


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DEATH IN INDIA

Indians generally do not think of death as a final act.

Hindus believe death as a stop in a journey from birth to a final

merging with their universal being. Because of the heat, bodies

are cremated right after death. The deceased are carried on

bamboo cots down to the river bank and cremated.

I visited the ghat (steps leading down to the river) in

Calcutta on the Hooghly, during one of the cremations.

The above photo is of the Hooghly River(Google Images)


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Two previous photos -- The body being preparedfor burning, next page the vultures patiently

wait for scraps (Toms collection)


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I had read that body had to be washed in the river and set on

the cot and placed in a hole. And as Isaw, perfumed wood had

been placed on top of the deceasedand set afire. The relatives

of the deceased just watched, and prayed as specific Indians of

a lower caste took charge, keeping the fire going properly.

Rather than being aghast at the sight of skin burning off

the deceased's skull, I somehow felt more in communion with

the relatives, sharing in merely one phase of the religious ritual.

At the end of the burning, the ashes and, I am told, the

preserved navels are placed into the river.


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Small children aren't cremated in this way, or the very

poor who can't afford the wood. They are often simply placed

in the river without the burning ritual.

Gandhi was cremated on the bank of the Jumna River

near Delhi. His ashes were carried in an urn by train to the holy

city of Allahabad and before estimates of two to four million

people, his ashes were spread at the point where the Jumna

joined the Ganges, flowing there as the Ganges. A memorial

tomb for him is in Delhi.

Funeral procession for Mahatma Gandhi (Google Images)


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One community of Indians, the Parsis, has a different

kind of funeral. Their dead are carried to a building called

"Tower Of Silence." It is a white, hollow two-story structure

with a grated platform on top. No outsiders are allowed inside

the compound, but a guard let me in just to have a look. The

deceased is placed on the top of the tower and left on that roof

for vultures to feast on. The skeleton is left to disintegrate in

the sun, with the linens and remains dropping through the

grate.

ARMY LIFE

One day, on the avenue, I was greeted by a GI from the

old days at Fort Eustis lets call him Sergeant Rubin.

Touching my stripes - I had a few then - he told me he was on

R & R -rest and rehabilitation - in Calcutta and that he now

had one of the most miserable assignments in the Army.

The story begins many months before, at Fort Eustis,

where the USO showed a movie starring Cary Grant. In this

movie, Arsenic and Old Lace, two sweet old aunts were

poisoning unsuspecting old gentlemen and burying them in

their cellar. The aunts had a simpleminded nephew who did


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the burying for them, and also imagined himself being with

Teddy Roosevelt, and would rush up the stairs to his bedroom,

shouting "Charge!" as he ran up San Juan Hill.

Private Ray, my buddy, liked the movie, and coming

back to our barracks, he kept charging up the steps yelling, of

course, "Charge! This went on for a while even after the

lights out.

Sergeant Rubin was in control of our barracks and was

not pleased. In fact he was hoppin mad. Storming upstairs,

fat-bellied and bare ass naked, he switched on the lights and

demanded to know who had awakened him and everybody else

with all the racket. We were all in our bunks but Ray was the

only one of us in bed with all his clothes on, including boots.

Sergeant Rubin ordered Ray to report to HQ the next

morning, and for the next two days, as punishment, he had to

march around the barracks, with rifle and full pack, from

reveille until lights out.

Fast forward a year and a half. Ray, now Staff Sergeant

Ray, was in Camp Claiborne Personnel, with the responsibility

of assigning men, by specialty or purely manpower, to overseas

posts me to India for example.


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Sergeant Rubin was thus assigned to an organization in

Myitkyina, in Burma, the rainiest spot on the globe. He was,

Rubin told me, here in Calcutta on R&R, in charge of a mule

pack train, moving

supplies to the soldiers

in deep Burma, and

moving the sick and

injured back out. Rain,

heat, mud, malaria,

identified Myitkyina, and

here was Rubin telling

me about it.

I didnt mention the word Charge! to him; his life was

tough enough. But you can connect the dots.

Thats army life!

Soldiers were always looking to buyunusual things from

vendors. On the busy avenue you would regularly hear "Want a

girl, Sahib? Nice Girl. School teacher." Or, "Want to buy a

monkey, Sahib?" So one day one of the sergeants in our

barracks bought a monkey. He named it "Chico." It was fun,


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except one time when Chico took some of the warm beer he

was offered, and that night he threw up in the sergeant's bunk.

Then one day the monkey got loose in the barracks and

ran free and wild, tearing down mosquito netting over cots,

rooted in clothes, foot lockers, anything, looking for stray food.

We gave the sergeant the word: the monkey would have to go.

Jim and I volunteered to take the monkey away, and as I

told my three little kids at their bedtimes years later, We put a

cord around little Chico's collar and into the Jeep he went. He

sat very quietly with us as we drove up a dirt road to wooded

area called the Monkey Jungle. There we let him loose so he

would now be with all his monkey friends. Then as we drove

off down the dirt road, with dust swirling behind us, we looked

back and saw Chico, perched on a tree limb over the road,

watching us go. And as we moved out of sight I gave a final

look and there was Chico, with a tear in his eye. Now say your

prayers and get in bed, gang."

JAG OFFICE

In the JAG office a lot of things were happening. The

Master Sergeant in charge went home; his second in command


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moved up. The Colonel recruited two very fine GI court

reporters to handle the ongoing general court martial and

moved me out of the courtroom and into his office.

It was a busy place, with seven lawyers including those

prosecuting the general court martial and two secretaries - one

English, one Burmese.

With the Japanese surrendering September 2, 1945, their

POW camps, spread across the Indo-Chinese area were

evacuated and the Americansoldiers came to Calcutta for

medical treatment and for JAG legal papers. These were gutsy

survivors, with some ugly stories to tell of their capture and

imprisonment. Some imprisoned several years.

The court reporters worked in shifts, making it possible to

have one available for Summary or Special Courts. One

involved the trial of an AWOL GI, picked up by the MPs when

he was dressed in Indian clothes, including head sashes,

except for one item: he was wearing Army boots. His tootsies

couldn't handle Calcutta's pavements. (Our Indian bearer one

time dropped his cigarette butt on the floor, and stamped it out

with his bare foot). That's the difference.


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Another case: On an Army truck wending its way

through the jungles of northern Bengal, a GI spotted eyes

peering from the brush, in the pitch dark. Thinking it was a

Bengal tiger, he shot at it, wounding an Indian peasant.

There were numerous other claims needing resolution, and

with others, we were keeping close watch on mass meetings of

Air Force GIs calling for early orders out of India, back home.

Some Communist influence was seen.

At the office, the Sergeant took me under his wing and this

great guy coached me fully. In a month or so he too shipped out,

and I was upgraded.

EVERYDAY LIFEWith a year of college accounting on my record, I

qualified, and took a job moonlighting as auditor of the

Officers Mess Hall; excuse me - Officers Dining Hall. I

was expected to do the audit twice a month. I went there

twice a week - the food there was very good.


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The Captain in charge, a sharp, very pleasant guy

would go out to meet an incoming supply ship, and would

manage to wheedle some specialties for his charge.

Stateside butter, for example, or salad dressings, or,

(Hallelujah), some ground pepper.

Now India was and is a world class grower and

exporter of pepper corns. But ground pepper was not an

ingredient in either the Hindu or Moslem cuisine, so there

wasn't any. That made ground pepper at the officers place

a luxury indeed.

I resolved then and there that I would never in the

future have breakfast eggs without pepper. And I never

have.

One day I saw a GI, half gassed, I imagine, galloping

full speed down the Avenue, having himself a roaring time,

pulling a rickshaw, with the wallah riding in the seat,

scared.

Bill, a buddy from Eustis, had arrived in India late in

his years of service, with his wife at home about to deliver.

With me in tow for morale support, Bill tried to phone his


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home, at night, Calcutta time, the day after the expected

date, USA time.

For over an hour the public phone operator tried and

tried to reach the number in Baltimore, Maryland. He

finally succeeded.

"Mother and baby fine," someone abruptly

answered. "Call again later for details."

Bill slept well that night.

Every day mostly younger men would gather at the

gateway to our Army mess hall, hoping for some bread.

Often they had fled their village to avoid an epidemic

there, and came to the city. They had nothing.

MEETING WITH THE BRITS

Every so often we had a chance to mix with some

British NCOs and really enjoyed listening to their stories

about their service, not only in India, but in the European


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war and their brutal struggles in the early 1940s along the

western coast of Burma routing Japanese.

"We can't believe," we would say, "that as soon as

the Hitler war was over, in July 1945 you voted Churchill

out of office. Winston Churchill - after all he had done for

you, and vote in some guy (Atlee) nobody ever heard of."

No comment from them. "At least our President died in

office," we said, "he didn't get voted out."

Their ration was one fifth of scotch. Ours was a case

of beer packed in sawdust. The tradeoff with them evolved

into two cases of ours for one bottle of theirs. Acceptable.

They were unhappy about how generous we were

with paying, for example, the rickshaw wallahs, and for

paying the merchants the price they asked instead of

bargaining with them. "You blokes will be leaving," they

said, "but we will still be here and they (Indians) will be

expecting more than we always give them."

We joined them one evening at the race track for a

show. They had built a stage in the grandstand area and

the stands were packed - it was a big event. The show

headliner was - I believe, if I'm remembering right - a


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woman named Gracie Fields. She was obviously well

known to them, and they enjoyed her.

She told them a story: "It was during a Nazi blitz of

London. Bombs dropping everywhere. People huddled in

underground shelters. A sweet little lady, very hard of

hearing, was in her flat having a spot to tea, knitting.

Suddenly a bomb dropped on a flat very close. The noise

was deafening. The little lady cupped her ear, listening

intently, and then said "Come in, pussy cat."

They loved it. The indestructability of the English

spirit.

THE INDIAN ARMY

The Indian Army, the world's largest volunteer army,

put on a victory parade down Chowringhee to the Hooghly

entrance intersection in Calcutta.


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Indian Army (Google Images)

Indian Army veterans and soldiers always enjoyed

talking to us, and we learned a lot about them. Some had

been captured and put in POW camps by Germans in that

campaign; some had wound up in Japanese POW camps in

Burma and Indonesia. Some had fought with US General,

"Vinegar Joe" Stillwell, fighting and building roads

through jungles in Burma from early 1940s on.


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So now they were having a wonderful parade:

Marching drummers; heroes riding in open cars; strutting

troops, with everybody cheering. It was great!

And one cheer especially was heard from deep in the

crowd and from far back at its beginning in Chowringhee.

It was a cheer that swelled through the crowds as the

parade moved toward us - like a chant, intense, then

bursting out, reaching its peak when the subject came

near.


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Mahatma Gandhi (Toms Collection)

The cheer was "Mahatma Gandhiji ki Jai." Victory to

the Mahatma Gandhi. Over and over. From the hundreds

of thousand throats.

I couldn't see him, but I knew where he was by the

intensity of the cheering.

Back in 1930, responding to a voiceless plea of the

countrys people for leadership, Gandhi began his historic

walk of 241 miles in 24 days to the sea. His country, and

eventually the world, watched every step: each local village

strewing flowers in his path.


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At the water's edge, Gandhi dredged salt from its

waves in a stroke defying a prohibition by British authority.

This act was then copied by Indians along the country's

sea coast, often taking beatings without resistance.

Gandhi was jailed, but the spark had been lit,

igniting the cause - non-violent protest of the immorality of

the English Salt Tax - and central to the call for freedom

from British rule.

Now here in Calcutta fifteen years later, intervening

wars won, Britain broke, Independence for India a near

certainty, was heard in full throat, the recognition:

"Mahatma Gandhiji ki Jai." Emphasis on the last

word.

TOWARD INDEPENDENCE

For those of us considered firmly stationed in

Calcutta, the social life was fine. The females we met and

became pals with were ladies. Educated, cultured, they

were a fine mixture of Anglo-Indians, Scotch, and light-

hued Indians. (There was a standard long observed by


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GIs: A shade no darker than that on a Philip Morris

cigarette package). Horrible. They were very pretty,

likeable girls. Those we met singly or in a group,

constantly asked questions about life in the States: "Is it

like in the movies we saw?" And we heard about their

seasonal visits to Darjeeling, a Pocono-like escape from the

Calcutta heat. And even when not asked, each of us talked

a lot about life in the States. I guess we were anxious to get

home.

Jim had a special favorite. If you think of Lana

Turner with a nice tan, that was Jim's favorite. A really

sweet girl. The tall GI with Air Transport Command had

matched perfectly with a tall beauty from Rhodesia. I

didn't have a special one, but when we met in a group, I

gravitated to a blonde Scotch girl. Her father was manager

of a bank in the city. She was just waiting, she said, for

"this thing" (the war clean-up) to be done with. An Air

Force Officer she cared for deeply and her parents had

liked, had been transferred to the China Theater, and told

her, in their frequent notes that he would be back.


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Every so often one of the girls would mention the

country'spolitical turnings, and how its direction would

affect them.

Their future was indeed cloudy. In an independent

Hindu/Moslem India, Anglo-Indians would be shunted

aside; other Nationals would be told to go back to the

country they came from.

INDIAN POLITICS

Regarding the day's Indian politics, I was illiterate.

But with comments occasionally by the ladies, and from a

GI in the cot next to mine, an Amherst graduate with an

ear for the news, I got educated.

I couldn't tell a Hindu from a Moslem. In the busy

streets I didn't see any antagonism, their working lives

went on in peace. The distinction was in their religions.

Hindus had

great seasonal festivities, which we on Chowringhee

enjoyed. Moslems had their private Temple services.


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At the same time, however, there was news of much

political jockeying going on in London and Delhi.

Let me relate some of the recent history of India, in

order to put into perspective the temper of the times:


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Gandhi, with his Salt March to the Sea in 1930, and

his "Quit India" movement begun in 1942, and even

though by 1944 he spent a total of over 2000 days at various

times in British jails, he nevertheless supported the British

in their World War. He had shown his determination to

obtain complete independence for his hundreds of millions

of people - not dominion status -complete freedom to rule

themselves. (Gandhi had earlier proposed non-violent

peace with Hitler, but when he learned what Hitler was

doing to the Jews, he withdrew any thought of non-

violence and gave his full endorsement for Indian troops in

support of Britain.)


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Prominent Indian leaders including Maulana Azad,

Sadar Patel and Mahatma Gandhi. (from Wikipedia)

Now, in mid-1945, early 1946, with the principals in

place: CLEMENT ATLEE and England's Parliament

amenable to ridding itself of India, MAHATMA GANDHI,

pleading and fasting for tolerance and a free, unified India,

and backed by SADAR PATEL, Congress Party leader and

more politically savvy, and JAWAHARLAL NEHRU,

Gandhi's chosen successor, and MOHAMMED ALI


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JINNAH, leading the rival Moslem League party and

thumping for a divided State for Moslems, i.e. Pakistan.

The stage was now set for a drama with importance

surpassing any event in India's past history.

That fall and winter of 45, after the monsoon season,

the city came alive with demonstrations.

There were gatherings of hundreds, parading

through the major streets and meeting at Dalhousie

Square. Their makeup was primarily male, middle- or

lower-class, often students. They were not hooligans, like

the ones earlier looting the better stores across

Chowringhee from us -those routed by Gurkhas. In these

parades were Indians with a cause - a free India, and while

intent on non-violence, there was an attitude of "No

fooling - we mean business" about them. And sometimes a

flag with hammer and sickle appeared in their center. The

parades were almost daily.


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TRIAL OF OFFICERS

Then things got nasty. Demonstrators began to

march chanting a slogan of some kind opposing the trial of

Indian National Army officers taking place in Delhi.

Background: An Indian Congressman, Subhan

Chandra Bose had earlier tried to deal with the Nazis

offering Indian Army officers and soldiers being held in

German POW camps, to fight with them against Britain, a

war he expected Germany to win. Then India would be

free to become independent.

Subhan Chandra Bose (Toms collection)


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That effort, of course, failed. But Bose later emerged

as a dealmaker with the Japanese, allowing them to recruit

POW officers and soldiers they held and putting them into

the new Indian National Army, to be part of the Japanese

invasion of India and drive the British out. Independence

of India a goal.

Now, with Japan defeated, the officers of Bose's INA

were being tried in Delhi for what amounted to treason.

The people, especially the students among them,

were incensed about the trial, even though Bose, his

officers and men had corroborated with the Japanese

preparing to invade, they were seen as patriots, with the

sole objective: Drive the British out. And Bose himself was

being lauded as a national hero.

A group demonstrating against the trials gathered in

growing numbers, day after day as news of the trial wore

on. A special city militia force, I believe Anglo-lndian,

charged with controlling groups, was getting weary.


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The militia insisted the growing group move by way

of a side street to Dalhousie Square; the group insisted on

massing first in the major city intersection.

After days and nights of this confrontation, with no

letup, one of the young militiamen, unfortunately, fired at

the group leaders, wounding a boy.

The newspaper the next morning headlined a picture

of a man holding the limp boy in his arms.

They had a martyr.

Gandhian non-violence aside, the thousands, with

renewed intensity, took over. The militia retreated to their

barracks.

This was a telling incident energizing riots and

demonstrations throughout India, and especially in

Calcutta.

GATHERING STORMS

As Americans, we GIs didn't feel any danger, and

our officers weren't sending any warning signals. On the

avenue and on Chowringhee, life went on as usual, as well

as in the JAG office, in HQ, and in our barracks.


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But in the crowds demonstrating, you could feel a

tension and an anger - which was surprising - these are not

an angry people.

Indian friends were quietly hinting to us it was time

for Americans to go home.

One morning I hitched a ride to HQ with a buddy in

his mail run Jeep. There was a considerable, anxious crowd

building up in the main intersection as we passed through,

and an Army MP patrol ran past.

At the JAG office, three lawyer/officers were packing

up some papers, getting ready to leave. One Captain, Irish

and from Chicago, a really good guy, said, Don't wait too

long to close up, Sergeant." And they left.

But I had something or other to get done, so I stayed

for another hour or so. Then a Lieutenant who was, in his

own words "Tender of the Fortress" suggested that I soon

get on back to the compound.

On my way down to the motor pool, I saw a British

jeep reeling around the corner away from the main

intersection, coming at full speed past us, chunks of brick

flying after them. The driver was hunched over the wheel; a


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British officer in the back seat had a protective arm around

a uniformed woman, seemingly hurt.

There was no one in the HQ offices, and the motor

pool had one vehicle left, with an Indian driver and three

GIs waiting for a lift. I told them to climb aboard the truck

and I got in the open cab with the driver. They piled into

the back of the truck.

We left the HQ building with two options: Routing

around through the slum streets and winding back to the

compound on Chowringhee, which would be foolish. We

could also face the risk of getting through the main

intersection the English jeep had just come flying out of.

We went there.

A couple blocks before the intersection we heard the

ruckus of the crowd, as we headed into it.

There were signs of trouble even before we turned

the corner. The crowd was expanding deeply past the

range of the intersection. As we moved slowly into the

crowded intersection, we realized how immense the crowd

had become.


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Steadily, very slowly, we inched through the barely

moving crowd, until we could go no further. We were

trapped - a lone US Army truck with a star on its side,

sitting there.

All around us, in every direction, was a sea of slick

black hair, collarless white shirts, and brown faces staring

at us, with heads lifted up.

And not a sound.

The thousand throats we had heard coming in, now

silent. It was eerie. Nothing, as we stared at each other.

For how long? Seconds, minutes? Timeless.

Then a

corporal in the

back of the truck,

nervous, said,

barely heard:

"Hubba, Hubba."

"Hubba,

Hubba!" "Hubba

Hubba!" Brown

faces pressed against the side of the truck heard it, picked


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it up, yelled it out. The words were magic. Smiles spread

across the faces of the crowd. A path was cleared and an

Indian started waving at us to come through.

The cry was everywhere. Hubba, Hubba! To GIs

it was a time worn complaint - hurry up and wait.

To the Indians it was something American. They

had gotten to know us; they liked us. We were good to

their children, were good to them, treated them as equals,

talked to them, paid them well, tipped them well, we were

friendly people, we were Americans.

To our Indian driver, a marvelous guy through all

this, I said "Jao" (i.e. Go!), as we weaved slowly through

their narrow path. Then as the path widened and I could

see a stretch of Chowringhee ahead, I said "Jilty Jao!" and

he got moving.

All the way out, and for the quarter mile back to our

compound, the sound kept ringing: "Hubba Hubba!"

swelling into a chant. A new sound. They enjoyed it.

Pulling into the compound we all thanked the Indian

driver, and then checked one soldier who had been hit with


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a chunk of brick thrown at us from the periphery. He was

O.K.

I came into our barracks, there were a few guys

standing around, talking. I asked "Anybody happen to

have something to drink? I could use one."

GOING HOME

It was nearing the end of March 1946. I was stretched

out on a cot, in a tent, in my shorts, at 110 degrees, waiting

for the orders to get the uniform back on, grab my barracks

bag and get on the truck that would take us to the pier

where the troop ship taking us home was docked. I wasn't

eagerly looking forward to another twenty or so seasick

days sailing the great Pacific, but, as they say, you do what

they tell you.

Suddenly a call came out for me to report to the

camp HQ. "Your name has been removed from the ship

manifest," they said, "instead you will report here at 0700

tomorrow, to the Air Transport Command desk for a flight

back to the US"


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Life in Calcutta had been with many surprises, but

none more marvelous than this.

A week or so earlier, a few of us had put together a

going-back-home party for ourselves, and at the same time

a so-long salute to the tall, good looking guy with Air

Transport Command and his tall, beautiful Rhodesian

girlfriend. Theirs was a fine match from the beginning, and

it had gotten very serious.

For the party I

had managed to

scrounge two cases of

beer and a trade-off

bottle of scotch, with

the help of a buddy from Baltimore, with Quartermasters.

It was a nice party, for a nice couple.

Now, without ever having said a word to me about it,

our ATC soldier had scheduled me in for a flight home.

TWA at that time was setting up their schedules for

overseas flights and had set it up with our Air Transport

Command to put essential freight and bodies - namely

enlisted men -aboard.


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That's how I got home. Via Delhi, Karachi (still in

India), Dahran, Athens, overnight in Cairo, then Rome,

Paris, the Azores, Newfoundland, and Boston. In the States

I boarded a train to New York, with no passengers riding

on the roof, and, finally, a troop truck to Fort Dix, New

Jersey.

April Fools Day, 1946.

Home at Last!


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