Home Is Where
You Make It
By AL SCHACHT
‘Condensed from the book “G I
Had Fun” published by G. P. Put
nam's Sons, New York.*
I know now why the War De
partment and USO Camp shows
never let you know where you’re
going until it’s too late to turn
back. They just don’t take any
chances on anybody changing his
mind.
Take New Guinea, for instance.
If I had known I was going there,
I would have enlisted in the para
troops, rangers, or some other out
fit where a guy could be safe from
harm, rather than risk such a trip.
On my arrival at Natzab, no
body met me at the airport. I did
not know where to go and whom
to ask where to go, and was afraid
if I pestered too many people
they’d really tell me where to go.
Finally a jeep drove into the air
port and I determined to move in
to action.
“Look, my friend,” I said. “My
name is A1 Schacht. I’ve just come
all the way from New York City.
Could you direct be to the Office
of Special Services? If you can’t
direct me, let me know where the
nearest carrier-pigeon station is
and I’ll get in touch with them
that way.”
My name didn’t impress him but
he knew where the Special Serv
ices office was and promised to
get them to send a jeep for me.
The jeep arrived in twenty min
utes. Riding back to headquarters,
we were completely surrounded by
hills, jungles, and mountains, and
to me it looked like one huge
layer cake with jungles at the
base, in the middle and on top.
Natzab is only a little place, not
a regular Army base, and while
there were always a lot of soldiers
around, they didn’t belong to the
small local unit. Most of them
were hitchhikers from Australia.
Hitchhiking was quite a fad around
there. When a fellow got a fur
lough, he thumbed a ride for an
other island. They call it island
hopping. After I got a look at a
few of these places I wondered
why they went through all that
I
trouble. All the islands look alike.
Under the guiding hand of Ser
geant Wolfe, who proved definitely
that sergeants really have souls, I
was fed. Over a little gasoline
stove, he made me an excellent
snack out of a can of bully beef,
some powdered eggs, jam, bread
and coffee. It was remarkable.
At 7:30 that evening, using a
piece of the hill overlooking the
air strip as my stage, I put on a
show for some five hundred GIs.
With no lights on—it was almost
dark—and only a loudspeaker to
work with. I couldn’t do anything
except tell a few stories, but they
cheered and laughed, which show
ed that our soldiers in New Guinea
had not yet lost their taste for bet
ter entertainment.
The next morning, I flew to Oro
Bay, a three-hour flight. We were
met by Colonel Clapp, of Special
Services, who announced that we
had to hurry. “We’ve got you
scheduled to work this afternoon
—at a football game.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Here
it was 105 in the shade—and there
was no shade—and he’s talking
about football.
“A football game?” I cried.
“That I’ve got to see!”
I was scheduled to work be
tween halves and we rushed away
in the jeep for the football field. I
have seen magnificent stadiums
where football is played, but the
Oro Bay Bowl topped everything.
Here was a bowl built by nature
—a valley, deep and level, sur
rounded completely by mountains
and hills. A football field was
marked off and all around it, some
standing on trucks, others sitting
around the side lines, and many
more sitting on the hills which
made a perfect grandstand, were
35,000 soldiers.
While the teams were warming
up, two bands were marching up
and down the field playing college
songs. Each team had its own
cheering section, and each its own
mascot. One team had a white goat
and the other a black goat. It look
ed as if I was back in the United
States.
The game itself was another sur
prise. These boys really played
football in spite of the ground con
ditions. Rivalry was keen and the
cheering tremendous, with . the
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I noise increased a hundred times
I
! by echoes from the surrounding
; hills.
Oro Bay was quite a hot spot, |
j and I mean strictly from the
weather. It was sweltering hot—!
and dusty. All the roads were I
newly laid and they all happened !
to be dirt roads. When you went j
from one camp to another in a J
jeep, the dust got so thick wou’d
have to stop for it to clear, for
fear you might run into somebody.
As you drove from camp to j
i camp you realized what is meant
by “home is where you make it.”
The American touch was every
where—street signs which read
“Broadway and Wabash,” or it
might be “West Palm Drive’ ’or
i “Michigan Boulevard.” There were
signposts denoting the mileage to |
Tokyo and other Jap landmarks
and a few more significant ones
| like “1,000,000 miles to New
York.”
I got a glimpse of the natives for
the first time in Oro Bay. While
they looked weird and funny, they
were far from fierce. Their men
and women all looked alike to me.
They had one craze—they loved
blond or reddish hair and would
give anything or do anything for
peroxide to color their hair.
I was told that they hated the
Japs and that they would go on
Jap hunts for the boys. As evi
dence of their work they would
come into camp with a row of Jap
ears on a stick, just like pretzels.
I’ll stick to pretzels.
What amazed me most of all
were the recreation facilities. They
were terrific. In addition to soft
ball, which was played all the
time, there were handball courts
and volley ball as well as ping
pong and other games. After 5:00
p.m., when the work day was
done, everybody would relax at
something.
I spent six days in Oro Bay,
covering the hospitals and camps.
Here I got my first feeling of the
hospitals of New Guinea and the
boys who were the patients. The
hospitals where I appeared were
all field hospitals—rows of huge
tents, most of them on gravel
floors—but there was never a lack
of medical supplies or medcial at
tention. The bedding was always
clean and the iron cots comfort
able and new.
Finchhaven is the only place in
the world where you can be knee
deep in mud and still get dust in
your eye. It lies at the northe^t
tip of New Guinea and has the
reputation of yielding rain nine
months of the year. During the
other three months there is a ten
minute letup twice a day, which is
the equivalent of a sunny day.
It rains all day and then the sun
comes out and bakes the top of the
mud you’re standing in, forming a
layer of dust. You’re still knee
deep in mud, and along comes a
wind and blows the dust in your
eye. That’s quite a trick but at
least a hundred thousand GIs and
Seabees will back me up, making
it entirely authentic.
The sight I will never forget and
one which I saw quite prequently
was a religious service in the rain.
It didn’t matter whether the serv
ice was Catholic, Protestant or
Jewish—there were services for
all—and it was thrilling and awe
some to watch the boys kneel in
the mud, heads bared, and pray.
Here in Finschhaven and other
parts of New Guinea I got a closer
view of the splendid work done by
the chaplains. They not only hand
(Continued on Pape Seven)
Will Broadcast Dimes Appeal
President Truman (left) assures Basil O’Connor, President of
the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis, that he will broad
cast the March of Dimes appeal to the nation January 30, birthday
of Franklin D. Roosevelt, his predecessor and the founder of the
NF1P. “1 am happy to extend my fullest cooperation in your
annual appeal,** the President told O’Connor.
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