Grace Under Fire

by Andrew Carroll

  Although Donald’s death was instant, I saw his body later and said a prayer for him. He was buried with full military honors by a Catholic Chaplain in a cemetery in Western Germany. I know there is little that I can say to take away your present grief except that you and Mrs. Pound worked and prayed through the years that your son would grow up to be a man of whom you could be proud in the eyes of God. You may be sure that you achieved that purpose in Donald. In this trial keep your faith in God, and see His good and gracious purpose working through it all.

  May I express to you and Mrs. Pound my sincerest sympathy, and the promise of a continued remembrance of Donald in my Mass.

  Sincerely yours,

  George M. Phillips

  Chaplain, 386th Infantry

  Even if chaplains do not know a fallen hero, many of them still feel it is appropriate to send a word of sympathy to family members back in the States. Overwhelmed at times by the sheer volume of letters that must be written, some chaplains—understandably—use essentially the same language in each message. But many, like Herb E. Van Meter, tried to personalize as best they could every correspondence. Van Meter served as a chaplain with the Marine Corps’ 5th Division in the Pacific, including when they stormed the island of Iwo Jima. Almost seven thousand Marines were killed during the fighting, and Van Meter wrote countless letters to the parents of the boys who did not survive. On April 2, 1945, he sent the following to Mrs. Linnie C. Buford in Portland, Oregon.

  2 April 1945

  My dear Mrs. Buford:

  You have already learned through official channels of the death of your son, James Emory, in the action on Iwo Jima. There is nothing I can say or do to restore him to you, but perhaps it will comfort you to know that you are not alone in your grief, that we, his comrades, mourn him with you.

  Marines are not inclined to show their feelings. The life is hard and they become hardened. But if you had seen with what tender care men decorated the graves of their buddies and if you had been with me as we left Iwo Jima you would know how hard it was to leave behind those who had fought beside me. As the transport left the anchorage the troops stood silently, reverently at attention in their honor. Eyes were fixed on the flag flying in the Division cemetery over their graves. It was a holy moment. Words cannot express the thoughts that rise in a man’s heart at such a time. There were men thinking of James as there were men whose thoughts were with those who lie beside him under those white crosses. There were prayers and there were tears. We will not forget.

  Time alone will heal the pain of separation from your son. Pride will help you face it now: pride in one who gave his life to his nation, pride in having given a gift so great. Faith will help: faith in those great causes for which Jim risked and gave his life, faith in the dedication of our people and nation to those causes. And most of all there is faith in Almighty God to help you, faith in Him who gives us life and in whose providence it is taken from us.

  God grant you that faith.

  Faithfully yours,

  Chaplain, USNR

  H.E. Van Meter

  Van Meter regularly put himself in danger to minister to his men during operations in the Pacific, and he made it home alive in 1945.

  Ruth Kwall Assures Her Fiancé, Joseph Portnoy, That, No Matter How Long the War Lasts, “I’ll Wait for You Forever”

  &

  In a Short but Poetic Letter to Ruth, Staff Sergeant Portnoy Affirms Both His Faith in God and His Undying Love for Her

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  Staff Sergeant Portnoy Writes to Ruth About a Yom Kippur Service on the Front Lines That Was Particularly Meaningful to Him

  “My Angel,” Ruth Kwall began a letter to her fiancé, Joseph Portnoy, the day after the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor. Kwall and Portnoy, a true patrio who was the son of a Russian immigrant and had joined the Army a year before the December 7, 1941, attack, both realized that he would soon be off to war. “You know, dear, for some reason or other I took particular notice of ‘my’ ring today,” Kwall went on to write:

  It shined more brightly than ever before—in this dark day a beacon of hope. It seemed to want to talk—to tell me that just as it is without end, but continues on in an unbroken line, so our love is without end. For instance—I want to tell you again, more surely than ever, that no matter how long or hard the siege may be I’ll wait for you forever.

  I know, and darling you must too, that God in heaven will guard this precious thing and help preserve it and us for a time when the world will need tangible examples to show it that war does not end things; that good, beautiful emotions live on forever. I’m nineteen, Joe, but I know deep down inside me that the emotion I feel, that we feel, is older, is mature—that it has made me grow to more of the sort of person you’d have me be.

  War isn’t funny and I know we’ll be tested even further than we ever dreamed could be possible. I’m game, honey. I love you. I’m going to bed now, sweet, and of course I’ll dream of you.

  Need I say I’m yours,

  Ruthy

  Ruth Kwall and Joseph Portnoy

  Portnoy was sent to Fort Meade for more training, and it wasn’t until December 1943 that, after he was granted a three-day pass, he and Ruth were married. By the end of June 1944, Staff Sergeant Portnoy and the rest of his battalion (967th Field Artillery) were stepping on European soil to begin the massive Allied invasion into France and Germany. Portnoy was extremely limited in what he could report, but he frequently wrote about his faith, which, like his love for Ruth, never faltered.

  August 11, 1944

  My dearest own:

  Yes angel, you are wise to rely on your complete faith that everything will turn out right for us, and knowing that you think like that, I also feel free to exercise my faith. Perhaps some may feel that we are vain and view the eventualities of war through rose-colored glasses, but if that were so, then how could we believe in prayer and that a world of peace is possible? No, sweet, as long as we can believe that our lives are still molded by God’s will, and believe in his justice, we can never be accused of deliberately sugarcoating our senses.

  It’s so odd the way the meaning of love continually seems to turn corners, and around each corner we view a broader, more beautiful horizon. With you beside me, courage becomes a living thing, and there will be little that we can’t surmount. Of course we’re idealistic kids with our heads tilted skyward, but that’s just the way we are heading. It’s just right over that dark cloud, honey. Can’t you see that sun?

  Your adoring husband

  Despite his optimism, Portnoy was not unaware of the terrible cost of war, and on September 27, 1944, he wrote the following letter about the customs and traditions that helped him and his men stay resilient during trying times. (Ruth had also just given birth to a healthy boy—their first child—whom they named Bobby.)

  My dearest own:

  Today continued with its uneventfulness, and though it’s remained disturbing, it did give us the opportunity of celebrating Yom Kippur properly. We had a service that lasted all morning and it was quite inspiring. I especially took note of the Yizkor service. Death over here has become such a light matter that I’d almost forgotten that it was accompanied by sadness. But at the service, the rabbi again gave us the theme of the old attitude of returning to God and everlasting life. It sunk deeply and made me realize that the toughness of war can easily be erased once we return home, to our churches and synagogues again, and begin building the stones of civilization over the callous savagery that we find in war. There will be a successful returning, don’t fear darling.

  Ruth and Bobby Portnoy

  Were you well enough to attend the briss, darling? I can imagine how much joy the family received from that. We haven’t had one in ages. I seem to miss the best things, don’t I? It won’t be long though. My days away will be amply repaid, even by having a smile from your eyes. The lost years will seem as a day compared to the joy that I’ll have when I hold my son in one arm and have the other securely turned abou
t you. You just erase all of my troubles, just by being with me. Gosh, how I adore you. I can tell you that over and over again, and each time I mean it with a new freshness of emotion. It’s marvelous to have a love that’s always in its springtime. Tickle Bobby’s feet for me.

  Your’s ever, Joe

  Portnoy returned to the States and was honorably discharged from the Army in June 1945.

  Lieutenant Sydney H.Brisker Describes to His Parents How He and His Fellow Sailors Held a Passover Seder Aboard the USS Beaumont

  Although he could have been medically deferred due to a torn cartilage in his right knee, Sydney H. Brisker did not reveal his condition to the military so that he could join the Navy and fight for his country. Brisker, a twenty-eight-year-old architect originally from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, would ultimately serve for more than three and a half years and live through six major battles and four invasions. Along with being extremely patriotic, he was a deeply religious man, and he made every effort to practice his faith no matter where he was or what he was doing at the time. This was often a challenge—but, as the following letter about a Seder he celebrated aboard the USS Beaumont indicates, not impossible.

  Dear Mother and Dad,

  The ghosts of thousands of years of Jews were with me tonight—from the first refugees of the Bible’s fascist Pharaoh through two destructions of the Temple and through ages of wandering and persecution—they were with me tonight at the strangest Seder I’ve ever had.

  In the jungle heat of Guadalcanal and the torridness of the African desert, in the biting cold of Iceland and Alaska, and the foggy dampness of England, modern Maccabeans in the uniforms of their beloved countries gathered tonight to celebrate the deliverance of the Jews from the persecution of an ancient Fascism. The modern parallel is quite startling at first. It can be said, without fear of contradiction, there are no Jews in the ranks of the enemy.

  When I look back upon all the Seders I’ve sat at, in my own home with my beloved family, and in strange cities with friends, I wonder if I could have ever dreamed that I might be spending a Passover on a U.S. warship, bound on a mission of war. Or perhaps, I should say, a mission of peace, because we are fighting for the peace for which each Passover we lift our voices in prayer.

  One enlisted man (ship’s cook, third class) and myself are the only Jews aboard the Beaumont, but we decided to spend the Passover with a Seder. At our last port of call we obtained two boxes of matzoh, and a hagadah from the Chaplain. Alcoholic beverages are prohibited aboard U.S. men-of-war, and grape juice was unobtainable, so we substituted prune juice for wine. The Captain said he would cooperate in every way possible to help us hold our Seder.

  We got two chickens from the chief commissary steward. (I am the commissary officer, a recent appointment, so it was easily arranged). For bitter herb we used stalks of Chinese cabbage; and for parsley we used the celery tops. The officer’s steward baked a sponge cake. Everything else was quite orthodox—to the salt water and hard-boiled egg. But lacking matzoh-meal, there were no knadels. That would have been something to see—the matzoh balls rolling around with the motion of the ship.

  A bay in the Chief Petty Officer’s quarters was partitioned off by hanging two blankets, and the Seder was set at a table large enough for eight. We had several guests, the pharmacist’s mate 1/c, a Protestant, another ship’s cook, who is Catholic, and two Steward’s mates who are colored Baptists, as well as the officer’s steward. And to this gathering I related the story of Passover in English in answer to the Four Questions as asked by Goldstein.

  The modern parallel was more startling. When I read “And it is this same promise which has been the support of our ancestors and of us too: for at every time enemies rise against us, to annihilate us; but the most Holy, blessed be He, hath delivered us out of their hands” I could substitute Hitler for the Assyrian Laban who intended to kill every Jew—root out the whole race.

  And I read a prayer, which has been repeated for centuries, and today more loudly than ever “May He who maketh peace in His heavens grant peace on us and all Israel, and say ye, Amen.”

  But if I was startled by the modern parallelism, it was the myriad of ghosts of long dead Jews, visiting me tonight, who make me feel that this prayer for peace need not be repeated year in and year out. We have the answer in our power now. The United Nations can make this Victory one of everlasting Peace and build a world in which Jew and Gentile, white and colored, live in peace, harmony and security—just like we of different faiths and races sat down at Seder tonight.

  Good night, dear parents—God Bless You.

  All my love, Syd.

  Ensign Charles Edward Sweeney Writes to His Cousin Esther Back in the States About a Christmas Day He Will Never Forget

  &

  Lieutenant Edward L.Pulaski Sends His Sweetheart, Sara “Mickey” Rooney, a Very Special Christmas Message

  For servicemen and women thousands of miles from their loved ones in any war, holidays often prompt mixed emotions. Thoughts of friends and family members gathered together provide them with fond memories to help pass the time and, most important, give them something for which to hope. But it also makes them all the more homesick. While stationed aboard a subchaser anchored near the hot, tropical islands of the Philippines in December 1944, a twenty-three-year-old ensign from Rhode Island named Charles Edward Sweeney was trying to enjoy the spirit of the season as much as possible. In a letter written to a favorite cousin on Christmas Day, Sweeney explained that a sudden turn of events caused him to forget about all that he was missing and appreciate, instead, the most precious gift of all—life itself.

  Dear Esther,

  All morning the turkeys roasted in the oven; the cook was busy with all the fixings which we’d managed to beg, borrow or steal from other ships or from nearby Army quartermasters.

  With the exception of the cook and his helpers, there wasn’t much work for the rest of us to do. We were lying to in a little inlet which is described in dispatches as an “advanced base.” When we first arrived here, all hands were excitedly talking of the Japanese and of air raids and of possible hand-to-hand encounters with other enemy small craft….

  The war was so near and yet so far away. This was Christmas and there was a handsome dinner to enjoy. Nothing loomed to mar it; our minds were free because the ship had, ever since it’s launching, patrolled far-off and friendly waters and our imaginations were not yet colored by the real tinge of war.

  It was nearly noon and time for dinner when another camouflaged ship entered the inlet, signaled us by blinker for permission to tie up alongside us, and then made a quick berth with both screws turning full. Most of us were lolling around the deck and paid little attention to the routine mooring of the other ship until it was firmly secured to our side and one of its hatches was opened and a stretcher passed topsides by two sailors who handled their burden with great care.

  The soldier on the stretcher had his arm and part of his shoulder torn off. His unconscious form was limp on the canvass; his fatigue suit was torn and bloody, his young features were frozen into hard lines.

  Charles Sweeney with his mother and sisters

  The stretcher was passed over onto our deck, carried across to the other ship and then onto the beach where there was a waiting truck, in a small dirt road which led off into the brush and to a forward evacuation hospital. As the stretcher was placed in the truck, a large white tag bearing the soldier’s name, outfit, and a description of his wounds, became undone and fluttered to the road. Someone picked it up and tied it again around his ankle.

  The second stretcher passed up the hatch was completely covered by a blanket, and so was the third.

  Next we saw a sailor aboard the other ship reach down the hatch and help another soldier mount the ladder. He wore the familiar fatigue clothes, bowl-shaped tin helmet, and heavy boots which were unlaced. One foot followed the other mechanically. Someone helped him over the gangway to our ship and as he walked past us one of the assist
ing sailors said “shell shock” and we noticed the vacant look in the soldiers eyes which seemed widened by a recent horror. The man got across the inboard ship to the beach with assistance across the gangways.

  Several others like him passed now. It was hard to read their ages; some looked as though they were fifty years old at nineteen; others looked as though they had been born as old men. All wore tin hats and the jungle fatigues; all clutched their rifles as they walked.

  The last soldier to pass was bareheaded and he had his arms around the shoulders of the two sailors who had locked their arms under him to make a seat. The soldier’s trousers were rolled up to the knees—just above where the bandages which were rolled down to and over his feet started. The last soldier seemed the youngest of them all and merely stared straight ahead as he was carried by.

  We watched in complete silence while the small Army truck drove off carrying the three stretcher cases and the soldier with the wounded legs.

  The “walking wounded” stood idly by on the beach. All still carried their rifles firmly. Only one sat down, exhausted…. Nobody spoke for about a minute and then there were numerous questions asked of the sailors aboard the newly arrived ship. Yes, one of them said, the wounded had been in action “up there” and we all followed the sailors eyes up the coastline where a long peninsula jutted into the sea.