Contents
Half Title
Title Page
Dedication
June 6, 1942: Cleveland, Ohio
June 9, 1942: Halfway across the Atlantic Ocean
June 21, 1942: Great Britain (!), east coast
June 29, 1942: Great Britain
July 18, 1942: Great Britain, southeastern mud pit
August 13, 1942: Mud Britain
September 13, 1942: Rainy Old England
Day after Thanksgiving, 1942: Closer to Plymouth, England than Plymouth Rock
March 2, 1943: 3,500 miles east
March 28, 1943
April 7, 1943
April 26, 1943: Top Secret Location, UK
June 15, 1943
July 19, 1943
July 28, 1943
August 11, 1943
October 10, 1943
December 7, 1943
June 5, 1944
August 2, 1944
Author’s Note: Word War II: Soldiers Fight, Soldiers Write
About the Author
Copyright
Dear Joe,
If there wasn’t a war on, you’d kill me for this.
I know I’m not supposed to touch your stuff without asking. You’ve said it only about 10,000 times. But by the time you read this, I’ll be far away. Well, you’ll be far away. And anyway, you have bigger things on your mind now. So I’m not worried that you’ll be sore with your kid brother for sneaking into your bag to hide this letter.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not worried. I didn’t want to tell you this before you left, but I AM worried. A lot. Who wouldn’t be? Dad and Uncle Fred’s World War I stories are pretty scary. I just don’t want you to go to England. I wish the Japanese hadn’t bombed Pearl Harbor. Then maybe America wouldn’t have gotten caught up in this cockeyed war and you wouldn’t have to go anywhere farther than work (and the movies, when Mom forces you to take me).
I know I get on your nerves, so I bet you won’t miss me as much as I’ll miss you. But something tells me that you WILL miss me. You give me a hard time sometimes just because that’s what big brothers have to do. But if you didn’t like having me for a brother, you wouldn’t have stuck up for me those times when Jed was making fun of me because I’d rather read than run around causing trouble like he does. I probably didn’t thank you for that before you left, or ever; so thanks, Joe. I couldn’t believe when you told me that Jed was one of the only guys from your class who wasn’t drafted. Why didn’t they take him instead of you?
Even though you think you’ll be no good as a soldier, I’m already proud of you. Now is my chance to try to make you proud of me. I’m going to do my best to do what you asked me to do when you’re gone. And I hope you will do something for me, too.
Come back the same.
Love,
Charlie
Dear Charlie,
You beat me to it. I found your letter as I was getting settled on the boat. It’s weird to be writing you a letter. Okay, for me, it’s weird to be writing ANYONE a letter. But especially you, since we’ve lived under the same roof since the day you were born.
Here I come, England. (Or United Kingdom. Not sure the difference but guess I’m about to find out.)
Sure, you’re a pest sometimes, but of course I’m going to miss you. And Mom and Dad. Even my job at Milton’s. But that luncheonette is going to miss me more, since I’m the first halfway decent cook they’ve hired in a while. Only two weeks after I start working there, I’m called to duty. Rotten timing.
This all happened so fast. I hear guys who enlisted got parties thrown for them before they left home. Lucky stiffs. All we get is a phone call: “Report in three days.” That’s too long to wait for the unknown and too short to say a proper good-bye.
Imperial Japan to our left, Nazi Germany to our right. No fun to be surrounded. Who knows where I’ll end up? I don’t know if I’ll be able to mail a letter every day, but I’m going to write you every day. At least I’m sure going to try. Hope you can write me, too. You’re a lot better with words than me, so I’m getting the better deal. Sorry about that, pal.
Charlie, please don’t worry about me. It may not show all the time, but I’ve probably gained SOME wisdom in my life so far. You just worry about being a kid—let the grown-ups handle this mess of a war. While I won’t be around to look out for you, just avoid Jed and those other chumps who get their kicks picking on smaller kids. I told them to leave you alone, but guys with small brains have short memories. Maybe that’s why Jed wasn’t drafted. But then, why was I?
Most important, look out for Mom and Dad. Course Mom’s busy taking care of Grandma, and Dad’s busy working like always, but they’ll need you more than they’ll let on. Stay positive and Mom and Dad may follow your lead. Not what ten-year-olds normally have to do, but these aren’t normal times. If life were fair, I’d be making hot roast beef sandwiches for the lunch rush right now.
Love,
Private Joe Fuller
AKA your big brother
Dear Charlie,
First day of summer, first day of England, first day of war.
The boat we took here sure looked big from the pier, but once we were inside, it made a sardine tin look roomy. It was so crowded that half the time, we had to eat standing up. Breakfast was often boiled eggs that were, for some reason, gray. But worst was the kippered herrings. If you don’t know what that is, trust me, don’t ask. Compared to military fare so far, Milton’s grub is fit for the Queen of England.
Guys were throwing up left and right, sometimes from the choppiness and sometimes, I bet, because the food is so bad. Being near a guy who’s heaving is never fun, but especially when you’re packed in so tight that you can’t escape the smell. It was a rough ride, but it’s nothing compared to what is in store for us now.
In our letters, we’re not allowed to be too specific about a lot of things, including where exactly we are or where we’re going. I can say that our port of entry was Liverpool, which I’d never heard of. Me not hearing of a place is no shock. You got the brains in the family. But did you know that the United Kingdom is smaller than California?
For a guy who had never been past Cleveland city limits, this is almost too much to take in. It’s like half fairy tale, half war machine—pretty and grim at once.
But I’m not the only rube here. All of us were issued a little book called Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain 1942. I never stopped to realize how little I know about British people. And I really didn’t think about how they must feel about us coming here now. After all, they’ve been holding off Hitler and the Nazis all by themselves for two years. They’re not exactly damsels in distress.
We got a nice welcome—you should have seen the tasty dishes waving to us as we disembarked. (Maybe men were there, too—only you don’t notice when so many pretty girls are making eyes at you.) But as the instruction guide says, “Remember that crossing the ocean doesn’t automatically make you a hero.”
Hope you, Mom, and Dad are holding up alright.
Love,
Joe
Dear Charlie,
So glad to get your letter, pal. So far, sunshine is as rare here as a barking cat, but news from home can warm us up even better.
I just hope you’re telling the truth, that things are as fine as can be under the circumstances. But if you’re saying that just so I don’t worry, please tell it to me straight. I can take it. Or let’s put it this way—I have to take it. It’s easier than wondering.
So I’m not two-faced, I have to tell you that things here are, well, tough and getting tougher. We’ve moved south for training and it’s a bleak place—nothing but nothing as far as the eye can see. Boond
ocksville. Some of the guys get to stay in Nissen huts, these small, simple quarters made of steel with a curved roof, but most of us are stuck in tents. And stuck TO us all is an enemy no one saw coming.
We train on large fields of dirt, but since it rains a lot, it all turns to thick, sloppy mud. It clogs our shoes, clings to our clothes, sticks in our pores, and even gets in our mouths, though the food we’re served doesn’t always taste much better. (They do give us more candy than we can eat, and no one is complaining about that.)
And there’s something else here that’s really aggravating. His name is Matthew Sower, pride and joy of Elkhorn, Nebraska. This guy finds something to criticize about everyone, except our superior officers. He and Jed would be fast friends. He looks down on the city folk because they “don’t know how to survive in the real world.” He says nasty things about the colored guys even though they’re here defending a country that doesn’t cut them a break. Me, he makes a joke out of the fact that I like to cook. He said, “You should’ve stayed home with the ladies.” I want to knock the guy around, but that’s not really me.
Matt thinks growing up in the heartland with its harsh winters and barren stretches of land makes him cut out to be a soldier more than the rest of us. He acts like he’s the only one with any life experience before this. Cleveland isn’t exactly a stroll down the beach. The sooner he and I are put on different squads won’t be soon enough.
We’re starting to hear stories about the Nazis that are worse than what they report in the States. I don’t want to bring you down. Just don’t believe everything you read.
War is just life with bigger bullies.
I miss you, pal.
Love,
Joe
Dear Charlie,
Thanks for your latest letter. And thanks for being honest with me. I’m steamed to hear that those fatheads in the neighborhood haven’t respected my wishes. It burns me up that they tease you. I wish I could do something from here. I’ve got the army to make more of a man out of me, but you’ll have to do that yourself for the time being. I know it isn’t easy, even talking about it isn’t easy, but I have faith in you. You may not be bigger than Jed and his cronies, but you’re sure smarter.
Think of Superman. You mention his adventures in almost every letter, so you’re probably already thinking about him. Or better, think of his creators. I had no idea those guys live in Cleveland. You said they’ve been pushed around, too, been made fun of and rejected, but despite that, look what they accomplished.
Training has us up before sunrise and beats us up by breakfast. They’re teaching us hand-to-hand combat with real knives. No one’s been jabbed yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
Plus it rains—often pours—almost daily. We’re wet pretty much all of the time. And just when we thought we couldn’t get any wetter, we had to practice river crossings.
For a week straight, they made us run everywhere—meals, bathroom, showers. You can imagine how the mud made this even more fun. We’ve been sent on long hikes—again, in the rain—and had to find our way back in the dark.
One time, when we were already overdue, Matt swore he knew the way back, that he was used to this kind of thing. How, I don’t know, since back home he works at a furniture store. This nice guy from New Hampshire, Ira, has worked at a camp for five summers, so he knows a thing or two about the outdoors, but he didn’t need to show off about it. Matt told us, “You’d be stupid not to trust me.” So we did. And he only ended up taking us in circles.
Then when we finally did reach the camp, he blamed US—said he was trying to show us how to think for ourselves, and we failed. I think he was just trying to cover up that HE was the stupid one in this case. Well, maybe not stupid, but not wise enough to own up to a mistake. Later, Ira told me he hadn’t said anything when Matt wanted to take charge, so that our commanding officers would see that Matt should NOT take charge.
Some of the equipment we have to use dates back to World War I. Guess they can’t afford to buy new models. Happy to help Uncle Sam save a buck or two, but if any of this gear has gone to seed over the past twenty-five years, it’s going to cost some of our boys more than that.
We had our first weekend furlough. That’s a break, and we sure needed one. Me, Ira, and a fella with a super sense of humor named Francisco followed the stampede of other Americans from all over Great Britain and headed to London. What a town!
Getting there looking presentable posed a small problem. Being that our camp is in a moor, you can’t walk anywhere around it without your boots getting caked with mud. So we put wool socks over our clean shoes, trudged to the nearest paved road, stripped off the dirty socks, left them there, and caught a ride to the train to get us to the city. Everyone does it. I said the side of that road is a sock graveyard. Francisco said, “That’s what I call the inside of Matt’s head.” Like I told you, Francisco’s a funny guy.
Turns out American soldiers are earning at least four times as much money as British soldiers. Turns out the Brits don’t much like this. In the pubs (what we call taverns or bars), the Brits make us feel guilty and they seem jealous of us when we talk to British girls. But we’re not forcing anyone to do anything. I am pretty sure the girls like our accents as much as we like theirs! They say we remind them of Hollywood movies. I don’t know a soldier who doesn’t like to hear that.
One night in a pub, Matt tapped the shoulder of a British soldier at the next table and said, “America can win the war without your help.” Our guide urges us to respect local culture, and Matt had to go and act like the rules don’t apply to him. The Brit said that England didn’t ask for help, even when the Germans were bombing London night after night, and he, for one, was not asking for help now.
Matt looked around and said, “I don’t see any British commanders asking us to leave the country.” The other British soldiers at the table put down their pints and stood. They were ready for a fight.
Matt stood, too. When I reminded them that we’re on the same team, Matt laughed. But when he realized none of us were going to stand by him, he stormed out. All I heard him say was, “The Brits have enough problems.”
I apologized to the soldier but it didn’t matter, since it didn’t come from Matt. So much for us Americans being gracious guests.
But London wasn’t all awkward situations. British children are also quite fond of American soldiers. They followed us around and surrounded us when we stopped, asking, “Got any gum, chum?” (The girls like us for our accents, the kids for our candy.) They’ve been living under strict rations—meaning the government limits how much you can buy—so even a small gift is a big deal to them. We also played a few street games with the kids. Some of the boys reminded me of you. Actually, just about all of them did.
Love to Mom and Dad. Hope Grandma is managing, and hope you are, too.
Love,
Joe
Dear Censor,
I hope you’re leaving my letters intact. I know you’re supposed to look for info that could put the troops in danger and also for signs of a hole in morale, but aside from my issues with Matt Sower, and aside from my grumblings about mud and exhaustion, I’m honored to be serving my country and don’t want to put our efforts at risk. As for Matt, I’m sure there are guys here that YOU think are a pain in the neck.
Dear Charlie,
Sorry about that. Just had to talk to the Man with the Black Pen for a second.
Hey, are you getting letters from me with parts crossed out? Did you get my letters of July 30 and July 18? Maybe they’re not just crossing out lines that cause concern. Maybe they’re discarding the whole letter.
Speaking of morale, thanks for doing what you can to boost Mom and Dad’s. Trust me, you’re the biggest source of comfort for them. The more you can tell them that I mean it when I say I’m okay, the more chocolate bars I’ll take home for you. Yes, that’s a bribe, but a fair one, I think.
Good on you for sticking up for yourself! Most bullies are cowards in di
sguise. So the kid just turned tail and walked away, no more knuckleheaded remarks? Any sign of Jed?
Most bullies are cowards in disguise, but who knows what disguise—if any—cowards hide behind. I may find out before long. (Mr. Censor, I’m not talking about myself.)
Love,
Joe
P.S. No other update of note. Just more manuevers, moors, mud, Matt, and missing home. Have you eaten at Milton’s lately? How’s my replacement working out? Probably not living up to my shoes, or whatever the expression is. Want to go in and ask him if he wants to switch places with me? Ha-ha.
Dear Charlie,
Thanks for more home front news. Sorry Mom’s cooking hasn’t improved since I left. If she’ll let me, I’ll give her some more lessons when I get back.
You’re a strong kid, pal, to stand up to those crumbs who don’t know when to lay off. They’re just threatened by you because you’re good in school. Maybe their fathers or brothers are over here, and it’s upsetting them, and the way they try to stop being afraid is by acting tough in front of others. I’m not excusing them, but I can understand.
It was really nice of you to say I’m a role model for you, Charlie, but I don’t know how that can be. I only stood up for a little kid in broad daylight against a guy who’s no bigger than me. That doesn’t take courage. No offense. Besides, even though I told those guys to let you be, they didn’t. I tell Matt to quit trying to get a rise out of me and he doesn’t. A war-within-a-war almost breaks out in a pub and all I do is flap my lips. I’m better working with food. Food doesn’t fight.
We’ve been wet all summer and now we’re cold, too. The moors bring down a fierce wind at times. To prevent soggy bottoms, sometimes we try to sleep sitting up on our helmets. That was Ira’s idea. He’s got lots of tricks like that. Francisco said we can’t let the enemy know this or else they might call us “butts-for-brains.” If only all our problems were that minor. Even though we can laugh about it, some nights it feels like we will never be comfortable again.
Brave Like My Brother Page 1