When Books Went to War

by Molly Guptill Manning

  Almost every soldier on the frontlines was aware of life-saving advances made in the field of medicine. Sulfanilamide, a substance that could be sprinkled on wounds and consumed to ward off infection, was carried by every man. Stories abounded of gravely wounded men who were saved because they used their “sulfa.” ASEs such as The Story of Penicillin, Miracles of Military Medicine, and Burma Surgeon inspired some men to think about a medical career.

  Others dreamed of joining the legal profession. Arthur Train’s ASEs about the fictitious lawyer Ephraim Tutt—who was forever rescuing clients from the clutches of a legal conundrum through some novel scheme—inspired many servicemen to go to law school. Still others decided to practice law after reading Bellamy Partridge’s Country Lawyer, which romanticized the small-town law practice of a likable attorney. For those who wanted to fight crime rather than prosecute or defend criminals, John Floherty’s Inside the FBI was a book worth tracking down.

  Men who studied science and math (such as assault engineers) might enjoy A Treasury of Science, Science Remakes the World, This Chemical Age, and Mathematics and the Imagination, to name a few. Those who felt an entrepreneurial spirit and dreamed of opening a business might consult A Small Store & Independence: A Guide to Retailing. For those interested in making a living through agriculture, M. G. Kains’s Five Acres and Independence: Selecting and Managing the Small Farm was indispensable, as it provided advice ranging from how to select fertile land to the nuances of keeping honeybees. Meyer Berger’s story of a New York correspondent in The Eight Million, Ernie Pyle’s books describing his experiences as a war correspondent, and Oliver Gramling’s AP: The Story of News were just a few of the titles that appealed to men who were considering careers in journalism.

  It is no exaggeration to say that the ASEs helped create an entire new cohort of readers. The flip side of a new universe of readers, however, is that almost everyone thinks he can be a writer. Ironically, council publishers were soon besieged with book proposals as countless men expressed a desire to publish their war stories. One such man, a private in the Army, wrote a colorful letter brimming with enthusiasm to publish a book about his experiences as an infantryman. He described his life on the front as a tumult of “death, plus rain, bugs, flies, mud, and mosquitoes,” and joked that his line of work (running a women’s millinery store in Connecticut) had not prepared him for life in artillery. But he insisted that there was a humor and beauty to the hardships he faced, even in the monotony of digging his 1,054th foxhole (from which he claimed to be writing). Inspired by the ASEs he read by Ernie Pyle, this private hoped to write about his experiences in “a Pyle-ish manner”: “descriptive, frank and human, seasoned with a bit of sympathy and emotion and flavored with humanity.” With his “writing pad soaking wet,” he wrote his letter on sheets cut from a paper bag; he had to “steam” his package of envelopes in order to dry one enough to mail his letter. “War is hell, isn’t it?” he stated.

  The summer of 1945 brought “the most intensive bombardment campaign in the history of war.” With complete devotion to destroying a single enemy, the Allies delivered blow after blow to Japan’s navy and its cities. The Allied bases secured in Guam, Saipan, and the Mariana Islands, could now be used to full advantage. As many as eight hundred to a thousand B-29s stood ready from the Marianas alone. Despite the destruction that rained down from these airplanes (as of June 1945, it was estimated that 50 percent of Tokyo had been destroyed, and many of Japan’s industrial centers had been neutralized by Allied bombs), a significant portion of Japan’s war industry remained unscathed.

  In addition to bombs, America’s B-29s daily dropped 750,000 pamphlets on Japanese cities, urging an end to the conflict and Japan’s unconditional surrender. Premier Kantaro Suzuki defiantly declared in early June that the Japanese would fight to the finish and confidently predicted that Japan “will smash the enemy in a decisive battle on our homeland, which will be quite different from battles on islands.” Yet on June 9, Japan’s grip on the Philippines was all but lost, and the Philippine Congress met for its first session since 1941.

  In the end, Okinawa was the last major battle in the Pacific war. Although plans to invade the Japanese mainland were already in place, and Marine units were preparing for what would surely be a deadly fight, on August 6, 1945, an American B-29 closed in on Hiroshima, an important Japanese port and military center, and dropped a four-hundred-pound atomic bomb. Unprepared for the power of this new weapon, members of the B-29 crew could hardly believe what fury it unleashed. One recalled: “There was a terrific flash of light, even in the daytime . . . a couple of sharp slaps against the airplane,” and then white smoke billowed into a mushroom-shaped cloud that rose twenty thousand feet. Four square miles, or 60 percent of the city, were completely leveled; houses and other buildings outside this radius were damaged beyond repair.

  Shortly after the bombing of Hiroshima, President Truman warned that if Japanese leaders did not immediately accept the Allies’ terms of surrender, “they may expect a rain of ruin from the air, the like of which has never been seen on this earth.” Yet Japan remained undeterred. Its official news agency, Dōmei, beamed a radio transmission to the United States stating that America’s “desire for an early conclusion of the present war of Greater East [A]sia is mere wishful thinking.” Seventy-five hours after chaos poured down on Hiroshima, a second atomic bomb was dropped. This weapon wholly destroyed 30 percent of Nagasaki and left large swaths of the city in ruins. On August 10, President Truman again warned Japan that unless it surrendered, “we shall use the atomic bomb . . . relentlessly” and “bombs will have to be dropped on war industries and, unfortunately, thousands of civilian lives will be lost.” After waiting for five agonizing days, an official announcement was made at 7:03 p.m. (Eastern Standard Time) on August 14 that Japan had unconditionally surrendered. At long last, the war was over. V-J Day had arrived.

  Around the world, celebrations erupted. In New York City, signs in Times Square advertised the news, and a “victory roar” swelled and continued for over twenty minutes as emotions exploded “with atomic force.” According to the New York Times, “Restraint was thrown to the winds. Those in the crowds in the streets tossed hats, boxes, and flags into the air. From those leaning perilously out of the windows of office buildings and hotels came a shower of paper, confetti, streamers. Men and women embraced—there were no strangers.” In London, American and British soldiers formed a conga line that snaked through the city; they grabbed a partner and danced and celebrated for hours. In Paris, soldiers and WACs ran into the streets, shaking hands with the French and forming an impromptu parade down the Champs Élysées. A truck driver caught in the ruckus was out to deliver the Army newspaper Stars and Stripes—the headline read “Stimson Says He’ll Recheck to See if Army Can Be Cut.” “He goddam well better,” the driver bellowed. A war correspondent in Berlin reported that the GIs there were jubilant as peace in the Pacific would save them from more fighting and might speed demobilization. The GIs in Okinawa, who had believed it would be years before they made it home, “slapped each others backs, danced, cheered and shouted: ‘To hell with Golden Gate by ’48, we’ll be home by September 8.’” In Tinian, where B-29 pilots were being briefed for their thirty-fifth mission—their last one before going home—a group leader interrupted to inform the men that their mission had been canceled. Pure and unadulterated joy swelled as the three hundred men who were about to risk their lives in a difficult daylight mission stood down. In Guam, the news prompted shouting and the shooting of all manner of weapons into the air in celebration; bottles of whiskey that had been squirreled away in hiding places were passed around as the men toasted peace. Back in Hawaii, where the first bombs dropped on the United States had claimed thousands of young lives, pedestrians on the ground tipped their hats as low-flying B-29s passed overhead. It was finally over. On September 2, 1945, Japan signed official documents of surrender aboard the USS Missouri.

  The council, like so many o
ther wartime organizations, began to wind down. At an August 1945 executive committee meeting, some members urged that the association immediately dissolve; others felt that there would be a continued need for ASEs during demobilization and that the council should continue its work for a brief period. The Army estimated that demobilization of an anticipated six million men would not be completed until July 1, 1946, or later. In addition, it announced that occupation forces were needed to the tune of five hundred thousand men in Europe, nine hundred thousand in the Pacific, and another six hundred thousand for overseeing the first year of peace. The council and War Department settled on the view that there remained a need for ASEs. Production of the books continued through the first half of 1946 at a rate of 110,000 copies of each title; beginning in June 1946, the project was scaled back to 80,000 copies of each title per month.

  Many publishers expressed relief that the council would not yet disband, and hoped to continue the collaborative effort in some new fashion. As William W. Norton said at one council meeting, “it would be short sighted to dissolve so successful a cooperative enterprise of the publishing industry.” Norton even endorsed the idea of creating a “larger peacetime book organization [for] which the Council could be instrumental in laying the groundwork.”

  In December 1945, Philip Van Doren Stern left his post as manager of the ASEs and returned to full-time work at Pocket Books. He was succeeded by Stahley Thompson, who helped design the ASEs at the outset of the project and had just returned to the United States after completing a term of military service with Yank. Up to this time, the council had generally expected that its ASE branch would be liquidated in the summer of 1946, since the last contract between the council and the government provided that the printing of ASEs would not continue for more than one year after hostilities had ceased. However, Paul E. Postell, who had succeeded Lieutenant Colonel Trautman as chief of the Army’s Library Section, believed that the half million or more occupation troops who would remain overseas after the summer of 1946 would still need books. These men would largely serve in isolated constabulary units, which could not be easily served through regular library service. Thompson, fresh from a stint of service overseas, insisted there was still an unsated hunger for reading materials. The war might have ended, but the need for pocket-sized paperbacks had not. The Army and Navy hoped that the council would continue its work a little longer.

  But as the size of the Army and Navy dramatically decreased, orders for new books also fell. In December 1945, the Army estimated that its monthly book needs would consist of a maximum of twenty thousand sets of twelve or fifteen books each, and the Navy hoped to secure approximately five thousand sets. This precipitous reduction in the scope of the project (to about 15 percent of the amount demanded at the height of ASE production) created problems. Fewer books meant higher prices. The council debated whether the War Department should simply purchase domestic editions of paperback books, as Pocket Books and other publishers sold paperbacks for as little as twenty-five cents. But they were still too expensive compared to ASEs, which cost as little as five cents apiece. Negotiations between Postell, Thompson, and the ASE management continued during the early months of 1946, with Thompson proposing a number of ideas on how to reduce costs. In the end, by adopting the methods used by Pocket Books and lowering production expenses by utilizing modern printing technology, the council was able to print runs of twenty-five thousand books that cost eighteen cents apiece. The council entered a contract with the Army and Navy to print series II through TT, for distribution from October 1946 through September 1947. Using the J. W. Clement Company of Buffalo for the printing, ASEs continued to be churned out at the pace of twelve titles per month, or about three hundred thousand books.

  Unlike the earlier series, the ASEs in series II to TT took on the appearance of ordinary paperback books—they were bound on their long edge and were thus taller than they were wide. Rather than two columns of text per page, they had a single column. No longer were there two sizes of ASEs; the new upright-format books were all four and a quarter by six and a half inches. However, some features remained the same. The cover of each ASE continued to display a thumbnail image of the dust jacket from the hardcover edition, the back cover provided a short summary of the book, and the inside back cover listed the titles printed for the servicemen that month.

  Midway through the contract for series II to TT, the Army informed the council that its budget had been cut and that it could no longer pay for the ASEs it had ordered. The Navy also faced a lack of funding for ASEs. Both services insisted they wanted the books they had contracted to buy, but payment was a financial impossibility. At a special meeting of the council’s directors held in January 1947, Malcolm Johnson, the man who had first proposed the creation of the ASEs, suggested that the council examine its finances and determine if the books could still be printed. After discovering a surplus of funds, Johnson suggested that the council enter a new contract with the Army and Navy to print books through September 1947 by expending this surplus. The directors passed a resolution: the Army and Navy would each remit payment of one dollar in exchange for the council’s production of series NN through TT—a total of 1.5 million ASEs. The council would cover the rest.

  The ASE program finally came to an end in September 1947, when the final batch of ASEs was delivered to the Army and Navy. Among these titles were Max Brand’s The False Rider (a western), Bob Feller’s Strikeout Story (an autobiography), Thomas B. Costain’s The Moneyman (historical nonfiction), Budd Schulberg’s The Harder They Fall (a boxing novel), and Craig Rice’s Los Angeles Murders (a mystery). The last ASE to be printed was Ernie Pyle’s Home Country, a nod to America’s favorite war correspondent, who was killed by a Japanese sniper in the Pacific.

  As it wound down its affairs, the council received a flood of mail from servicemen who realized how much they would miss their monthly book ration. In the words of one captain, the ASEs “followed me through combat and now in the occupation phase. Needless to say, they have been a tremendous morale factor.” “I treasure them to such an extent,” he said, “that I should like to have them in my home in the future months when I return.” The council responded that production had ended; there would be no new titles and all books had been distributed. But the ASEs continued on anyway. Some servicemen brought a book or two home to keep as war souvenirs or for future reading. Others grabbed a single volume to swap with others for the long ride back to the States. Those who remained overseas as occupation forces hoarded small collections of ASEs for their leisure hours. Some ASEs made their way into overseas military libraries—with call numbers added to their spines and circulation tabs kept on them. Some even survived long enough to serve the men who fought in America’s “forgotten war,” Korea. Although new ASEs would not be printed, the profound impact they made on all those fortunate enough to experience them did not fade. As millions of veterans returned home, many would bring with them a love of reading that they did not have when they first went off to war.

  And the government had one more inspired idea by which books would help veterans as they prepared to resume their civilian lives.

  ELEVEN

  Damned Average Raisers

  We have taught our youth how to wage war; we must also teach them how to live useful and happy lives in freedom, justice, and decency.

  —MESSAGE TO CONGRESS FROM PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT, 1943

  WELL BEFORE THE war ended, the U.S. government contemplated the likely problems that would arise from mass demobilization. One major concern was employment. It was difficult to comprehend how there would be enough jobs for the wartime labor force plus the fifteen million men and women (more than one in ten of the nation’s population) who were returning home after completing their service to the country. Policymakers fretted over the “political consequences of massive unemployment, when hordes of young men, skilled in firearms, would begin to roam the streets, angry over their inability to regain a foothold in the civilian world.�
� Another concern on the home front was that veterans would return home harboring all manner of psychological issues: 2.5 million individuals had been discharged from military service on the basis of psychological maladies. Eradicating cases of soldier maladjustment was deemed a pressing matter of national security. To say the least, it did not do the servicemen any good when they heard that they were being compared to “psycho” killers back home. In the words of one veteran, “This prevailing tendency to regard a man who has been in uniform as a potential criminal lunatic is probably the most depressing phase of a veteran’s homecoming and thoughts of home.”

  The servicemen had their own anxieties. The Army’s research branch conducted surveys revealing that many soldiers worried they would have “difficulty in settling down, getting over restlessness, adjusting to a steady job, or getting over the mental effects of the war.” Others feared they would not easily adjust to life as a civilian, or that they would feel unfamiliar with their friends and family. Those who well remembered the lasting effects of the Great Depression when they entered military service wondered whether there would be a shortage of jobs when they returned to the States. The research branch learned that some servicemen envisioned “a future of ditch digging and bread lines”; others predicted the nation would fall into another economic depression, and still others imagined an army of eleven million apple salesmen pounding the pavement to make a postwar living.