Combat Patrol

Johnny describes combat patrol, frets over gifts and makes an inquiry.

Links:

1. Footage from USO Clubs
2. The Andrews Sisters sing Don’t Fence Me In

 Spotify songs:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/02U2OAJJSiouQAEzmy4EqW?si=C6ut7UWXTxuzYn6iMIW_3g&pi=rSW-kgCWR1mMr

Please send comments and suggestions to dogtagspaperhearts@gmail.com

Spotify playlist:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/02U2OAJJSiouQAEzmy4EqW?si=Jg8CANxwRVCD6smIny0C4Q&pi=dmQkyBg9Rrqiq

Transcript

Copy Transcript Copied

SPEAKER_00 0:00

I'll wait for your answer before I go, okay? If it's no, okay. If it's yes, that's okay too. Welcome to Dog Tags and Paper Hearts, a chronicle of my grandfather's letters home during his time in the service. I'm your host, Don Friega, and in each episode we'll travel back to a time when swing bands ruled the airwaves, ration books shaped the dinner table, and handwritten letters carried love across oceans. Join me as we uncover the stories, sounds, and surprises of an era defined by courage, change, and a touch of romance, from the battlefront to the home front. On today's episode, Combat Patrol, dances at USO clubs, and a longing for wide open spaces. So pull up a chair, kick the mud off your boots, and let's rewind the clock together. Because the 1940s weren't just about war and worry, they were about hope, humor, and heart. This is Dog Tags and Paper Hearts. A couple of news items from the front on the day this letter was written, December 23, 1944. In military news, the war in Europe dominates the headlines as the Great Winter Struggle known as the Battle of the Bulge enters a critical phase. German forces continue their surprise offensive through the Ardennes forest, pressing hard against American lines. Bitter cold, heavy fog, and snow have grounded Allied aircraft, allowing enemy armor to advance deeper into Belgium and Luxembourg. However, U.S. troops are digging in stubbornly, with fierce resistance reported around the besieged town of Bastogne. In Bastone, elements of the 101st Airborne Division are surrounded but holding firm. Supplies are running low and conditions are grim, yet morale remains resolute. High Command promises relief is on the way as General George S. Patton swings his Third Army northward in a daring maneuver to break the encirclement. Meanwhile, Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower is coordinating a massive response, shifting reserves and reinforcing threatened sectors. Reports indicate that while the German advance has been swift, it may be overextended, a fact Allied planners hope to exploit in the coming days. Across the globe and the Pacific Theater, American forces continue their steady advance in the Philippines campaign. U.S. troops are tightening their grip on the island of Leyte, pressing remaining Japanese defenders into ever smaller pockets. Supply lines are improving, and air superiority remains firmly in American hands. And in other news? While the thunder of war echoes overseas, here in the United States the story is one of endurance, ingenuity, and a nation preparing for a Christmas under arms. In Washington, officials with the Office of Price Administration report continued vigilance over holiday spending. With ration books still governing sugar, butter, and meat, Americans are being reminded to keep celebrations modest. Black market activity, particularly in meat and gasoline coupons, has drawn increased scrutiny, with federal investigators stepping up enforcement in major cities. Railroads and bus lines are experiencing one of the heaviest travel surges of the war. The war production board notes that troop movements are taking priority, leaving civilian travelers to contend with crowded cars and long delays. Still, families are determined, many traveling great distances for what may be a brief reunion before loved ones ship out again. In industrial centers like Detroit and Pittsburgh, factory whistles continue to blow around the clock. War plants are pushing to meet year-end production quotas, turning out tanks, aircraft engines, and munitions at record pace. Workers, many of them women filling roles once held by men now overseas, are being praised for maintaining the tempo despite holiday fatigue. Retailers across the country report brisk but practical Christmas shopping, with luxury goods scarce, practical gifts, socks, gloves, war bonds, fill store shelves. The U.S. Treasury Department is actually promoting warbond purchases as the gift that backs the attack, and sales booths are doing steady business in department stores and train stations. In lighter news, holiday programming is lifting spirits nationwide. Radio networks are preparing special Christmas broadcasts featuring stars such as Bing Crosby, whose rendition of White Christmas remains a sentimental favorite among troops and civilians alike. And finally, churches across the nation are planning candlelight services, many dedicated to prayers for those serving abroad. Telegrams and letters, still the lifeline of wartime families, are arriving in heavy volume, carrying holiday wishes across continents and oceans. And now the letter. How are you this bright and cheerful morning? Or is it that kind of a morning? It looks like it might turn out to be pretty nice around here. Here it is two days before Christmas, and I'm still chewing my fingernails. Why? Well, I still haven't opened my Christmas packages and the strain is getting me down. Each night I say, yes I will. No, I won't. I will, I won't. Will, won't. It always ends up with I won't, so I guess I'll have to wait till Christmas. I wish I knew it was in them, though. Come on, give me a hint. Did you get the packages that I sent yet? I suppose not. I didn't get to mail them until late. Around here nothing seems to get done at the time we want it to, especially if it's something for ourselves. Hello again, it's me at five fifteen PM. Still love me? Good. Guess what? I have a two and a half day holiday. Yep, we got off today at twelve noon and we don't have to be back to the camp till eleven PM Monday. Of course, I'm not going out, except maybe to get a big Texas steak dinner tonight. Everything from soup to nuts for about a buck fifty. Not bad, eh? I just got back from the PO a little while ago. A small airmail package is on its way and it should be there in two to three days. I hope you like it. It's not very much, I know, but it's the best I could do here. Will you please give out the others to Pop and Mom? And the extra one, well, maybe you can send it to Mill. See if you can get some kind of folders for them, will you? We've had a fairly easy time at it so far this week, only one day out in the field yesterday. But what a day, combat patrols. A squad grabs its rifles and races all around the damn countryside looking for someone to shoot. And if there's no one to shoot, well, shoot at anything that looks like it might be the enemy. And if it isn't the enemy, well, that's too bad. I didn't do too bad. However, my cane and crutches sure do get in the way when I'm double timing it into the chow line. But all kidding aside, I did get a beautiful bruise on my left hip. Too bad I can't build it up into a nice discharge case. I haven't heard anything about those papers yet, however, I suppose that the proper channels of action sure do take time. We'll just have to bide our time. So far nothing new on the OCS, but that will probably come sometime this next week. I'm not worried about it, that is, not too very much. And NCO school still goes on. Three nights this week, and it's nothing but a preview of what we get the following day. If it was possible, I'd drop out, but that is impossible. Army rules can't be broken that easily. Today all we had was a test. First aid and two hours of bayonet. I'm getting pretty handy with that little gadget. I can draw blood at ten paces. Of course, it's only ketchup in a sock, but it sure gives you a jump when it gushes out. I think that by next week we will be getting hand-to-hand combat. That is where your little Johnny will increase his laundry. Maybe it will do me some good though. I could use a little of that experience. Afternoon I did my laundry, shaved, showered, and got cleaned up. Now I'm waiting to see what develops. Maybe a show, or just sit and wait till it's time to go out for that steak. Say, speaking of going out, would you mind very much if I went to a camp dance once in a while? Usually on Sunday nights, the USO clubs from the towns near here sponsor a dance at our service club. So far I haven't been to any, but the boys who have been say they've been pretty damn good time. I'll wait for your answer before I go, okay? If it's no, okay. If it's yes, that's okay too. How did your club party come out? Did you have a good time? Good deal. I've been wondering how it was. I know that with Pop at the house it's going to be pretty tough trying to keep a girl at the house. How have you worked that one out? And I think you had better keep it quiet that Pop is there. It wouldn't help our case any if it got out that he is there. Hi, guess who? This time it's 8 a.m. Sunday morning. Just as I finished that line above, the fellows came by and we took off for that steak I was telling you about. Pretty good too. We got there around 7 p.m., ate our steaks, and sat there drinking coffee and shooting the breeze until about 11.30 p.m. It wasn't very busy and we were in a corner, so we didn't bother anybody. In fact, the counterman put the jukebox on automatic feed for us and we had music all the while. All it cost me was the price of the steak, $1.50. The other fellows paid my fare for all the coffee, so we had a pretty nice evening. This morning has started out dreary. It's raining now and it looks like it might keep up for the rest of the day. Damn, and I was hoping for a white Christmas, even if it did mean we would have to be out in such weather for the rest of our week. I'm going out right after noon chow and try to put a call through. It will probably take the rest of the day to make the connection, but it'll be worth it. After all, it isn't every day that I can talk to you. I hope you're at home when the call gets through. My Christmas will be spoiled for me if I don't hear your voice, and it would be too much to think about if I could only see you, even if only for fifteen minutes, just to look at you, to see your lovely face and to hold you to my heart. Oh, darling, I love you so doggone much that my heart aches thinking of you. If it were at all possible, I would fly right into your arms and never, never leave. I want to be with you for the rest of my stay on this earth. No one else has ever made me feel that way, darling, and no one ever will. I could never be happy with anyone but you, for you are a part of my heart. The part that keeps me alive. If I didn't have you to love, sweetheart, I just couldn't live. After all, I didn't know what life was until I met you, and you alone are the one I want. I can't picture myself living without you, my love. It would be horrible to think of not having you by my side forever and ever. Love me forever, darling, and I will be the happiest and luckiest fellow in the world. Well, misses Mutt, I'm gonna close now. Chapel service starts in a few minutes, and I want to make it on time. Here's a kiss for the children, and a great big ribcracking hug and kiss for you. God bless you and the children. I love you, Johnny. There were a couple other snippets of paper in this letter. One says to my sweet Mary, dear, I hope that this little bracelet will be a suitable Christmas gift this year. Try as I could, there was nothing better in this section of the country that I could get you. I wanted to have it engraved like this. Mary, dearest of them all. But no one in Texas ever heard of engraving, I guess. At least I couldn't get it done here. Do you think you could have it done at home? I'm wishing you a very happy and gay Christmas, darling. As long as I can't be with you in body, let my spirit and thoughts take my place by your side. Smile for me, dear. Merry Christmas, darling. I love you, Johnny. And then the final enclosure just a short note. Dear Mary, how do you like 'em? It's supposed to be a Christmas gift for you, Pop and Mother. Could you distribute them for me? There are no frames available here. See what you can do. Love Johnny. A couple notes from today's letter. Combat patrol. In the camps of wartime America, a combat patrol wasn't just a march, it was a rehearsal for survival. For fresh recruits, it was often the first time training began to feel like the real thing. At installations like Fort Benning, where infantry doctrine was refined, instructors pushed men beyond parade ground precision into something far more practical, and far more dangerous in spirit, if not in fact. A patrol typically began under cover of darkness. Recruits were divided into small squads and briefed on a simple mission. Scout an area, locate an enemy position, or conduct a mock raid. The enemy might be another training unit, or instructors lying in wait, eager to ambush careless trainees. From the outset, the rules were strict, silence, spacing, and awareness. Talking was forbidden except in whispers. Cigarettes were out of the question. One glowing ember could give away a position. Men learned to move in staggered formation, keeping distance so a single burst of fire could not take out the whole group. The terrain was often rough, woods, gullies, mud, and wire obstacles. Recruits crawled on their bellies, waded through streams, and learned to freeze at the slightest sound. Every snap twig or careless step might earn a barked reprimand or a simulated casualty. Instructors emphasized the fundamentals, scouting ahead with point men, hand signals instead of speech, taking cover instantly when contact was made, and coordinating movement under pressure. When contact came, and it always did, it was sudden. Blank rounds cracked through the dark, flares might light up the sky, and confusion set in. Men were expected to hit the ground, return fire, and follow orders all while keeping their heads. Sometimes the exercise ended in mock assault with the squad advancing on an objective. Other times it was a fighting withdrawal, learning how to disengage without turning it into a route. Sleep deprivation was part of the lesson. A patrol might come after a full day of drilling, leaving recruits exhausted, hungry, and irritable. That too was deliberate. Combat wouldn't wait for a man to be well rested. What made these patrols memorable wasn't just the physical strain, it was the mental shift. For many recruits, this was the moment they stopped feeling like civilians in uniform and began to think like soldiers. The fear, the uncertainty, the need to rely on the man beside you, it all became real. Veterans often recalled these exercises as crude but effective preparation for what awaited overseas, whether in the hedgerows of France or the forests of the Battle of the Bulge. So, under darkened skies and watchful eyes, America's soldiers learned the art of the patrol, quietly, cautiously, and with the knowledge that soon enough the practice would give way to war. Also in today's letter, Johnny mentions dances at USO clubs. Step inside a USO hall in nineteen forty-four, and you'd find a scene alive with energy, a welcome contrast to the strain of wartime life. These dances were part morale booster, part social mixer, and part fleeting escape for servicemen and civilians alike. The room itself was often simple, a community hall, a church basement, or a converted gymnasium. Crepe paper streamers, patriotic bunting, and a few carefully placed Christmas decorations, at least in December, did their best to dress things up. Music was the heartbeat of the evening. Sometimes it was a live band swinging through the latest tunes, numbers made famous by artists like Glenn Miller or Count Basie. Other nights a phonograph did the honors, spinning records while couples jitterbugged, foxtrotted, or simply swayed close together. And there were always partners, young women from the community, many volunteering as USO hostesses. They were carefully vetted and expected to be friendly, respectful, and good company. Their job wasn't romance, it was morale. A smile, a dance, a conversation. That was often enough to lift a soldier's spirits. For the servicemen, the experience could feel almost surreal. One night they might be slogging through mud on maneuvers, the next they were in pressed uniforms, dancing under soft lights with a stranger who treated them like honored guests. There were rules, of course, chaperones kept a watchful eye, and decorum was expected. Drinking was limited or prohibited at many dances, and overly forward behavior could get a soldier shown the door. The USO was determined to keep things wholesome. This was home after all, even if only for a few hours. Between dances there were small comforts, coffee, punch, sandwiches, maybe a slice of cake if supplies allowed. Conversation filled the gaps. Where are you from? Where are you headed? Questions asked with a mix of curiosity and quiet understanding. And then there were the moments that lingered, a favorite song, a shared laugh, a promise to write that might or might not be kept. For some, these dances led to lasting relationships, even marriages. For others they were brief shining interludes before deployment. As the night wore on, the music slowed. Couples drifted across the floor one last time. Then came the goodbyes, quick, sometimes awkward, sometimes heartfelt. Soldiers stepped back out into the night, returning to barracks or trains, carrying with them the echo of music and the memory of something like normal life. The top song in the U.S. on this date, December 23rd, 1944, was Don't Fence Me In by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. Originally written by Cole Porter in 1934, Don't Fence Me In found its most beloved wartime expression in the 1944 recording by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. The recording blends Crosby's relaxed, easy baritone with the bright, tightly harmonized responses of the Andrews Sisters. It's structured almost like a musical conversation, with Crosby delivering his verses like a cowboy at ease, and the Andrews Sisters chiming in with rhythmic, playful backing lines. The tempo is upbeat and unhurried, perfect for a song about freedom. There's a subtle western flavor, evoking open plains and blue skies, but it's filtered through pop sensibilities, making it accessible to wartime audiences far from any frontier. At its heart, Don't Fence Me In is about freedom, physical, emotional, and spiritual. Key ideas include a longing for wide open spaces, resistance to confinement or restriction, and a desire for independence and simplicity. Lines about riding the range and starry skies above paint an almost mythic version of the American West. But in 1944, those images carried deeper weight. Remember, this was a time of military discipline, rationing and restrictions at home, and millions of Americans who were far from home, often in cramped and dangerous conditions. The song's message resonated powerfully with both soldiers and civilians. During the height of World War II, Don't Fence Me In became something of an unofficial anthem of personal liberty. For servicemen, it echoed the longing for home and open space. It also offered a mental escape from barracks, ships, and battlefronts. And for civilians, it reflected a national identity rooted in freedom, even amid wartime uncertainty. It also provided a cheerful, optimistic counterpoint to daily sacrifices. Crosby's involvement is especially important. By 1944, he was one of the most trusted and familiar voices in America. His delivery made the song feel intimate and reassuring rather than defiant. The song was featured in the 1944 film Hollywood Canteen, further cementing its place in wartime culture. It became one of the year's biggest hits, widely played on radio and beloved by troops overseas. It also helped reinforce a particular American mythos, the West as a symbol of freedom, and the individual spirit as something unconquerable. Don't fence me in works because it balances escapism and identity. It's light-hearted enough to lift spirits, yet rooted in something deeply felt. Thank you for listening to Dog Tags and Paper Hearts. You can find links to information contained within this episode in the show notes, and I do hope you'll check those out. I try to link some fun videos and interesting facts that may not have been covered in the podcast. I've also provided a link to my Spotify playlist of number one songs during the course of this correspondence. That playlist is also titled Dog Tags and Paper Hearts. Please keep the feedback coming by emailing me at dogtagspaperhearts at gmail.com. And most importantly, I'm still looking for stories from World War II. Whether that's from the battlefront or the home front, stories of relatives or personal stories, please drop me a line and let's get that going. Until next time, I think about the