SNAFU

The surprising wartime output of beloved creators. Also, Johnny explains why he doesn't want to man the machine gun.

Links:

1. Browning M1917
2. Private Snafu film archive

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

SPEAKER_00 0:00

They featured simple language, racy illustrations, mild profanity, and subtle moralizing. 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 Frieda, 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, Blind Man's Bluff, the Browning M1917, and Snafu. So pull up a chair, take off that blindfold, 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, January 11, 1945. In military news, we begin in Europe, where the forces of the Red Army stand poised along the Vistula River, preparing for what military observers believe may be a decisive offensive against German positions. After months of relentless fighting, German lines in the east appear increasingly strained. Meanwhile, in the west, Allied armies under General Dwight D. Eisenhower continue to press forward, following the enemy's failed Ardennes counteroffensive, known to many as the Battle of the Bulge. Reports indicate that German forces are in retreat, their capacity to mount large-scale offenses now in serious doubt. Turning to the Pacific Theater, American troops under General Douglas MacArthur are locked in fierce combat on the island of Luzon in the Philippines. The battle rages on as U.S. forces push inland against determined Japanese resistance. Progress is steady, though hard won, as Allied command works to secure a vital foothold in the region. Overhead and at sea, American air and naval power continues to strike at Japanese supply lines, tightening the noose around enemy positions across the Pacific. On the home front, the engines of American industry continue to roar. War production remains at peak levels, with factories turning out planes, ships, and munitions in staggering numbers. Despite rationing and the many sacrifices of civilian life, morale remains firm as the nation presses towards victory. Across the Atlantic, the people of Great Britain endure continued attacks from German V weapons, rocket strikes against London persist, a grim reminder that even as the tide turns, the dangers of war are not yet past. And as Allied forces advance on all fronts, attention quietly turns to the future. Discussions among Allied leaders are already laying the groundwork for the peace to follow, talks that are expected to culminate in a major conference in the coming weeks. The road ahead remains difficult, but there's growing confidence among the United Nations that victory in Europe and ultimately around the globe draws ever nearer. And in other news, with rationing on the home front at an all-time high, I thought it might be interesting to take a look at some of the creative recipes that sustained the home front during those hard times. Here are a few of my favorites. First, potato peelings, a simple recipe in which the often discarded peels were boiled and fried and then seasoned to taste with salt and pepper. Acorn coffee. Acorns were roasted and ground to produce an earthy beverage when coffee was unavailable or in short supply. Though non-caffeinated, it did satisfy that ritualistic urge to sip on something hot. Mock Banana. In Great Britain, with bananas unavailable, folks turned to mashed parsnips and banana flavoring. Also mock apple pie. This recipe combines Ritz crackers, sugar, cinnamon, and lemon juice, effectively fooling the taste buds into believing you're eating a true apple pie. Hoover Stew, a carryover from the Great Depression, in which elbow macaroni, canned tomatoes, hot dogs, and corn are all boiled together. Cabbage and onion hash. Exactly what it sounds like. Chopped cabbage and onions, fried in oil or drippings until browned and tender. Other veggies one might have on hand rounded out that meal. Boiled turnip patties. Mashed turnips mixed with flour, salt, and a little lard, fried until they are soft inside and crisp outside. Dandelion greens with vinegar. Enough said about that. And my personal favorite, simply because it sounds absolutely disgusting, Hitler's Alone, translating to Hitler's Bacon. This gelatinous fruit jam contained no meat whatsoever. It was often made from plums and quinces boiled with sugar to form a solid block. This seemed to be popular with Hungarian soldiers who sliced it like traditional bacon and many times cooked it with their potatoes or stews. And now the letter Thursday, january eleventh, nineteen forty five. My dearest Mary, well, here I am again, dear. Did you give me up for lost? I did. I don't know myself where I've been this last week. Here, there and everywhere. And as for writing letters, well, that was impossible. We left our bivouac in the dark and came back in the dark. No lights or fires permitted and not enough time during chow to even read all of the mail we received out there. So I hope you're not angry with me for not writing to you. First of all, I want to clear up a wrong impression of yours. That five day furlough business, that is five days at home. We are allowed four days traveling time to get home and back to our station wherever that may be. So don't go getting yourself in a stew about not seeing me. Five days may not be much, but it is better than nothing at all, right? And transportation can be arranged from this end. Either I'll take a troop train or arrange for a furlough. Possibly you had better see if you can scrape up about forty dollars for me to take care of the tickets. If not that much, as much as you can. I have fifteen dollars left of my pay and I'll save as much of that as I possibly can. But Saturday night we leave on another two week bivouac and I'll have to buy stuff to take with me. You know, cigarettes, small cakes, candy bars, etc. We get goddamn hungry out there. Does all that put your mind at ease a little? And by the way, I hate to disillusion you, but I won't be home for your birthday. In fact, I won't even be able to send you a gift. I hope it doesn't hurt you too much, darling, but I can't possibly do anything about it right now. I'll get you something on my way home to make up for it, okay? Now to get down to some of the other items of interest. Again, I have to disappoint you. OCS is nothing but a dream, I guess. As yet, I don't know why, but the last board I appeared before disqualified me. Only two men out of nineteen have been accepted so far, and they still have a long ways to go. But I'm not giving up yet. I can play again in three months, and if I'm still in the army by then, I'll get after them again. NCO school still carries on, just previews of what the entire company gets day by day. Boring is all hell, and that is all of the local news. Now maybe I can describe to you the life of a GI on bivouac. Pardon me, did I say life? That was a slip of the tongue. I should have said existence in hell. To begin, last Thursday night we started packing our equipment. Extra fatigues, socks, shoes, hankees, underwear, cigarettes, cake, candy, pencils, papers, leggings, etc. In fact, anything extra we thought we might need was stuffed into our barracks bags to be brought out to us on a truck. In our packs went blankets, shelter, tent pegs and pole, raincoat, towel, toilet articles, mess gear, canteen, and cup. We wore helmet, wool cap, one set light underwear, one set long johns, two pair socks, shoes, boots, fatigues, overcoat, and gloves. We all looked like we had put on about one hundred pounds of flesh, but it was actually about one hundred and twenty five pounds of equipment we carried in our hands. One M1 rifle, a comforter and blanket in which was rolled anything we might need immediately. Altogether, when we started out, we must have had pretty close to two hundred pounds of equipment per man, that is, not counting our barracks bags. Every step we took was like trying to lift a mountain. Walking was impossible, which made it pleasant indeed as we rode out to the bivouac area in buses. Good deal. We left camp at eight thirty PM, rode eighteen miles and walked two, and there we were. Where is there, you ask? I don't know. Somewhere in the heart of Texas, but it looked more like the other end of it to me. I forgot to mention, a heavy mist had settled all over the area at about six PM and we couldn't see our hands in front of our faces. But everyone enjoys playing blind man's bluff, even us sad sacks. We were somewhere in the middle of a spruce tree grove, with paths running between the trees in all directions. That is, all but the direction we wanted to go. Our sergeant led us by the hand into our immediate platoon area and then told us to pick a spot to pitch our tents. Pitch, that's a good word. I pitched mine right over a twenty foot drop and damn near broke my neck going after it. However, working with the sense of touch, I finally got all of my equipment grounded and organized so that I would have no trouble getting down to business. But I had forgotten one thing. The fellow I was to sleep with was on KP duty that night and wouldn't come in around 5 AM Friday morning. But did I let that stop me? Not on your life. I struggled along and finally achieved a lean to effect, which let air and water in on only one side and the bottom. While doing all this, I very nearly managed to scatter all the rest of my equipment in such a manner that it would take Sherlock Holmes at his best to find it. But I did, so I heaped it all in a pile, threw down a couple of blankets, tore off my shoes, wrapped up in the comforter, and laid down. Right smack in a nice oozy mud puddle that had formed while I wasn't looking. Not to be bested, I cursed it in my best GI style and proceeded to ignore it. Do you know that if you lay in water you get wet? Don't let anyone ever tell you anything different. Came the morning, came the sergeant, came up little Johnny from his bog wallow to fall flat on his face over a cute little tent peg that I had put in the wrong place. Oh well, maybe I do look better in brown. Chow was by lamplight in the open. You filed by big kettles and let the KPs fill your mess gear with a combination of eggs, bacon, twigs, leaves, a little dirt, and anything else that was handy. A very tasty combination. We thrive on that sort of thing, and that was breakfast every morning. After Chow, I scurried back and as much of my gear I could find I threw under my shelter, which was a very brilliant thing to do. It only got twice as wet there as it would have had I let it lie under the trees where it had been. By this time the mist had settled down to a light rain and mud was everywhere. We donned raincoats and boots and were ready for anything they had to offer us. Their offer turned out to be a five mile hike to a field range, where we lay on our bellies all day firing live ammo at imaginary enemies. Some fun that. Every once in a while the imaginary enemy gets sore and fires back, so it pays to keep your little fannies down on the ground. No casualties there, so they next tried to kill us off in larger quantities. Hand grenades. They handed everyone a live grenade, showed us a foxhole in which we could lie down, and then told us the only time we could get in them was before we heaved the grenades, just for observation purpose. We were to throw the grenades, watch where it fell, and then fall flat on our faces on the open ground. Quite a nice manner of suicide, that. I threw mine so far that Hitler himself must have felt the jar. Maybe it's still going. I sure hope so. Again, no casualties. So they gave up for the day and back to our homes in the woods we tramped. Bad as the situation was, those tents looked good to us. My buddy had finally pulled in, so together we proceeded to make a grand mess of everything. Ordinarily it takes ten minutes to put those cursed things up. Two good men can do it in seven to eight minutes. It only took us a half hour. Remember, this is in the dark, no fires or lights of any kind. We finally got to sleep around eleven PM, with Juicy, my buddy, in the mud puddle. I'm no fool, that is, not much of one. I slept on rocks all night, nice big ones that leave permanent impressions. But we learned to ignore minor items such as that. That night the pitter patter of the rain lulled us asleep, and we woke up the next morning as fresh as last Tuesday's cake. You know, feeling kind of tough. Chow the same as before. Anything goes and we're glad to get it. Saturday came up wet as usual, and a fog that you could cut with a knife, if you had a knife. We stumbled, slipped, and crawled for about two miles to a firing range for practice on automatic rifles. That's some gun. It can get more bullets off in a wink of an eye than anything under the sun. Of course, the bullets come out one end and away from you, but you can always expect the empty cartridges to be hitting you somewhere. No matter what position you take, those hot cases are usually sitting in your lap. But they keep you warm on cold mornings anyway. Back to our cozy little nests by eight PM to find that our little puddle had reached the proportions of a small lake. Were we disgusted? Mad? Irritated? Why of course not. What else could we expect? But we did wish that we had brought along our swimming suits so we could take full advantage of it. After floating around all night, we awoke to the news that our barracks bags would not come out to us. It seems that our CO, mother, as we call him, had been able to get all his personal items brought out by truck, and that left no room for ours. So there went all our sigs, candy, etc, etc. Fortunately, some of the boys had the presence of mind to take enough with them, so we borrowed enough smokes to see us through. But never before were there so many hungry guys. We went around begging bread from the kitchen to fall upon, and I'm not building up the facts either. Honey, most of us were so doggone hungry that we nibbled on pieces of spruce bark to keep us going. And as for water, there just wasn't enough to go around. We all damn near noted one night when we found out that our captain had taken the last two gallons of water to take a bath. We milled around for about three hours before the sergeants and officers got us under control. As a result, we have a new CO. If they hadn't pulled Mother out, he might have been seriously hurt some dark night. Sunday we hiked another five miles to get more rifle work. I'm sure that by now I could knock the fleas off a gnat's back at one thousand yards. Monday we spent with machine guns spraying lead all over the countryside. I wouldn't give two cents to be a machine gunner. They're the center of attraction to the enemy and are the first ones to be knocked off. So that's not for me. Exciting, but too damn dangerous. Tuesday we got a march in full equipment for eight miles to another range. Wow. We started out at 7 AM and got there at 8 30, setting a camp record by collecting another record batch of blisters. After we had sat around for ten minutes, we were all so stiff that the platoon sergeants had to help us to our feet. If they hadn't, we would be sitting there yet. Even now my legs feel like rubber and there is no strength left in them. We fired the mortars that day. Now that's the job for me. That gun is generally dug into a foxhole with plenty of protection from enemy fire. It is operated by a five-man crew and is simple to handle. It lobs a three-pound shell in a high arc over the lines and makes a swell splash wherever it lands. I feel a little bit proud that our crew was the only one to destroy its target in the prescribed number of rounds. That evening we saw a demonstration of night firing. It's quite a sight, flares going off all over the place until it's as light as a dull day. With the shells falling in a beautiful pattern of destruction, I certainly wouldn't want to be caught out in the open with them things flying all around me. I might get hurt. We pulled out of there at 8 30 PM and took it easy going back, about two hours of walking. By now we were getting acquainted with the area and the manner of living, so we easily put up our tents and by eleven thirty we were sound asleep. Wednesday was our last day, so the cooks threw everything they had left into breakfast. What a mess. A little egg, potatoes, ham, and the ever present dirt. But we will survive it, I guess. At least I'm still alive now. After Chow we spent a lazy day with machine gunning again. They formed us into squads and showed us a few targets in the field to our front. There are a few mechanical features about the MG I don't like. It is supposed to be operated by a couple of hand wheels in order to move the fire over a given area. But you know, Johnny, I wanted to get mine over with first, so I took off all the handles and levers and used fire operation and shot the hell out of every target on the field. Of course I got hell from the officers, but I had a lot of fun. That finished up our bivouac time and we left that range to get back to the barracks at 7 15 PM. At least the vans were supposed to be there at that time, but in the army, time is of no consequence when it comes to getting trainees home. We didn't leave there until 8 30 and every one of us was asleep before we had rode two miles. As ugly and uncomfortable as the barracks are, they looked beautiful to us when we finally got there. Oh, welcome sight. First came Chow. Good for a change, and what a grand and glorious feeling to sit down at a table and not have to scramble around in the dark trying to find our food. You can imagine what we all looked like with a six-day beard and not having even so much as washed our hands for four days. I got under the water and just let the water pour over me for a half hour before I even used a little bit of soap. It took quite a bit of hard scrubbing to get us looking halfway clean, and to get rid of them whiskers, what a change. Fellows I hadn't seen for a while gradually came into view as they used their razors. I had thought of leaving on just a little bit of hair under my nose, but the rest of my face felt so clean that I wanted my upper lip to enjoy it too, so off it came, and to my own advantage too. I don't think I would look good as a walrus. Next on the list is a haircut if I ever get a chance. I finally got my equipment put away and stuffed myself with candy and laid down to sleep. But something was wrong. It took me a little while to figure it out, but finally I discovered that it was the fact that there were no lumps in the mattress. So I stuffed a few pieces of equipment under the mattress cover and slept like a baby. I'm only kidding. Today, Thursday, was supposed to be free time, but so far the only thing free about it has been the hot air our top sergeant has been blowing at us. I did do a little bit of laundry, but that was all. The rest of the day has been spent in cleaning weapons that were fired by us. It is now 8 30 PM and I started this at 10 AM, so you can see that little Johnny has had quite another busy day. I thought that I would have a chance to write to Mother and the rest, but I'll have to leave it up to you to explain to them why they haven't heard from me. I got a box today from Mother, but Aunt Harriet's package has not arrived yet, nor, as you say, the one from Mill. So will you please tell them for me? And also tell Kath that I received her cookies, and that as soon as I get a chance I will write to her and Fred. I don't think I'll have any extra time to do any writing to anyone but you, so I hope everyone will understand the situation. I'll try to write them as soon as possible, but it may not be very soon. You tell me that you want a name for the new pup you're going to get. The only one I can think of for a female dog is Snafu. That's short for situation normal, all fucked up. It's a typical army term, and usually a female dog is in that situation. Don't hit me now, wait till I get home. Speaking of being home, I don't think I'll be there before the middle of February, so don't plan too much on seeing me before then. I wish with all my heart that I could arrange it so I would be home soon, but this army is bound to keeping us in the dark as to what will happen next. I can't think of anything else that I want more than to be holding you in my arms and whispering how much I love you. All the time I have spent away from home has made me realize just how important you are in my life. Without you, life would be just an empty shell. You are what keeps my world clicking. I can't tell you often enough that never again will I want to be away from you. Not ever for a single day. I miss you so much now that it is just like an ache in my heart. That ache will never be stopped until I am back with you once more. I love you more than words can say, darling. Love you with all that is in me. I'm going to say good night now, darling. I'm so doggone sleepy that I can hardly keep my head up. So kiss the kids good night for me, sweetheart, and here's all my love for you. Johnny. A few notes from today's letter Blind Man's Bluff. The earliest known versions of Blind Man's Bluff appear in ancient Greece, where a similar game was played around two thousand years ago. Another early reference comes from sixteenth century Spain, where the game was known as La Gaienita Siega, the little blind hen. Across Europe the game developed under many names. In Italy, Moscacheca or Blind Fly. In Germany, blindiku, or blind cow. In Sweden, blindbach, or blind buck, and in France Kolan Maya, named after a medieval warrior who fought while blinded. These variations show how widely the game spread and how each culture adapted it. During the Middle Ages, blind man's bluff was not just a children's pastime, it was also played by adults. The blindfolded player was often buffeted or pushed, which is where the original term came. It was called blind man's buff, meaning a small push. By the 16th and 17th centuries, the game appeared in English literature. A 1590 play by Robert Wilson includes one of the earliest printed references. The game remained popular into the 17th century with diarist Samuel Pepe noting his wife playing it in 1664, and the game traveled far beyond Europe, taking on new forms elsewhere. In China, a version called Chomichan is mentioned in texts dating back to the Tang Dynasty. In Nigeria, a version developed where the blindfolded child must guess who struck them. In Papua New Guinea, the game was known as Kamunamu. It was played as Kanamachi or Blind Fly in Bangladesh, and in Japan, a unique version popped up where girls in kimono play while carrying a cup of tea. By the 19th century, Blind Man's Bluff had become a common parlor game in Victorian England, and remained A staple at social gatherings. Today, it continues to be played worldwide at parties, playgrounds, and cultural festivals, valued for its simplicity, suspense, and physical playfulness. The Browning M1917. First, a disclaimer here: I am by no means an expert or even a beginner when it comes to knowledge of firearms. But I did a little digging, and my best guess, given Johnny's description of the machine gun, is that he was using a Browning M1917. The Browning M1917 is a water-cooled, belt-fed, recoil-operated heavy machine gun designed by John Moses Browning and used extensively by U.S. forces from World War I through the Vietnam era. Its core characteristics are a large water jacket which surrounds the barrel, allowing long periods of sustained fire without overheating, a belt-fed recoil-operated mechanism, a rate of fire at about 450 rounds per minute, with that being increased to about 600 RPM with the M1917A1, and a weight of about 47 pounds for the gun alone, including tripod, water can, and ammunition, that weight grew to 103 pounds. And finally, in today's letter, the word Snafu. I'm guessing most people listening to this podcast have heard this word before. It originated in World War II with the first US print appearance in 1941. What may be lesser known are the training films centering around a fictional soldier known as Private Snafu. These animated shorts were produced between 1943 and 1945 and were voiced by none other than the legendary Mel Blank. Humorous in tone, they were designed to instruct service personnel about security, proper sanitation habits, booby traps, and other military subjects, and to improve troop morale. Primarily, they demonstrate the negative consequences of doing things wrong. The very first film was directed by another animation legend, Chuck Jones. The character was created by yet another legend, director Frank Capra, who was chairman of the U.S. Army Air Force First Motion Picture Unit. And if that isn't enough talent, most of the shorts were written by author Theod Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss. The character of Private Snafu was designed by Art Heinemann, the same man who would soon redesign Woody Woodpecker. The goal was to help enlisted men with weak literacy skills to learn through animated cartoons. They featured simple language, racy illustrations, mild profanity, and subtle moralizing. Private Snafu did almost everything wrong, so that his negative example taught basic lessons about secrecy, disease prevention, and proper military protocols. These private Snafu cartoons were a military secret. The shorts were classified government documents, and the creative team had to be fingerprinted and given FBI security clearances. Workers at the ink and paint department were given only ten cells at a time in an effort to prevent them from figuring out the story content. Since these were essentially cautionary tales, six of the Snafu shorts actually end with Snafu being killed due to his stupidity. At least the method of his demise varied. Throughout the series run, Snafu was blown up by enemy submarine torpedoes, blown up by a bomb hidden inside a piano, run over by an enemy tank, crushed by a large bomb, succumbed to malaria, and run over by a streetcar. In one short, a recurring character known as Technical Fairy First Class transforms Private Snafu into the hero Snapufer Man, who takes his bungling to a superpowered level through his carelessness. The films ended with the end of the war, though the character has since made a couple of brief cameos. The Animaniacs episode, Bootcamping, has a character looking very much like Private Snafu, and the Futurama episode I Dated a Robot shows Private Snafu on the building-mounted video screen for a few seconds in the opening credits. If you're interested in viewing these shorts, you're in luck. They are declassified in the public domain and readily available online. I've provided a link in the show notes to an archive of those shorts. The top song in the US on this date, January 11, 1945, was Don't Fence Me In by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. Now that I'm counting down the 100 most popular songs of 1945, we arrive at number 99 on our list, and that song is There Goes That Song Again by Kay Kaiser and his Orchestra. There Goes That Song Again is a quintessential mid-1940s sentimental ballad, remembered for its nostalgic theme and strong melodic writing. The song was written by Jules Stein and Sammy Kahn, and performed by Kay Kaiser and his orchestra. It appeared in the 1944 film Carolina Blues, where it was performed by Kaiser's Orchestra with vocalist Harry Babbitt. The lyrics center on a familiar tune that triggers memories of a past romance, a theme typical of popular music during World War II, and the lyrical repetition reinforces its nostalgic pull. Though sentimental, it is also danceable due to the big band structure so popular at the time, resulting in a tune that, despite the bittersweet theme, conveys warmth rather than melancholy. K. Kaiser's commercial dominance at the time, combined with prominent placement in a major film, cemented the song's initial warm reception. Covers of the song by artists such as Bobby Vinton, Brooke Benton, and Frankie Carl ensured its longevity as a classic American standard. While Kaiser himself faded from public memory after retiring abruptly in 1950, the song continues to circulate in jazz and swing anthologies. Thank you for listening to Dog Tags and Paper Hearts. You can find links to information contained within this episode in the show notes. I've also provided a link to my Spotify playlist of songs discussed in this podcast, and that playlist is also titled Dog Tags and Paper Hearts. Please keep the feedback coming by emailing me at Dog Tagspaperhearts at gmail.com. And most importantly, if you have a story from World War II and you're willing to share, drop me a line and let's get that going. Until next time, I mean.