McGee, William L. Bluejacket Odyssey, 1942-1946. Santa Barbara: BMC Publications, 2000.

ISBN 0-9701678-0-6
518 pages

Acknowledgments; Foreword; Preface; Introduction; photos; maps; Bibliography; Index

   William McGee, born far from the ocean in Montana, enlisted with parental permission in the US Navy in October 1942 at age seventeen. He has also written the first two books of a trilogy (with one still to come) concerning amphibious operations in the South Pacific in WWII, a subject about which he has firsthand experience, but this memoir covers in far more personal style his youth and his four years in the USN. He divides his book into three parts, including his early days in Montana and his post-war years in the Navy, especially at the A-bomb tests at Bikini in the Marshall Islands. The vast majority of the book details his war years with the naval Armed Guard aboard merchant ships on voyages in the Pacific.
   He punctuates his personal recollections with news headlines from the war and with sidebars relating additional information about places and events that touched his wartime experiences. As with most military memoirs, many of McGee's days seem composed of equal parts tension and boredom, comforting routines, scuttlebutt, and chow. Not every day, however, passed so uneventfully. Serving aboard Nathaniel Currier in June 1943, McGee and his shipmates anchored off Guadalcanal and promptly realized they were in an active war zone when they experienced their first real GQ alarm upon the arrival of "Washing Machine Charlie." Charlie didn't both the Currier, but later Charlie's friends returned with a vengeance, and McGee reports the combat action from a personal perspective at his battle station and utilizing the recollections of other sailors and official reports unearthed while preparing his book.

   Almost immediately afterwards three Japanese planes were seen diving on LST-340 about 300 yards west of the port bow of the Currier. The leading plane commenced his long, whistling dive on the target and dropped three bombs from a very low altitude and appeared to get one or two direct hits before banking away sharply abreast of our portside. Joe Jurgens and Gerry Olson, manning the forward and aft port bridge guns respectively, hit the plane with several long bursts that raked the entire length of the fuselage. Joe Skalenda, our bow gunner, also put several tracers through it. The plane began smoking heavily and crashed on the beach about 200 yards inshore. The loud, tension-relieving cheers of our forward gun crews when that Jap plane hit the beach were like the '49ers had scored a touchdown in the last five seconds to win the Superbowl.
   A second Val attacked the same LST from the port bow with bombs and machine gun fire, but narrowly missed the target. The plane was hit many times by both the 340 and Currier forward gunners as it passed overhead. We saw the plane crash some 500 yards off our starboard bow. (Our C.O. didn't see this one splash and refused to credit US with even a half-plane kill.)
   We starboard gunners got in some valuable practice on another Val (Aichi) bomber while LST-340 was under attack off our port side. Flags Barela reported this one from his spotter station on the flying bridge. I opened fire as the Nip was making his run on our starboard bow with his machine guns blinking. I remember thinking for the first time that, hell, I might die at seventeen and never get to own my own ranch or raise a family. About the time my tracers began disappearing into the nose of his plane, he gunned his engine and banked sharply to port and ran smack into a lead curtain put up by Gibe and Gassen on the starboard side of our bridge. The Jap pilot never released any bombs but was soon greeted by a very daring U.S. Army P-38 flyboy who zoomed out of nowhere for this easy kill of the cripple. As we watched him splash the Val some 1,000 yards off our starboard quarter, I wondered if we could have claimed the plane had it not been for the P-38 pilot's interception.
   P-38s were new to the area. Leonard Honeycutt, radarman on the Skylark, recalled: "A couple of us were standing on the fantail. We were off Guadalcanal, watching the 'air show' when we saw this Jap plane fly over a hill on the 'Canal, and right behind him was a P-38.
   "Now this was when P-38s first came into being and I'd never even seen one before. I remember it like it was five minutes ago, my shipmate saying, 'My God, that guy must be going 300 miles per hour!' Remember, that speed was unheard of in those days. Anyway, both planes disappeared over the hill and three or four minutes later here comes the P-38 so we assumed he splashed that Jap."
   When the LST-340 attack ended, enemy bombers and fighters made the first of several passes at the Celeno (AK-76) Ñ about 1,000 yards southwest of our port quarter. Each of the planes peeled off in succession with the sun behind them from a height of several thousand feet, dove on the ship and dropped bombs and/or strafed her in a stem-to-stem direction, then leveled off near the Currier. As each plane passed by, it was fired on by every gun we could bring to bear.

   McGee and Currier escaped unharmed from that air strike. On 23 June, departing Guadalcanal with two other Liberty ships and three escorting destroyers, his convoy was attacked by the Japanese submarine RO 103. Two of the three Liberties went down, but McGee's Currier again escaped unscathed.
   This is a thick book full of days at sea packed with action and boredom. More so than most memoirs, McGee endeavors to provide a great deal of context and additional information, including material from shipmates and Armed Guards aboard other cargo ships. A pleasurable read on its own, or as an introduction to his broader and more ambitious trilogy about the Solomons campaign.

Parker, Pauline E. (editor). Women of the Homefront: World War II Recollections of 55 Americans. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, Inc, 2002

ISBN 0-7864-1346-8
300 pages

Acknowledgments; Preface; photos; Index

   Whereas McGee's book is a long account of one man's war, Pauline Parker has collected over fifty brief recollections from American women into this compilation. Mostly these are two or three pages in length, and although the title says "Women of the Homefront," some of the stories come from overseas. In fact, the book divides into several sections, each (save one) with multiple voices:

Voices from Pearl Harbor
Voices from Relocation Camps
Voices from School
Voices from Government Women
Voices from the Laboratories
Voices from Wartime Opportunities
Voices from the Service and Military Hospitals
Voices from Military Dependents
Voices from Daily Life
Voices from Abroad
A Lonely Voice for Peace
Voices of Grief

   World War II triggered some enormous shifts in American social patterns, and the emergence of women into the workplace as more than teachers and nurses is one change easily detected here. But changes in social patterns are far from the forefront as these women explain how they lived their lives during the war, so that each individual face and each individual story assumes much more importance than any sociological trend. For some women, the war meant exciting new opportunities, but for other women the war seemed only a painful interlude to be endured. And for every woman who recounts years of excitement and vitality, another remembers deprivation, pain, and loss.

   Often when pilots were on maneuvers, I would go to the flying fields and watch the planes take off and come in. One day, as I counted, all the planes landed but one. I just knew the missing plane was Dick's. He had to be in trouble. Fire trucks and ambulances were arriving. I can close my eyes today and still hear the deafening sirens. Time and my heart seemed unreal for a few seconds. Then a tiny dot appeared way off in the blue sky. It was Dick's plane, but could it land without crashing? Again it seemed that even the breeze stood still. The plane came down and made a perfect landing. There had been trouble lowering the landing gear and Dick had maneuvered the plane until he had it under control. This was my first experience with what life had in store for me as a wife in World War II.
   From Albuquerque the orders were for San Francisco. The men went on the train while we girls drove across the desert. We knew that this was our last time to be with our husbands before they were shipped overseas. When Dick and his friends prepared to leave for the front, we were filled with excitement and patriotism.
   I returned to Albany where my brother-in-law needed help. Once again, I went to work at the little store at 9th and Elm. As I was working one afternoon in 1944, about 2:00 p.m., I had an ominous feeling that I must go home. I turned to my brother-in-law and told him I was going home to receive a message. I just knew I had a message at home. As soon as I arrived, Dick's mother called and told me I would be getting a telegram. It arrived, telling me that Dick and his crew in the B-24 had been downed over Formosa. All were lost.

Koskimaki, George. The Battered Bastards of Bastogne: A Chronicle of the Defense of Bastogne. Havertown, PA: Casemate, 2003

ISBN 1-932033-06-8
484 pages

Introduction; Foreword; Acknowledgments; Glossary; photos; maps; Epilogue; Bibliography; Contributors; Index

   Originally published several years ago, George Koskimaki compiled war stories from many sources in much the same way as Pauline Parker, but with a much more focused outcome. While Parker's voices are connected only as American women who lived through the war years, Koskimaki's recollections come from his comrades in the 101st Airborne Division, and even more specifically they all cover the defense of Bastogne. In that sense, this book—even though it relies on the memories of several hundred veterans—more closely resembles William McGee's book, which tied material from his shipmates and other Armed Guards into his own autobiography. This book also resembles McGee's other work as part of a trilogy (along with D-Day with the Screaming Eagles and Hell's Highway) covering a larger campaign.
   Koskimaki succeeds in stitching many disparate, overlapping accounts into a seamless narrative encompassing the entire action, making this volume simultaneously a work of oral history (although some accounts were made verbally and others in writing), a unit history, and a thorough record of the battle.
   What makes this book especially interesting is the way the author has gathered so many accounts of the battle that he can not only give a clear picture of the entire situation, but he also manages to show most of the separate incidents from the varying perspectives of many different soldiers. One of the contributors to this volume is PFC Donald Burgett, who went on to write his own series of four books about his experiences with the 101st. Burgett's exciting, gritty memoirs cover much the same territory as Koskimaki's work and they've been very well received, but Burgett's books lack the wider perspectives and overlapping points of view assembled here.

   It is still a mystery where the maverick tank had been hiding. The tank battle had ended about 0930 with the last ones being destroyed in the Rolle vicinity. But, as mentioned by Captain Jim Hatch in his story, the demolition charge which was to have blown the bridge and tank skyward, was a dud. In mid-afternoon, a lone tank suddenly made an appearance from the direction of Bastogne and headed in a northerly direction.
   In the "A" Company CP, Captain Wallace Swanson was being visited by S- 3 commander Jim Hatch, Major John Hanlon and Captain Joe Pangerl when the officers were surprised by a commotion. Swanson wrote:

   As the day continued on with fighting in and around Champs, the regimental S-3 officer. Captain Jim Hatch came forward to my CP and while we were talking over the situation, he asked how we were holding up. We heard a loud rumbling noise outside the house we were using as the company CP. We wondered what was going on out there. We both went to the front door and, as we opened it, we saw this German tank go by from our rear toward our front lines. We realized we had no weapons that would do any good. We shut the door and Hatch said, 'This is no place for a pistol!' That tank went out through our position in Champs. As it was clearing our front line area, Pvt. John Ballard, using his bazooka, knocked out the tank. He did it with two hits. Other elements, anti-tank 57mm guns and others may have fired but it was the Ballard bazooka that knocked the tank out and destroyed the tank crew by small arms fire by our men.

   As the prisoner interrogation officer. Captain Joe Pangerl was on the "A" Company field phone in conversation at the time. In a V-Mail letter to his parents, Pangerl describes the tank incident:

   The first I knew about it was when I was telephoning with my back to the door, looking out of the window. About four men, including one of my majors, climbed over me to get out of the window. The last one said 'Scram - there's a German tank outside the door!' In my imagination, I could see the 88mm gun pointing through the door ready to fire so, needless to say, I went out that window, telephone and all. Nothing, however, happened so I went around the front of the house and saw it disappearing up over the hill with men running after it shooting but of course not doing any damage. We finally got it with a bazooka.

   It was now mid-afternoon. The men were busy cleaning weapons and looking for additional ammunition and the troops were hungry. Pvt. Ted Goldman describes the situation:

   Food and bragging and post mortem of the battle were the order of the day now. Cleaned weapons and hunted ammo. My rifle - I traded off for another at supply. It had stuck at a crucial time and my hand was raw from beating back the bolt so I could load and extract rounds by hand.
   Our chickens gone, the civilian houses all severely damaged more or less, we salvaged one loaf of bread and used some butter taken off the prisoners when we searched them and they were left with nothing but their uniforms, smelly German cigarettes and pictures.
   Johnny was in his hole cleaning his rifle; Fowler and Curry in theirs. Lenz, Williams and I were slicing bread with a bayonet. I had a slice fixed when Johnny yelled to ask me to fix him one, which I started doing. I never finished. Fowler yelled, 'Here comes a German tank behind you!' Sure enough, a light-medium tank was coming up behind us with its machine gun blazing away. We ducked behind what remained of the potato shack doorway (Lenz, Williams and myself). On the enclosed map, you can find the location in relation to the other one. At point #1, tank ran up against Pvt. John C. Ballard, Jr. Here he shot the one remaining Heinie hanging on the outside. #2 marks where he hit it with the first round high on the back of the motor, just under the turret. #3 is where he hit it with the second bazooka round solidly in the motor. It stopped dead and was burning furiously. The crew came piling out to be met by a volley of lead from all of us. No more tank and all the crew was killed except one who had a radio on his back that Sgt. Bud Zweibel wanted to get intact. He was lying wounded and our men picked him up, his pants shot off and the radio ruined.

   At close hand to witness the final demise of the maverick tank was Cpl. Willis Fowler who was sharing a foxhole with Pvt. Harold Cuny and verifies the action just described by Pvt. Ted Goldmann. Fowler wrote:

   In the middle of the afternoon, there came a tank out from the direction of Bastogne. It went past our position and cut off the road just after it got by us. Our bazookaman, Pvt. John Ballard, grabbed his bazooka, which was lying near him, and fired one round into the back of the tank and it stalled. He quickly reloaded and fired another round into the rear and it caught fire. The Germans began coming out; and were picked off as they ran for cover.

   All four of the books reviewed today should find enthusiastic audiences, but Koskimaki's looks like it will attract the most avid readers and display the most staying power.

Kynoch, Joseph. Norway 1940: The Forgotten Fiasco. Shrewsbury, UK: Airlife Publishing Ltd, 2002. Distributed in the US by Stackpole Books

ISBN 1-84037-380-6
174 pages

Prologue; photos; maps; Epilogue; Glossary; Bibliography; Index

   Joseph Kynoch's book most closely resembles William McGee's approach, relying partly on his own memories of the events in which he participated, and partly on the recollections of others to flesh out the story.
   Kynoch received mobilization orders on 28 August 1939 but spent the Phoney War quietly enough bouncing from one posting with the Leicesters to another without ever leaving Britain, suffering no worse than nights drinking too much cider and bouts with flu and measles. In April the Leicesters, part of 148th Brigade, endured the on-again, off-again confusions of loading, waiting, and unloading transport to Norway, with Kynoch and his mates finally departing on 20 April 1940 aboard St Magnus. The author describes in painful detail the reeking epidemic of seasickness that felled him and all the other passengers. Meanwhile, the transport Cedarbank, carrying the unit's equipment and motor vehicles, was torpedoed and sunk by U-26.
   The Leicesters landed at Aandalsnes on 22 April with nothing more than rifles, a few rounds of ammunition, and personal gear. While the Germans with tanks, artillery, and air support advanced toward them, the British were delivered by train to the railroad station at Tretten to stop the enemy. As might be expected, this turned into nothing more than a series of disasters and withdrawals. Kynoch describes the helpless feeling of being bombed and strafed without AA weapons, the struggle against tanks with nothing more potent than an obsolete anti-tank rifle, and the empty feeling of watching his mates disappear on patrol, never to return. At one point the author, his leg soaked with liquid, believes he has been hit by machine gun fire from an Me 110, only to discover the slug grazed his canteen and caused it to leak down his pants.
   Mostly, though, there's little to laugh about. His entire brigade melts away. There is no food but the scraps found in abandoned farm houses. Uniforms provide no warmth in the endless cold and snow. Each man is down to a single rifle round, kept "in the spout." With the last remnants of his unit, Kynoch begins a desperate march up the rail line to reach Aandalsnes and the chance of evacuation. His account of the retreat pulls no punches about the state of his comrades and the cohesion of his unit.

   It had now been almost a week since we had any food and although we didn't realise it as first, we just didn't have the energy for a sustained march. The first few miles had not been too bad but the combination of ballast and sleepers and lack of food began to take their toll. It started at first with a lone voice somewhere at the rear of the column of troops, muttering something in the darkness, then gradually one after another began to join in, then several voices at the rear could be heard shouting and screaming at the major.
   'For Christ's sake stop - the bloody man's a maniac.' Then another.
   'I'm not going any further - I'm knackered.' Then another.
   'The bloody Jerries can't be any worse than this bastard!' So it went on. Then there would be silence for a while. I looked behind me once or twice and saw some of them tearing off their overcoats and helmets and throwing them down by the side of the track regardless of the warning the major had given us about doing just this, then, as if this wasn't enough, I saw one of them throw his rifle away without even bothering to remove the bolt. I told Dunk what was going on and he quickly put my anxiety at rest.
   'Don't bother about them Lofty, the silly buggers will either freeze to death tonight, or they could even be shot with their own rifles; if they won't take notice of the major, they won't take notice of anyone, so let them get on with it.'
   Private Richard 'Squeek' Adams, who was marching alongside me, was beginning to show signs of faltering and stumbled once or twice. Squeek was one of the battalion buglers, hence his nickname.
   'What's the matter, Squeek?' I asked him.
   'It's me rifle, mate, it's getting too heavy for me, but I'm not going to part with it even if it means falling out for a rest.'
   'No - don't do that, Squeek, you might not be able to get going again; give it here, I can manage it.' I said, taking his rifle and slinging it over my shoulder alongside my own.
   Squeek was alright after that and was able to keep up with the rest of us. I looked back again and saw that there were more men dropping out at the rear of the column, some quietly and without any fuss, others with curses and threats.

   In the end, the survivors reach smouldering Aandalsnes and safe evacuation in the nick of time after ten cold, hungry, deadly days in Norway.
   Norway 1940, slender and fast-moving, reads quickly and Kynoch's personal story grabs the reader's attention. Unfortunately, his own first-hand narrative comprises only a fraction of the book. The remainder is a less successful account of 15th Brigade and the remainder of 148th Brigade in Norway, plus a jumble of recollections from other veterans of the campaign. Kynoch himself disappears from view for dozens of pages at a time, and the other stories tend to jump around geographically and chronologically, making it difficult to fit everything together. Despite the inherent drama of the situation, readers expecting too much from Kynoch's book will be disappointed, and—sorry to say—it's the weakest of this lot.

   All of these books are available from online booksellers, local bookshops, or directly from the publishers or their distributors.
   Thanks to the publishers and/or distributors for providing these review copies.