Letters from Dartmouth Men in the Armed Forces

This letter was written on July 21, 1944LIEUTENANT ADRIAN BECK '41, USMCR, Class of 1926 Fellow, who was Class of 1926 Fellow, who waskilled in action on Guam the next day. Itwas written to his brother Pfc Peter Beck'45, now a member of the Army Unit atthe Dartmouth Medical School.

I suppose that there is nothing more difficult than to convince one that the grass is not greener in the other pasture without going over to take a look. The lives of the courageous adventurers appeal to you. You, too, want to test your courage, stamina, and humor. You are afraid that you will grow old leading a dull, unexciting, purposeless life.

Consider a few points and see if they help you:

1. Every fellow who is worth a damn has such feelings. You can find very few of your friends who would be satisfied to lead a dull but secure life; later it may be a different story.

2 I am in the "war theater," the place I suppose every adventurous young fellow today longs to be—the place where "history is made," the area of "big excitement" and so on. Yet I find that a description of one of your adventures with a motorcycle, a nurse, sergeant, or teacher written in your critically humorous style is far more interesting. Which in a rough fashion brings me to a third point: The place has very little bearing on your hap- piness Today there are thousands, millions of men, at war in "romantic" places doing "exciting" things—bored to death only looking forward for the day when they can return to.Podunk or Brook- lyn. However, there are others, who, while they are eager to be home also, are living an exciting life out here. They are the sensitive, appreciative personalities, men who have a feeling for the stream of life. Such men would have an adventurous life in the quietest of communities, because they have the key within themselves. They know that their happiness depends upon their own attitude toward the world and their fellow men.

You can be one of these; you have a great awareness which at times turns to such a severely critical introspection that it leaves you feeling inferior, purposeless —What I'm trying to say is that LIFE is where you are today, not tomorrow or yesterday in some distant land or on some far-flung ocean—enjoy it to the full today and you will not unduly bemoan your yesterdays tomorrow

There have been times during the past few weeks .when I've felt quite unhappy- impatience, monotony—Then I take a certain seat where I can watch the men standing in line waiting to wash their mess gear —and I listen and look at the laughing, joking Marines and soon I am smiling, too. There is a great strength in fellow men, do not be alone No matter what happens Pete, never bitterness but love.

LIEUTENANT CHARLES H. SEWALL'35,USNR, writes an interesting letter fron Tinian. writes an interestingletter from Tinian.

Three copies of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE arrived today, and since I'm getting the clock wound up again in the hospital I've had time to read them. I thought that perhaps you would be interested in news of the Dartmouth Club of Tinian. Before you visualize ten or more members drinking beer on a fallen pine, let me add that the Club at one time consisted of Ted Steele '35 and myself, but Ted has moved on, and there is no beer. However, the next Dartmouth man that appears will be duly initiated, and the constitution drawn up.

Unfortunately my work is such that I'll have to describe the flora and fauna, and leave the rest until Tinian is securely secured and not just secured—l believe the official date was July 31. I came ashore during the assault phase, but saw little action except for sniper troubles which still eixist. The remaining Japs are holed-up in the many caves on the island, but venture forth at night occasionally to replenish their food supply. The daily deluge of rain provides them with plenty of fresh water, and they seem to have an inexhaustible supply of sake as well. We have learned to leave the sake alone, however, for some of it has been poisoned by the retreating Japs.

Our principal cause for sleeplessness has been not Jap snipers but our own sentries. The other night three of them outside my tent fired constantly at something moving in a cane field. Came the dawn and with it the last grunts of a heaven-bound hog. The disposal of the porker constituted a major problem, for the top soil is only a foot or two deep, and underneath is coral.

Flies, mosquitoes (some with dengue), ants, snails and the ever-present mud have done their best to make our lives miserable with some success. The snails are of unusual size—some carrying shells on their backs as big as baseballs. There are also huge frogs and toads—twice as large as any I saw in the States. The mud is particularly deep and clinging, but that condition exists at almost every new base.

I have seen few birds here, probably due to the terrific bombardment, but those I have seen are worthy of note. There is one variety that is snow-white with brilliant green markings, and a call not unlike a grouse.

Strangely enough, there are no palms on Tinian, while Saipan abounds with them. The trees here are low and scrubby—as indistinguishable as a scrub oak. There are a few banana trees that bear fruit slightly larger than my thumb. Bread fruit and papayas are plentiful.

In spite of the constant opportunity for complaint, there is little "griping." There is so much work that chances for thinking of home are few. Eventually, this will become a garden spot, but I don't believe many of us will want to return to see it.

Any Dartmouth man on Tinian will be greeted like the proverbial long-lost brother once he makes himself known and can step across the mud door-mat. Plans are now being formed by the Club of one to listen, if possible, to the Dartmouth- Notre Dame game, and other voices are needed.

SERGEANT RICHARD MORSE '44, ARS, son of Professor Stearns Morse of son of Professor Stearns Morse ofHanover, N. H., has written from Indiathe following letter, dated July 10, 1944.

Here I am sitting on a bench writing on a table for the first time in a couple of months. This won't be any more legible, though, because I skinned my knuckle while packing my duffle bag, and have an adhesive over it.

I am sitting in the U. S. Army camp where I arrived yesterday, after several days' ride in a troop train. Your fears about this country have not been realized. For myself, I am very fascinated by the people and the country, of which we got a very good picture on the train ride. The train was not a Pullman, needless to say, but was really as comfortable as any troop train I've seen. The windows were open all the time, we slept in tiers of benches, with our heads at the window, so we could watch the countryside as we passed —better than a Pullman, I call it. There was a kitchen car which gave us very decent meals.

At our port we got right on the train. There were a number of American Red Gross girls at the train with great baskets of delicious ginger and cocoanut cookies and great cans of iced tea, which tasted just right after the dull boat diet. En route on the train we bought bananas, oranges, pineapple and watermelon. The last was as good as any California melon, and twice as welcome. We were told that we could eat only fruit with skins, but there's plenty of that.

I think we got a pretty good picture of Indian agriculture and village life on the ride. This is the rainy season, and, while it doesn't rain every day there's usually rain four days a week. Everything along the tracks was very green. The fields, which were largely cultivated, had quite a surprising number of trees scattered through them. We saw many Indians plowing with old wooden plows, and producing fields that looked very well plowed, with a good deal of good soil. Many of the fields were broken up by ridges into plots about a half acre in size—this for irrigation purposes. Saw a good many fields of jute, about 6 inches high at the time, with Indians standing in the middle of them with water up to their calves, carefully transplanting the plants.

Along the way were cattle everywhere, scrawny beasts which are sacred, and only waste grazing space, 200,000,000 of them in the country. If they were all killed off and about 90,000,000 good stock were introduced, and they became "unsacred," Henry Wallace's quart of milk would be accomplished. Quite a task.

One never saw more children. They swarm in the villages, and crowd along the tracks saying "Vacsees"—"alms." We tossed them food and annas, but for myself I was too disturbed by the immensity of their poverty to find any relief in such meagre charity. Sam Berman, who, as art artist, should know a good face when he sees one, says they are beautiful people. I, without being an artist, agree with him completely. The old men have a great patience in their faces, plus a wise, sometimes smiling look that belongs to old men. The children have very winning smiles and their eyes, are bright and shining. The women are often beautiful (the pictures of Nehru's sister in his autobiography is a good example), and the men are very dignified. All of them stand straight, as though they always had a load on their heads. The average Indian posture would put the average American to shame.

But many of them are unbelievably thin —some mere skeletons. Yesterday we saw children with pot-bellies that go with starvation. The buildings they live in are damp, stuffy, and crowded. I think a lot of them have lung diseases, as well as the diseases that go with malnutrition. The fine railroad—the pride of the British—is a painful contrast to the poverty and back- wardness of the surroundings.

This camp is 15 to 25 miles from the big city to which our train brought us. (When we arrived we didn't know whether a representative of our outfit would meet us or not. No one did, and it looked as though we would be taken off to a pool. A brigadier-general was watching the unloading process—and telling the welcoming band what to play—so T/Sgt. John Welch, who stops at nothing, went up to him and said, "General, things are messed up here." The general asked him what was wrong, John told him, and the general assigned a major to take us to a headquarters where we could telephone our men. John talked to a captain, and I did, and he said that the major whom I. am to report to is-here. Then he sent us out to this camp for a couple of days' processing. We are anxiously awaiting further word from him. We drove out in an American carry- all truck. The Indian driver whipped through the packed streets, keeping both hands at all times on the horn. It reminded me greatly of Mexico! In fact, the crowds of people, small booths selling food, colored beads and bracelets, baskets and pottery, the white or brown adobe or stone buildings and the narrow streets reminded me a good deal of the market section of Mexico City. There are very few cars (most of them Army), a lot of rick- shaws (drawn either by hand or bicycle), a lot of ox carts carrying coal, food, or handicrafts into the markets or returning to the "suburbs," and a good number of English bicycles, of which even the natives have quite a few

So far I've not been bothered by the heat. The train ride provided a good breeze so that was O.K. Here there is a breeze from the water very often, and since it is the rainy season that cools it off somewhat. We are waiting for the PX to open this P.M. Hope they'll have cokes today. Beer, candy, soap, shaving stuff, etc. are all rationed for soldiers. One case of beer per month, and that will just suit me. It's supposed to be cold beer, too Hope to finish my traveling and get settled very soon, and chances look pretty good now—l have a hunch I'll get the job I want. Maybe by my next letter I'll know.

THE CLASS OF 1926 FELLOW for 1941, Lt. Adrian Beck '41 USMCR was killed at Guam on July 21, the day after he wrote the letter is printed in this section this month.