At the beginning of WWII, St Augustine, Florida was a sleepy little town with a population of about ten thousand residents. According to the St Augustine Record, in 1942 there was only about twenty-five hundred cars that applied for gas ration stickers in St Johns County. The town’s main sources of income were the Florida East Coast Railway offices and shops, tourism and shrimping; all of which had been hit hard by the depression. The biggest excitement seemed to be when word got out that “mullet are on the beach”. Then most every Minorcan and many others grabbed their nets and headed for the beach surf. Mullet fishing was not only a competitive sport (bragging rights), but a supplement to the family income. Many an old icebox was converted into a mullet smoker. Smoking techniques and spices were considered family secrets and closely guarded. Smoked mullet was a delicacy; when done “right”, it could be sold for a good price.
Things began to change when in 1941; our nation began preparing for potential war. The Coast Guard took over the Ponce de Leon Hotel, as well as, several other of the city’s larger hotels to form the basis of a Coast Guard Basic Training Center. The Naval Air Station at Jacksonville began growing and the Army at Camp Blanding in Stark started a big construction project.
In December 1941 Japan attacked the United States; we were at war. Military installations in North East Florida grew at an exponential rate as they did around the nation. Jacksonville Naval Air Station was greatly expanded; auxiliary Naval Air Fields were established in Green Cove Springs, St Augustine, Bunnel, Mayport and Daytona. Concurrently the Army accelerated construction at Camp Blanding while continuing to bring in troops and provide training. In addition, the Army established facilities in nearby towns to house Military Police and provide limited transit housing.
One such facility was located just West of St Augustine’s current Tourist Center; it could house and feed about one hundred and fifty men. The only conventionally constructed buildings were latrines and showers. Shelters that consisted of a wood floor and framework covered with a tent provided living quarters and office space. A field kitchen prepared the meals. By early 1943 the Coast Guard had twenty-five hundred men and a hundred or so women in the St Augustine Basic Training Center. The Navy had around ten thousand men at Jacksonville Naval Air Station and the auxiliary Navy air fields. The Army had over sixty thousand men at Camp Blanding. Every weekend the sidewalks and streets in downtown St Augustine were jam-packed with service men and women.
In the Spring of 1943 I was nine years old. Our family, Mom and Dad, sister, Caroline (15 yrs), brother, Billy (17 mos) and I moved across town to a new to us home. It was slightly larger than our old house. Down stairs there was a small enclosed front porch, a very large living room, a dining room, kitchen, bath, two bedrooms and a hall with stairs to the second floor. The upstairs consisted of a small finished bedroom, an unfinished bedroom and an open attic.
Within just a few days after moving in, Mom received a phone call from a friend who was a volunteer with the United Service Organizations (USO). The friend explained that each Friday and Saturday the Army bussed from Camp Blanding a thousand or more Soldiers to St Augustine. Each soldier had a thirty six hour pass. However, if they could not secure a place to sleep, the pass was revoked and they had to catch a bus back to Camp Blanding before the 1 AM curfew. The USO coordinated with the town’s people to find places for the soldiers to sleep. She asked Mom how many solders we would be willing to provide for, five or six. Mom was stunned. Her friend explained that the soldiers were told to register with the USO as soon as they arrived in St Augustine to secure a place to stay. They would be given the host name and address. The soldiers were to meet with their host late in the afternoon or early evening to be shown where they were to sleep, leave their “diddy bag” and pay the host $1.00 for each sleeper. The soldiers were also told that they should disrupt the host family as little as possible.
Mom’s friend said that she had signed her up for five or six soldiers each Friday and Saturday night. When Mom protested that we did not have enough beds or linens, she was told not to worry. That afternoon an Army (National Guard) truck showed up at the house and unloaded five World War I fold-able wood and canvas cots and a stack of linen. Mom said that she was concerned about how she was going to break the news to Dad when he got home from work. It turned out, while Dad was a little apprehensive about how it was going to work, he was pleased that our family could do more to aid our soldiers.
The next Friday we were prepared. Dad had set up four cots (all that fit) in the upstairs unfinished bedroom; Mom decided to put the other two soldiers on the two couches in the living room. A little after 5 PM the six soldiers arrived; Dad arrived from work just a few minutes later. There were introductions all around and then a tour of the house with solders selecting from the options where they were going to sleep. Then Dad gave his little speech that he gave many many times over the next nearly two and one-half years. I do not remember the exact words; however, I do remember the main points.
“I know that the curfew is 1 AM. We go to bed at 11 PM. The front door will be unlocked. Come in and be as quiet as possible. Find your sleeping place and go to bed. If you have been drinking, go to the garage behind the house to sleep. There are linens out there; find a place to sleep on the bench or floor. DO NOT COME INTO MY HOUSE. Should you get up before we do, it is fine for you to leave. You should fold your linens, leave them on the couch or cot and clean up any trash or mess that you have caused. We welcome you. If there is anything that we can do for you, we will do our best. Thank you for serving our nation. Enjoy St Augustine.
Over the next almost two and one-half years, this process was repeated almost every Friday and Saturday afternoon/evening. Dad had a ledger book that he asked each soldier to record their name and home address.
We seldom saw much of the soldiers. The USO had dances every Friday and Saturday night. The soldiers dance partners were USO Junior Hostess; girls eighteen or older. The girls were not allowed to be with the service men outside of the USO facility. A few soldiers came back to the house in the early evening. Mom said that they were home sick or just wanted to be around family. It was great for me because I got to talk to them; I’m sure that I asked a million questions. They treated me like a little brother. It has been almost eighty years ago; I do not remember any specific conversations; however, I do remember a number of bits and pieces. Several told me that the most frightening part of training was crawling one hundred yards at night while machine guns fired tracer bullets two and one-half feet above the ground just over their heads, and explosions were going off all over the place. If you raised up you were dead. I was sure that I would not be frightened if I had to make the crawl. (When your 10/11 your bullet proof.)
One Saturday afternoon in late summer 1944 I came in from playing. Dad and a soldier were sitting on the front porch talking. The soldier was crying. I had never seen a grown man cry. My Dad told me to leave; it was none of my business. That night I asked Dad what was wrong. He said that the soldier was going to the rifle range the next week. He had never touched a real gun, and was afraid that he would shoot himself or someone else. In addition he could not imagine how he could survive combat where he was shooting at the enemy and they were shooting at him. I have no idea what Dad told the soldier; however, I know the soldier survived the frigid weather and the Germans in December 1944 in Bastogne during the battle of the Bulge. For the next twenty-five or so years, Mom and Dad received a Christmas card from him. He never failed to thank Dad for the talk they had on our front porch. After the war we received post cards, Christmas cards and a few letters from soldiers who stayed with us. Every one expressed their appreciation for our hospitality.
The training period at Camp Blanding was normally nine weeks. Trainees were given passes at the end of the fourth and eighth week. As a result we had numerous soldiers who stayed with us twice. Almost all of them were seventeen to twenty-one years of age. The younger ones were volunteers and the others were draftees. We also had a few of the camp’s staff stay with us. They were generally a little older with the rank of corporal or sergeant. The staff knew their way around. They often brought and gave to Mom a bag of coffee and/or sugar. Coffee and sugar were rationed. They also brought candy bars, a real treat. The coffee ration was one pound every six weeks for everyone over fifteen. The sugar ration was eight ounces per week regardless of age.
One Saturday two sergeants, who had been with us previously, gave Mom a paper bag. When she looked she saw five very large porterhouse steaks, each about an inch thick. Her first words were “If these were stolen, I can’t accept them.” Both sergeants assured her that they were not stolen. “They were obtained on a legitimate midnight requisition.” Mom stuffed the steaks into the little ice cube freezer in the refrigerator. For the next five Sundays we had steak for dinner. Caroline and I each got a taste; Mom and Dad shared the remainder. After the last steak was eaten Dad told Mom that midnight requisition meant pilfered. All but Mom had a good laugh.
At least three times Mom made birthday cakes for soldiers. She sent me to neighbors to get sugar to combine with our ration for the cakes. The cake smelled so good when it was baking; I knew that I was not going to get any of it. Mom would wrap the uni-iced cake, put it in a box, and give it to the birthday boy so that he could share it with his buddies. Dad did not begrudge the cakes; however, he was always upset that our sugar ration was gone. Each morning Dad drank a couple of cups of hot tea; he was not a coffee drinker. He strongly disliked trying to sweeten his tea with honey or corn syrup.
In July and August 1945, we had a sergeant who stayed with us several times. He wore a number of ribbons on his chest plus a marksmanship metal. I was impressed. I tried to talk to him about his combat experiences; he would not tell me anything. Dad said that the sergeant had landed at Normandy on 9 June 1944 and fought all the way into Germany. In April 1945 he had been transferred to Camp Blanding to train soldiers for the invasion of Japan. One Saturday afternoon, when the sergeant was at the house, a friend of mine came over. He was excited because he had just turned twelve; the previous night he had joined the Boy Scouts. The sergeant said that he had been a Boy Scout. He talked about how much fun he had, things that he had done, what he had learned and camping. What he liked most was camping. I told him that in January I would be twelve; the first thing I was going to do was join the Scouts. The following weekend the sergeant was back. He and Dad talked for a while; they then came looking for me. The sergeant said that he had something that he wanted to give me that I could use in the Scouts. First I had to promise that I would treat it with respect, take care of it and be very careful with it. I had no idea what he was talking about; I was so excited about him giving me something that I would have agreed to almost anything. He then reached into a bag and pulled out what I would call a hunting knife. It had a six-inch blade and was in a sheath. He said that it was an army combat knife that he had carried for ten months in Europe. He used it most often to open cans of C-rations or split wood to start a fire. No, he had never cut or killed anyone with it. The damage on the back of the back of the blade was caused by hitting it with an entrenching tool to split wood. I was excited! I had a genuine army Combat knife that had been carried by a soldier into combat. After seventy-nine years, I still have the knife.
During the two and one half years, we had over five hundred different soldiers plus a large number of repeaters stay in our home. They were a good cross section of American Youth. Some were from large cities like Chicago, New York or Detroit. Others were from very small communities or rural areas. The majority were from somewhere in between. All of them treated our home and family with respect. To our knowledge there was nothing broken or missing. A few did sleep in the garage as Dad had asked. These were very fine young men. Tom Brokaw called them “The Greatest Generation”. Tom is correct. Today would you leave your front door unlocked and go to bed knowing that five or six young men, that you do not know, were going to be coming in to spend the night? I am thankful and proud that my parents took the chance and welcomed these young soldiers who faced a very uncertain future.