U.S. At War: How the Furlough Went

A month ago 26-year-old Pfc. Charles Horn of Los Angeles landed in the U.S. after three months in Europe with the 86th (“Blackhawk”) Division. He and his buddies headed for home and 30-day furloughs. This week, their furloughs over, the men of the 86th are back in camp in Oklahoma, first ETO division to get into retraining for the war in the Pacific. In a few weeks they would be shipped off again. Like thousands of other G.I.s of the Blackhawks, all Pfc. Horn had left of his 30 days was the recollection. This was how his furlough went:

It had been nice getting back, although he had felt a little jittery. There had been a ceremony in front of City Hall and speeches by the mayor to the men of the 86th who lived in Los Angeles. He was glad when the celebration was over to get in the car with his mother and father and head for home.

“All I want to do now is hit the sack,” he said.

The little old house on East 20th Street looked the same—littered and neglected, with the shingles peeling off. A single dried apricot hung on the tree in the front yard. “Better than last year,” Horn’s father said. “Last year all of ’em dropped off.”

His mother had fixed pot roast and brown gravy, hot rolls and pie. His father talked, all the time eying Horn curiously, until Horn finally opened his bulging barracks bag and hauled out his souvenirs—Luger pistols, German helmets, Nazi medals. The old man was an expert glazier. The stuff fascinated him. Horn was dead tired, but he sat and talked to his father until early morning.

He slept until noon the next day, when Eddie McGuire called him. Eddie met him that afternoon and they had some beers, ate dinner at a place near Culver City, drank some whiskey and finally ended up at Casa Mañana. They picked up some girls and danced to Jimmy Lunceford’s band. Horn decided he was doing all right—having a swell time for the second night of furlough.

Night in a Bar. He had been home a week before he decided to get drunk. He called up an old girl friend and they dropped into a café on Main Street. That was a mistake. The barflies began swarming all over him. They asked him questions about his service ribbons, about the Russians, about whether he had been scared and was he scared at the idea of going to the Pacific.

“I bet you’re plenty sore at the civilians,” one guy began confidentially. Horn tried not to be snotty. He drank and drank but he was cold sober when he finally left the place and walked the girl home.

Sure, he had been scared. He had been scared in Europe. Sometimes the Krauts had cut loose at them with so much stuff you could light your cigaret off the tracers. He was scared the day the men on either side of him were killed by snipers and he had found himself out in front of the whole division. He was scared to be going to the Pacific.

Soldier’s Mother. Horn talked to his mother. Horn’s brother had been on Corregidor with the 4th Marines when the Japs took over the Philippines. All they had ever heard about Bill was the letter from the Army saying he was a prisoner.

Horn talked to his mother about Bill, who would be 24 now.

He had the feeling that she was sure Bill was dead and he had the idea that she found some peace in it. He sensed what she must be thinking now, with her only other son going off to fight in the same theater. He talked about the rotten climate, Jap savagery. He hated to do itbut he had to harden her. She took it all right.

That evening he looked up the Rasmussens. They lived on Reservoir Street. Dick Rasmussen had been nicked by a bullet and was still on the other side in a hospital. “I’m Charles Horn, one of Dick’s buddies,” he said to Mrs. Rasmussen. She looked as though she were going to cry and invited him in and made him stay all evening.

Horn kept looking at his watch, wondering what McGuire was doing, but Mr. and Mrs. Rasmussen would not let him go.

A whole evening out of his 30 days. But he left the Rasmussens feeling pretty good inside. That Sunday he looked up the folks of another buddy, Jimmy Martinet, who was also in a hospital.

Trip to Hermosa. It was on Sunday that he bumped into Victor Harvey. Vic had been out in the Pacific with the Air Forces and was staying at a friend’s place at Hermosa Beach. He suggested that Horn join him. Well, why not, Horn figured. He had done about all there was to do around Los Angeles and seen about everybody he wanted to see. So he went out to Hermosa.

They lived in bathing trunks. They played Duke Ellington platters on the phonograph. There were plenty of girls and plenty to drink at the Hermosa Biltmore. One day he drew a heavy ring around a date on a calendar hanging behind Joe’s bar — the 24th. That was the end of it.

It was expensive living. He cashed in some of his war bonds — two on a Wednesday, two on a Saturday, two the following Monday. Well, they wouldn’t do him any good if he didn’t come back.

There were more women than a man could handle. He got so he could laugh easily.

When he had enough drinks he could laugh at anything.

Next Date — . One day Pfc. Horn lay on his belly in the warm sand and watched the surf rolling in from the Pacific. Some body kicked sand over him and he looked up at a pair of legs. A girl said, ൺrry, were you sleeping?” “Well, you’re nice to wake up to,” Horn cracked.

He leaned on his elbows while the girl sat down and got acquainted. She finally suggested they have a drink. Horn got up and walked with her across the sand and stood up at Joe’s bar where the calendar hung with the ring around the 24th. This was about the end of it. He ordered drinks. “Here’s looking at you,” he said.