July 30, 1944
Dear Mr. Stow,
I am writing to inform you of a change in my address but it is reasonably safe to assume that sentence will follow sentence in my usual meandering manner so draw up a chair and draw on your pipe while I draw on my store of developments in the land termed by the boys "just eight miles below hell."
It seems that I am now public relations man for the "Jolly Roger" heavy bomber group which operates four-motored Liberators as a part of the Fifth Air Force. I accepted the job (that's a charitable term) amid the Army's usually generous promises of an opportunity to accomplish something important. However, I have managed to retain that traditional suspicion which privates have held down through the wars, when approached by the Army with kind words.
I feel fortunate, however, to be associated with the "Jolly Roger" outfit which is generally conceded to be the "most publicized heavy bomber group in the world/" Yank Magazine, Life Magazine, the newsreels and the papers have really gone overboard for the outfit. As a result we are under constant attack from other bomber groups as the "glamour boys" of the war. Whenever faced with a particularly irritating challenge we dig up the figures for the world to see...and there end the argument. It's hard to believe that they have knocked down as many hundreds of Zeros as the records show and these do not include the "Probables." Neither does this include the hundreds of enemy aircraft caught on the ground -- several hundred were smashed at one base alone.
We have just completed one weird publicity stunt featuring Jack Benny congratulating a Red Cross girl here who was chosen "Miss Jolly Roger" by the men of the outfit. I had the good Mr. Benny by the elbow placing him in the proper spot for our photo when our usually reliable photographer suddenly went snap-happy and the result of his act proved a natural for the men who seem to find anything and everything a great cause for hilarity. The photo with Benny and this girl was accepted by Acme News-Photo service so perhaps you will see it in some papers back in the States.
We have Bob Hope coming here next after finishing up with Benny, Carole Landis and Lanny Ross. They were very cooperative although I'm afraid the Huffman-Houck publicity team plus our unpredictable photographer, Joe Silvering, proved a sad source of doubt for the puzzled Miss Landis. Seems that Joe, reliable old Joe, had used most of his flashbulbs up on our dubious pals and for a moment Miss Landis' film future was in doubt. Even Mr. Benny and Mr Ross seemed more than a little perplexed and suspicious as we went into the three-man huddle that has proved to be a prelude to some rather fantastic feats of publicity. One of these days one will fall through and we'll all be back digging ditches--and don't think we haven't learned how by now. but back to Miss Landis--while she stood in awe listening to our violent debate on Joe's photographic skill, time kept sliding by. They were both newspapermen, before the war and you know how complicated and violent an argument occurs every time a report and a photographer cover a story. It's a fatal mistake to tell a photo man something about his work--draw instantly the long, involved details of photography from its origin to the present. But try and tell a reporter that he doesn't know more about photography than a photographer. And so Miss Landis was temporarily ignored with someone occasionally turning to give her an apologetic smile, then ducking back to the hectic debate. Finally, however, we took care of her, I have Mr. Benny's signature on the original photo caption which I managed to write while engaged in the erudite discussion mentioned above. however I have by this time, of course, lost the prize document.
In addition to the public relations work, I am now correspondent for a news agency in New York City and have even written barrage of caustic comments from G.I. wits--the self appointed type. I'm afraid, however, that "The Great American Novel" is as fantastic as their comments. It has been sent to the States more for the purpose of getting it out of my hands like a hot potato than because of its hopes for publication.
I have written a stack of stories on crashes, bombing raids, heroism, New Guinea's now famous army doctor, natives and about everything else. Hoffman, my publicity partner has illustrated a number of them. He was formerly a staff illustrator for the New Yorker Magazine, Esquire, Redbook and a number of others. He also taught college art.
The other member of the trio is Joe Silvering, an aerial photographer, who bitterly criticizes us, but always seems to be around.
The famed skull and crossed bombs insignia is on the tails of all our big bombers and you have probably seen that good old skull sign in the movies or in the papers. That's the sure way to tell our Liberators.
There is also ever about, a remarkable character named J. Robert Witkin, who formerly was a radio announcer on a major network. I think he was the one who came up with that venerable "Jolly Roger" slogan of "Wise up! Get on the day shift." He is also editor of our paper and serves as a news commentator for the outfit.
This reminds me of the community sings which seem to accompany almost every movie over here. Of course there are no ladies sitting with us and the mosquitoes on the grass, so when the song calls for the girls to come in, an incredible sound of piercing male notes is heard. The boys seem to get a great kick out of singing their part in base and then going up to take the girls' part also.
I was riding around the air strips, where I spend a lot of time getting stories as the combat crews come home, and had a rather narrow escape--come to think about it, the usual daily escape. I was blundering along pretty fast in a jeep which I had borrowed from the chaplain when I suddenly found that a fighter plane and I were arguing about who was to get out of the way on a narrow strip. That's the nice thing about a jeep, doesn't matter where you go to get out of the way. From a convenient ditch I shook my fist, the pilot shook his fist and then we both proceeded about our business of winning the war.
One sees some of the most remarkable sights over here. Only today I saw a G.I. with just a pair of shorts driving a weapons carrier down the road. What startled me was to see that he was wearing a tropical hat of they gay style American business man adopted a few years ago.
We have a "Jolly Roger" weekly paper here called the Buccaneer which brings the usual trials and tribulations. Since Private Houck was editor of a daily paper over here before being called up to Fifth Air Force headquarters on one of his many unpredictable and unproductive assignments. The pool staff turns to me frequently in their disillusionment. It doesn't ever accomplish anything since everything I answer for them is promptly met with radicle--the old army game...you may not always be right but you're never wrong.
I have become involved in some volumes on Philosophy, Psychology and advanced English Grammar which also seems to irritate my laudable companions no end. I'm getting so deep in the stuff that by now we're all tangled up and any simple comment brings forth violent and weird discussions which always increase in volume to the point that they sound like a political rally. One officer temporarily quieted the office today by commenting that it was no wonder we got publicity for the outfit...we can be heard around the world.
While waiting for the water to trickle out of an old gasoline drum into by battle helmet in preparation for shaving, I had a brilliant idea. Assuming that a lot of good slogans on our planes were wasted on the Japs who could not understand them, I suggested that we paint all the slogans on in Japanese characters. I stressed my theory that a curious Zero pilot would sidle up a little closer to get a look and then powie...After the usual bitter bickering and derision it was decided to adopt it and you will probably soon see something in the papers about it back home.
The "Ken's Men," another bombing outfit, are our most bitter audience and we now have a midnight radio feud going on. We recently dedicated such numbers to them as "Can't Get Started" and "Lost in a Fog."
A couple of aerial gunners eating with me tonight were kidding another poor fellow on my right about the fact that his guns jammed during a mission yesterday. It seems that while his guns were jammed, a Zero kept faking passes at the bomber and the gunner kept him respectful by swinging his guns on him. Finally the Zero made up its mind to come in but just as he started another "Jolly Roger" plane knocked him down. That's what the boys call "sweating it out."
Hoffman and I have a tent to ourselves and this tropical rain is by now familiar with every hole in the top--and there are plenty. I have now devised an ingenious method of keeping dry nights. Every time it drips too much on me I simply grope for the floor and by bracing my arms and lurching sideways at the same time I move about the tent all night.
One of the fellows on the staff of our paper was moaning to me tonight about a critical letter from somebody who disliked his comments about those who might get sent back to the States etc. If I recall correctly, somewhere in the remarkable "Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin" was mentioned a similar situation. Franklin came up with the following answer for those critics of the "We hear..." style of writing "Englishmen, Sir, are too apt be silent when they have nothing to say; too apt to be sullen when they are silent; and when they are sullen, too apt to hang themselves."
I was reading about the draft back home tonight and taking a fireplace for hypothetical or conjectural purposes it is easy to see the theory that Selective Service works on. When a fireplace draft is turned on the air in the fireplace is first to be drawn up and more air is drawn in to replace that. Gradually you have the air of the room moving in a direct current into the fire.
I have the misfortune to be awakened each morning by a shrill voiced jungle bird which one of the fellows in the next tent has. The character climbs up tent poles in the queerest manner. He keeps his beak close to whatever he's walking on and proceeds along, matching each step with a forward thrust of his head and neck. Despite this unattractive habit, he does possess all the colors of crystals under polarized light.
We read of the pre-election campaigning back in the States and from here it assumes some different facets than it did at home. As for the winner I guess the boys are pretty open minded on the contest. We seem to have reached the conclusion that any king and any bear will worry his keepers. To become really confused in making a selection and choosing one who has done the most good, we have but to return to Franklin's comment that "He is a fool that makes his doctor his heir."
My typing seems to have died to sporadic pokes at the keys since I am falling asleep on the venerable machine so will close with the hope that you will soon write one relegated to the oblivion of New Guinea.
Sincerely Yours,
Earle Houck
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