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.