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W. Earl Hall correspondence, 1940-1945
1945-03-26 Johnny to W. Earl Hall Page 1
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26 March 1945 Hq IX Corps, APO 309 San Francisco, Calif. Dear Mr. Hall, It occurred to me today that you might be interested in what I did yesterday. You see, it was Sunday afternoon and I didn't have much to do, so I boarded a bus, alone, and headed for Honolulu -- with the aim in mind of just wandering around and seeing what I could find to do "in town." And I think that what I finally did do and see is a pretty good example of what thousands of soldiers do daily here in "the Paradise of the Pacific." Actually, the experience is one that they have experienced time and time again ever since they have been in the army, at whatever small, overcrowded army camp town they have visited, wherever they were stationed. But although the basic experience is the same unsatisfying thing, the names and places are a little different. And that's what may make my day somewhat interesting. I boarded a bus at my not-to-be-mentioned post, a bus packed with anger, chattering GI's in freshly pressed khakis. One o'clock, and as we passed through the main gate a long line -- a score or more -- of similarly dressed soldiers lifted their thumbs expectantly as our bus approached, dropped them slowly when we got nearer and they saw how full we were. But they would have rides shortly. Hundreds of oars go to Honolulu Sundays, and there is an army regulation in Hawaii that every empty vehicle will stop to pick up any soldiers that need rides. We sped down the three-lane highway towards town, part of dense stream of traffic that reminds me of the Ames-Des Moines road when it is quitting timeat the Ankeny plant. Only here the traffic is that way all the time. As we got closer to Pearl Harbor we had to slow down. The road is pretty badly beat up here; in fact at the moment is is cluttered with highway construction vehicles, because it is being enlarged into a six lane highway. One particularly heavily travelled stretch is already 9 lanes, in fact. As soon as we got into Honolulu we began discharging passengers. I went all the way down to the end of the line, on the far side of Waikiki --down Beretania street, King street, Kapiolani boulevard and Kalakua street (the latter 2 named for old Hawaiian rulers). The bus stopped at Kapiolani Park; it was 2:20; I had just time to walk up to the band stand and get seated for the regular Sunday afternoon concert by the Royal Hawaiian band. The crowd looked pretty much like band concert crowds at home, except that the dark skinned children are perhaps better behaved than those at home. They don't run around the front of the bandstand playing cops and robbers and yelling at the tops of their little voices, anyhow, while the band is playing, but listen attentively. Two pretty Japanese girls sat on one side of me, dressed in pastel colored slacks and flowered blouses, orchids in their hair. On the other side a distinguished looking, dark choclate complexioned Hawaiian grandfather and his impish snub-nosed grandson. I was going to say
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26 March 1945 Hq IX Corps, APO 309 San Francisco, Calif. Dear Mr. Hall, It occurred to me today that you might be interested in what I did yesterday. You see, it was Sunday afternoon and I didn't have much to do, so I boarded a bus, alone, and headed for Honolulu -- with the aim in mind of just wandering around and seeing what I could find to do "in town." And I think that what I finally did do and see is a pretty good example of what thousands of soldiers do daily here in "the Paradise of the Pacific." Actually, the experience is one that they have experienced time and time again ever since they have been in the army, at whatever small, overcrowded army camp town they have visited, wherever they were stationed. But although the basic experience is the same unsatisfying thing, the names and places are a little different. And that's what may make my day somewhat interesting. I boarded a bus at my not-to-be-mentioned post, a bus packed with anger, chattering GI's in freshly pressed khakis. One o'clock, and as we passed through the main gate a long line -- a score or more -- of similarly dressed soldiers lifted their thumbs expectantly as our bus approached, dropped them slowly when we got nearer and they saw how full we were. But they would have rides shortly. Hundreds of oars go to Honolulu Sundays, and there is an army regulation in Hawaii that every empty vehicle will stop to pick up any soldiers that need rides. We sped down the three-lane highway towards town, part of dense stream of traffic that reminds me of the Ames-Des Moines road when it is quitting timeat the Ankeny plant. Only here the traffic is that way all the time. As we got closer to Pearl Harbor we had to slow down. The road is pretty badly beat up here; in fact at the moment is is cluttered with highway construction vehicles, because it is being enlarged into a six lane highway. One particularly heavily travelled stretch is already 9 lanes, in fact. As soon as we got into Honolulu we began discharging passengers. I went all the way down to the end of the line, on the far side of Waikiki --down Beretania street, King street, Kapiolani boulevard and Kalakua street (the latter 2 named for old Hawaiian rulers). The bus stopped at Kapiolani Park; it was 2:20; I had just time to walk up to the band stand and get seated for the regular Sunday afternoon concert by the Royal Hawaiian band. The crowd looked pretty much like band concert crowds at home, except that the dark skinned children are perhaps better behaved than those at home. They don't run around the front of the bandstand playing cops and robbers and yelling at the tops of their little voices, anyhow, while the band is playing, but listen attentively. Two pretty Japanese girls sat on one side of me, dressed in pastel colored slacks and flowered blouses, orchids in their hair. On the other side a distinguished looking, dark choclate complexioned Hawaiian grandfather and his impish snub-nosed grandson. I was going to say
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