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Learning to use gas masks was one of the most disliked chapters of our training. We were sent into a building and all doors and windows were closed.

Then, they set off tear gas bombs while our masks were still in their carrying pouches. After the discharge, we had to hold our breath, open the gas mask container, put the mask on, and clear the mask to avoid being affected by the gas.

Not everyone was successful, and there were some violent reactions from those who had not done it in time.

One fellow in our unit had a temporary breakdown from his experience and had to be sent to the hospital for several days. We carried these gas masks every day we were training and when we got overseas.

It was a real pain in the neck lugging them around, and we soon learned to hate them. What we were not told, but should have been, was the reason for the emphasis on everyone carrying a gas mask at all times, at least in a combat zone.

During World War I there had been heavy casualties on both sides from the use of poison gasses. During World War I there were 1,, casualties from chemical warfare gasses, 91, died.

This information would have made carrying the masks a lot easier to tolerate. However, the Army was not out to offer us justifications for what they were doing, only to set rules and force us to obey them.

There were lectures and films in the day room. The films were primarily about our equipment, aircraft identification, military procedures, health, and military discipline.

The films always seemed to come on the hottest days, and we were shut in the day room with all of the windows closed so the shades could be pulled to darken the room.

There was no problem keeping our attention, despite the hot and stuffy room, because the sergeants were right there to make sure we stayed awake.

It was intended to be an indoctrination film for new recruits, and it was American propaganda at its best. It was a powerful documentation of recent history and presented convincing evidence why we were fighting a just war.

The films depicted the United States as a diversified nation with lofty ideals joining together with the Allied Nations to engage the dictatorial tyrants of the Axis countries.

There were seven one-hour series and we would be shown a new chapter about once a month. The first three - Prelude to War, The Nazis Strike, and Divide and Conquer - showed the rise of the totalitarian governments, Germany, Italy and Japan, and their ruthless conquering and oppression of neutral countries.

It was exciting entertainment and a great improvement over most of the dull training films we were exposed to. The next three chapters - Battle of Britain, The Battle of Russia, and The Battle of China - depicted the Allied powers making progress as the Axis countries began to go on the defense.

The final chapter - War Comes to America- was more political and purely propaganda oriented, showing the folly of having our country follow an isolation policy like we did after World War I, which the film partially blames for causing World War II.

There were many emotional and exciting episodes in these series. Some of the best footage was taken from Nazi films captured by the Allied Army.

There was one scene in this vein that really stuck in my mind for a long period of time. It showed Hitler, Goering and other high-ranking German officials standing around a large wooden table covered with maps celebrating the surrender of France.

Hitler and Goering were bouncing around the room like a couple of kids in a candy store while Goering was wringing his hands gleefully.

If it wasn't such a serious matter, the scene could be part of a Hollywood comedy with grown men acting like children.

I looked forward to each successive chapter of that series and I learned a lot about history, propaganda tainted or not. To me the series was entertainment, because it was a relief from our daily grind.

I already knew Hitler and his like were the enemy, so the main purpose of the films in motivating me to go charging out and get him was lost somewhere.

We were also shown sex hygiene films about what happened if we contracted a social disease. The films were really gross, and for the most part they scared the majority of us into behaving ourselves.

I glanced around the room during one very graphic scene and about half of the men in the room were grimacing.

The threat of a court martial for anyone who contracted a disease also loomed over our heads. To make sure we had not contracted one of these diseases, they regularly gave us a physical inspection.

About once a month, they would have us all fall out into formation in front of our huts wearing a raincoat, shoes, a helmet liner and nothing else.

The raincoats were rubberized, guaranteeing we would be sweating profusely after a short period of time from the heat of the California sun.

We would then be marched over to the medics building, lined up and, with our raincoats opened, our genitals inspected by a medic sitting on a chair in front of us.

He would look for social diseases, crabs, or something worse. It was known as short arm inspection. According to army regulations, once a month we were to be read the Articles of War, the Army's criminal code governing our actions while in service.

We referred to them as the commandments, only these rules left no room for contrition, only punishment. Any infringement of these laws could lead to a court-martial with the resulting penalties.

For example, they stated we could not be absent without authorized leave AWOL , desert, fail to obey an order, be drunk on duty, show disrespect for a commissioned officer, disobey a noncommissioned officer and so on.

We always got a kick out of the last Article. It stated, in effect, if your conduct was of a nature to bring disrespect upon the Army, you could be subject to a court-martial.

This meant anything you did not to the Army's liking could be included in their list of crimes. It was a catchall if I ever heard one, and I wondered why they bothered to be so specific about some infringements when this one covered them all.

Those in charge of our training would throw out the threat of court-martial on a regular basis. It was presented in such a forceful manner the mere thought sent fear through us.

There could be the court-martial itself, maybe a dishonorable discharge, and even time in jail. While much of their blustering was little more than threats, we did not know that at the time, and if we did, we did not want to take the chance of being made an example.

If they treated any minor infringement with major punishments, surely they would follow through with the threats associated with more serious items outlined in the Articles of War.

Most soldiers like me lived under the threat of court-martial and we went to great pains to avoid one. There were many hikes that took us out of camp.

The army called them forced marches. We wondered why they used the word forced to describe these activities.

Everything we did was forced on us, so why limit it to marches? We carried a full field pack on a few of them, but on most we just wore our fatigues with gun belts, helmet liners, and gas masks and carried our rifles.

Some hikes were as short as five miles; others were as long as twenty-five miles. On the longer hikes, we would get a ten-minute break every hour to sit down on the ground and rest.

The sergeant in charge would shout out, "Take a ten-minute break, smoke if you've got em. After the ten minutes were up, the sergeant would yell out, "Okay, men, on you feet, stow those butts, and move it out," and we would be off again as men field stripped their cigarettes.

The longer hikes really tested our endurance. Just like they did at the obstacle course, they would pit one battery against another, platoon against platoon, and even gun section against gun section.

It was a contest who would finish first, who would finish in the least amount of time, and who would have the most men finish the longer hikes.

Like the contests at the obstacle course, winning was a lot more important to the officers and noncoms than it was to the rest of us.

The younger men would usually take over carrying the rifles of the older ones in order to lighten their load in hopes they could stay the course and finish the hike.

A Jeep or a weapons carrier followed the hikers and picked up stragglers who could not finish. The sergeants tried to make those who fell out feel as guilty as possible for letting down their unit.

Sometimes, while marching around on the streets in the camp, we would come across Italian prisoners of war doing labor work. They had been captured by the American Army in the battle for North Africa and incarcerated in an area located in the far corner of Camp Haan.

The men of Italian descent in our outfit would greet the prisoners with the well-known stiff-arm salute: They grabbed the inside of their right forearm with the left hand and then propelled both arms up in the air.

It was always followed with some kind of an oath in Italian only they understood. Even though the rest of us did not know the meaning of what was said, just listening to the emphasis put on certain words and watching the body language produced a lot of laughs from our ranks while the prisoners just smiled without a response.

We bivouacked in open fields outside Camp Haan for several days. There we were introduced to pup tent living See Fig.

The first night out it rained, which was rare for southern California, and we soon learned how to dig small drainage ditches around the tent to avoid getting flooded out.

At first we found it all quite exciting, but later we would learn to dislike it because of their cramped quarters..

Our meals were delivered by truck and we ate out of mess kits for the first time. Back at Camp Haan, we grumbled among ourselves about the rigorous training, never realizing that it was going to get much worse.

Our complaining was somewhat tempered by the fact that there were branches of the Army which were a lot harder and potentially more dangerous than an anti-aircraft outfit.

Nobody expected military life to be fun, and, realistically, it was just what we anticipated it to be: hard, miserable, and demeaning. There was little talk about when the war is over because the way military operations were going overseas, we knew that the end was a long way down the road.

On a regular basis, we were taken over to the camp's infirmary and given tetanus, typhoid, and smallpox shots. While standing in line to be shot, there were always men who would exaggerate about what was going to happen.

There were always a few men who would faint from the shots and we all had some discomfort from them. One shot produced immediate pain, but it went away after several hours.

The next day, the effects of another shot kicked in and caused some discomfort that lasted for about twenty-four more hours.

After repeating the procedure several times, we began to take it all in stride. Every Saturday morning at hours we had an inspection of quarters by an officer.

To get ready, we would start the evening before, scrubbing and readying our hut and everything in it for the big moment.

Our bunks were made up in a prescribed method with square corners and OD blankets pulled tight. We put on our newest uniform that was well cleaned and pressed.

Our shoes were given a heavy coat of polish, brushed, and buffed to a high gloss shine with a soft cloth. As the officer approached the screen door, a cadre member would shout out, "Attention!

We would all stiffen into a rigid position of attention next to our cots as the officer and sergeant entered; there we would remain the entire time they were in our hut.

The officer would always find something wrong, and made a big fuss about it. The sergeant would make notes of every shortcoming; extra duties were passed out as penalties in some cases.

No matter how we tried, it was nearly impossible to meet the standards required of us. We soon learned to do our best and then care less about being perfect.

While they threatened severe consequences, such as eliminating passes for a weekend, that was usually a bluff unless there was some flagrant goof-up.

We kidded among ourselves that perhaps they would send us back to civilian life for being inept, but we knew that was not likely.

After all the huts were inspected, we lined up on the street, standing at rigid attention and in formation, where our dress uniforms and M-1 rifles went through further inspection.

The night before, the rifles had been cleaned meticulously, the metal parts lightly oiled, and the walnut stock polished with linseed oil.

The officer would come down the line of men, all with the butts of their rifles on the ground tight against their bodies. As the officer stopped in front of him, each man would bring the rifle up to port arms and then open the bolt, all in a rigid military movement.

The officer would bring his hand up from his side, like a boxer throwing an uppercut, and grab the rifle out of the man's hands.

If you didn't let go of it in time you were in big trouble. The officer would inspect the rifle, even looking down the barrel. This rifle is filthy.

How long have you been in the Army, soldier? Sergeant, take this man's name. Next time, I want to see this rifle sparkle.

The questions and comments by the officer varied from man to man, but they all had one theme-we were not up to his expectations. Following inspection on Saturday, all the troops would go out on the parade ground and pass in review before the high command of the camp while a band played stirring military music.

It may sound corny today, but at the time, it was a big thrill to be a part of this and I, for one, looked forward to it. It somehow made me proud to be a soldier.

Because I am tall, I was made the guidon carrier for our battery. The guidon is a small flag designating which unit you are in.

It was attached to the top of a ten-foot-long wooden pole. I marched ahead and to the right side of the formation by myself. Because of the large number of men in the battery and the band playing, not everyone could hear the commands from the officer leading our unit.

The men would watch the guidon and react to the signals I would send them. For example, as we passed the reviewing stand, I dropped the pole, on command, from a vertical to a horizontal position.

That indicated everyone except the left column of men should look to the right, toward the stand. When the flag went back up, we all looked straight ahead.

The reviewing stand was a rickety-looking structure made of the same materials that everything else in camp was made of: plywood and two-by-fours.

It looked like it was made by men who volunteered as carpenters even though they had never held a hammer before they entered service. Half a dozen or so high ranking officers were standing on it doing their best at looking important.

We were told the reviewing committee rated us on the quality of our marching, the straightness of our lines, and the military snap of our movements.

We assumed our battalion never won because nobody in authority ever brought the subject up after the parade was over. Because we were not interested in the results, we never bothered to ask how we did.

As the training continued, many things became easier to take. We began to move the thoughts of civilian life out of our minds and accept army life as the norm.

The strenuous life we were leading and the authoritarian administration of our activities by the likes of Sergeant Monteleone and the cadre members were taken as a matter of course.

Thoughts of family and civilian friends became less frequent until they became something rare. When we thought about the future, it was about what the Army had in store for us tomorrow, not wondering when we were going home.

With all of the physical exercises we were doing, our bodies were made hard and we were all in much better shape than when we first arrived at Camp Haan.

We looked at the end of each day with great expectation, glad to have some time to ourselves. Sometimes it was relief from physical exertion; sometimes from boredom created by the repetition of dull routine.

Supper at hours was always enjoyable because it usually signaled the end of the working day. After supper, we would stand around the orderly room and the battery clerk would pass out the mail.

We were always glad to hear from a friend or relative. Those who had left a wife or steady girlfriend behind were especially anxious to get letters from them.

There were a few men who seemed to get much more mail than anyone else, and they took a lot of kidding about it. Then there were others who got packages frequently.

We always hoped that the recipient of the package was in our hut because we expected him to share his gift with us.

Most packages contained cookies or homemade candy. Some of the goodies were so stale they were hard to eat, but we did anyway.

During free evenings, there wasn't much to do in camp. The movie theater showed only one feature, which changed once a week. While we were constantly standing in lines for everything we did, the lines for getting into the theater were the longest.

It took a lot of fun out of it but we soon learned to get there at the off-peak hour. There was a lot of talk among my fellow GIs about why Sinatra was not in the service but of much more interest to me were the two girls who played the leads.

I dreamed about them for months after. The PX got a lot of play. It was a combination of a drug store, ice cream parlor, and tavern. It was always the most crowded during the week or so after payday and only those who arrived early were able to get seats.

On the days just before payday, there were all kinds of seats available. One section of the PX sold toilet articles, candy, stationery, and items like that.

Another area was set up as an ice cream parlor, and the third section sold beer no wine or hard liquor. There was no sign of Schlitz or Budweiser, the popular civilian beers of the time.

The PX beer was called , that meant it had 3. This was somewhat less than the amount in beer sold in civilian bars. Despite the low alcohol content, most soldiers who spent the evening in the beer area-including me at times-started off talking among ourselves in normal voices and wound up in more boisterous.

In the early hours we would discuss the days activities and damn the officers and high-ranking noncoms. As the night progressed, the noise became louder and you had to shout to be understood.

The smoke in the room got progressively thicker, the conversations more bawdy, and the laughs earsplitting. Near the end of the evening, we would have our arms around each other singing songs at the top of our voices.

Roll out the Barrel and Bless 'em All were two favorites. Going back to our barracks we would be acting drunk, complete with staggering steps.

I say acting, because most of us were in our late teens, and drinking was relatively new to us. We usually drank about four or five beers in an evening, and would act like we had just polished off a fifth of gin.

No one could possibly get that drunk on the equivalent of two or three bottles of regular beer. It was all part of our growing up.

We were all trying to shed the image of raw recruits-young boys and untrained civilians. Every effort was made to act more like seasoned soldiers.

Drinking beer and getting drunk at the PX was how some of the men showed how tough they were getting.

Others were just drowning their sorrows while still others, like me, tried the heavy drinking a few times, got sick from it, and settled down to having a few bottles of the beer with my buddies as a social thing.

About every two weeks, I would get KP duty. While it was hard work, it was a change in pace and I looked forward to it even with the threat of cleaning the grease-traps hanging over me.

I got to eat better than normal. If there were a good dessert that day, I would have second or third helpings.

It didn't take much to make me happy in those days. Another assignment delegated on a regular basis was guard duty. It would usually last for twenty-four hours.

I would be assigned to a special barracks known as the guardhouse. There we were inspected and instructed in our assignment by a duty officer.

Every other four-hour period I would be driven in a Jeep to some prescribed site to stand guard. There, I would walk around the motor pool, guard a remote gate in the camp, or be assigned to a site where I had no idea why I was needed.

While not on duty, I would hang around the guardhouse talking to other men or trying to catch some sleep. I carried my rifle on guard duty but I did not have ammunition for it.

If I was ever challenged by anyone with serious confrontational intentions, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do about it because nobody ever brought up the subject.

I suppose the options were to wrestle them to the ground or run and shout out for help. While the last one sounds more logical, I was usually in such a remote location shouting could not be heard by anyone.

Sometimes, the four-hour shift would be in the middle of the night and the duty officer who came around infrequently would remind me of the dire consequences-read court martial-if I fell asleep at a post.

I was given a real test in staying awake one night when I was assigned guard duty at a ward in the camp hospital.

The patients were American soldiers who had been either accused or convicted of some crime and had been in the Camp Haan stockade, either doing time, waiting for their court martial, or waiting to be transferred to Fort Leavenworth prison to do time there for a major crime.

These men were temporarily assigned to a special section of the hospital for medical and psychological problems. The term psychological problem was never explained to me, but it had an ominous ring to it.

I was supposed to keep them from escaping, although this would have been quite difficult to do if they had made any real attempt. Without ammunition, my rifle would have been useless, and I had visions of wrestling on the floor with some loony who was in there for murder or worse.

The patients were in a large ward with ten beds along each side of the room. The ward was even more sterile-looking than the inside of our huts, if that was possible.

It had the unmistakable smell of antiseptic. The walls and ceiling were painted white, the floor was an off-white tile, and the patients' gowns and the bedding were all white.

There was nothing in the room other than beds. The windows had no drapes, curtains, or Venetian blinds.

Both the windows and the glass part of the door behind me were covered with a heavy-gauge steel mesh. I was assigned to stand guard at the only exit to the room, and there was a small folding-chair for me to sit on.

It was the only chair in the room. Looking down the long hall away from the ward, I could neither hear nor see anyone, and that gave me a very lonely feeling.

The ward was locked from the outside, which meant I could not get out if I wanted to. I looked around for a phone but there was none.

It would have been difficult, if not impossible, to get assistance in an emergency. What in the hell are they thinking?

I thought. It had not escaped my notice whenever a nurse came into the area, two MPs armed with. At about ten o'clock that night, someone I could not see turned off all of the lights except two small lamps hanging on each side of the door.

I didn't even have control over the lights. One of the prisoners sat up and dropped his feet over the side of the bed. I thought he was going to get up, and I was sure there was going to be an encounter as he kept giving me dirty looks while he mumbled, "You think you're tough?

I was much relieved when he lay back down and seemed to fall asleep like the others. It was extremely difficult to sit there in the dim light watching twenty men sleeping; most of them snoring so loudly it reverberated off the walls.

I had to pace around the end of the room and keep slapping myself in the face to keep from falling asleep myself.

I had to slap harder as time progressed, and my face smarted from the blows. The good thing was as long as they were asleep, I did not have to worry about them escaping.

My shift was for four hours, but it seemed like an eternity. In the middle of the night my replacement showed up, and I was greatly relieved to see him.

I tried to explain the unique problems associated with this duty to the sergeant who drove me back to the guard barrack in a Jeep. He listened to my story as though he was interested and then replied, "That's tough s soldier.

Tell it to the chaplain. Another time, I was assigned to a small guardhouse on a remote road that led into the camp.

I had been warned by some fellow GIs who had that duty before me there was nothing going on there. To pass the time, they recommended I take some live ammunition and spend the lonely hours doing target practice with my M-1 rifle.

Although we were not supposed to have ammunition, somehow it was always available. I found some without looking too hard.

Before it got dark, I decided to use up the eight round clip I brought with me. On my first shot, I killed a bird standing on the ground about feet away, and then I realized two things.

While standing there looking at the bird's head dangling by a thread, I concluded that, one, it was a terrible thing to waste a life, and, two, I would never be a hunter.

The killing of birds or any other kind of animal was not my idea of a sport. I had never fired a gun of any kind before that time; being so accurate with my aim was a great surprise.

It was also a surprise to learn that the M-1 had such a hard kick, and I would later learn in target practice to put the butt end tight into my shoulder before firing.

I used up the rest of the ammunition by shooting at an old log. My right shoulder was quite sore when I was done. To make sure I would not be caught with a rifle that smelled of gunpowder, I had brought cleaning equipment with me in my gun belt.

I pulled a small oil-soaked piece of cloth through the barrel with a piece of string several times. Another duty that was held like a club over our heads when we goofed off was latrine duty.

Cleaning up toilets and washbasins used by hundreds of men daily was a dreaded assignment. I never got the duty myself because soon after we started our training, it was given to a couple troublemakers who had it on a near-regular basis.

Like all things in the Army, even this job had a title. It was called Latrine Orderly, but regardless of its neutral sounding name, it was the lowest of the many miserable jobs available.

It consisted of one hundred and fifty multiple-choice questions that had to be answered within forty minutes. Sure I was! And I was eligible to be the Commander in Chief, too.

What the Army needed at this stage of the war was grunts, not more leaders or students. Several months later, I was told that because of my AGCT score, I would participate with four other men from our outfit in something called the Army Specialized Training Program ASTP , where candidates were sent to selected universities for schooling.

It sounded great, but nothing ever came of it, which turned out to be lucky for me. When the government eliminated the program, the majority of students who were part of it, as I would have been, were sent as replacements for line outfits, primarily as riflemen in the infantrymen.

We learned very early in our training any special talent should not be flaunted in the Army because it would usually lead to the assignment of an unwanted duty.

The cadre member had a sneaky way of asking an innocent sounding question that would lead to a lousy detail. He would ask, "Does anyone know anything about plumbing?

We all kept any specialized talent we had to ourselves, and we learned not to respond to requests for help, no matter how innocuous the request.

One of the axioms of Army life was, don't volunteer for anything. On the first of each month, we got paid. The procedure was known as, The eagle flies, although sometimes it was given a more coarse interpretation.

For our battery, two officers sat at a card table set up just outside the supply room while the enlisted men stood in line awaiting their turn. About half-a-dozen crap games would break out immediately following.

The higher-ranking noncoms were reminded about the unwritten Army rule they should play only with those of equal rank.

This rule was designed to keep the odds more even by not giving the higher paid noncoms an advantage over those who got less.

However, this rule came into effect only after a lot of privates had lost several months pay. The difficult training was hard on younger men who did not seem to be cut out for hard work.

One who fit this bill was Mel Spearing, who was a member of our gun section. He was short in stature and slight of build.

He reminded us of our kid brothers, and most of us thought he would never make it. He had a baby-face that made him look much younger than his real age, which was eighteen years old, the same as mine See Fig.

Space was needed prisoners were taken from the battlefield. The base closed and reopened as a prisoner of war camp in housing Italian and eventually German POWs.

The prisoners worked at Camp Haan and also in the citrus orchards located outside of the camp. A hospital with beds was also built to handle the wounded that came in from the Pacific operations, and the Southwest Branch was opened as a U.

Disciplinary Barracks at Camp Haan later that year. After the war ended, there seemed to be little use for the camp as a training center or POW camp.

It was transformed into a separation center, which were used to house soldiers before they were discharged from the Army. Camp Haan would eventually close on August 31, Once the base officially closed, the buildings were sold, the land was divided and sold off as parcels.

Now much of the land is comprised of the General Olds Golf Course. Small parts of the land continue to be unused, which can be seen from State Route He was an assistant to the commanding general of the training command at Camp Haan and quickly rose from private to warrant officer during World War II.

He knew much about the base and recalled that one of the biggest problems was the waste of food at the camp. Cooks often cooked more than enough food because they had the wrong numbers of soldiers who were actually present.

He also suggested that the officers ate better than the privates, who regularly received hominy grits, a dish that was not well liked by soldiers from the North.

Military police often patrolled the streets where brothels were known to reside just in case any soldier stepped out of line.

McGaugh also recalled that there were about women working at Camp Haan who were secretaries, clerical workers and nurses. He said that the women were very popular with the soldiers who came to train at the base.

While many believed that Camp Haan sent soldiers to Pacific operations, they were often sent to European Theater of Operations as the artillery was more useful in land campaigns going on in Europe rather than the islands of the Pacific.

Grades range K Tomas Rivera Middle School Perris, 2. Grades range The phone number is and address is Van Buren Blvd.

Riverside, CA The General Old Course is open 7 days a week. Instruction, event hosting, and membership options are available. Visit the official website for more information.

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