lifestyle

A boy's memory of the Panama Canal Zone before Pearl Harbor
by Bill Phillips

1939

We searched through Atlases and encyclopedias, just to find Panama. My mother asked plaintively if they had a PX at Fort Sherman --- essential information to a military wife. Movers arrived with large wooden barrels filled with shavings. Burley, sullen depression era men gathered up my toys: a lead Finnish ski soldier, toy auto gyro, electric flyer train set and remnants of games and play things that I had already outgrown.

When the barrels were filled and the house was empty, we gave our cocker spaniel, "Judy Wings," to Major George (a family friend who was to later serve with distinction in the defense of our air bases in the Philippines and Australia.) After learning what salt water could do to cars lashed on deck of an ocean ship, we exchanged our 1939 Nash for a second hand l930 Hudson and a small settlement.

Voyage

We boarded the brightly marked American Legion in New York. I had been on ocean ships before. Born at Schofield Barracks, Territory of Hawaii, I had already sailed on the military transport, Republic, three times. The smells were familiar: tar, oil, hemp, food preparation and the ocean. The great moan of the ship's horn signaled the beginning. Down a stairwell I saw the face of a girl my age looking up. We waved and never saw one another again --- the usual encounter for military children. From the ship's rail I watched tug boats nudge and push our ship into the harbor. We sailed past the Statue of Liberty, where my family had lived in government quarters only three years before.

The first ocean swells brought a sudden dependence upon the ship and the need to adjust to its routine. A steward sounded the call for dinner, playing a xylophone type instrument as he flashed quickly past our cabin. Faces were washed. New clothes were put out. Father wore his white uniform. We were seated at a table set with starched napkins that had been rolled into cones and placed so that tips pointed upward. A sudden lurch of the ship sent glasses and silverware sliding across the table. The rising and falling sensation clashed with the odor of onion soup and a few of the passengers became acquainted with seasickness for the first time. In the bay, at San Juan, Puerto Rico, small boats carrying teen age boys pulled near the ship. They dove into the water and looked to the passengers at the rail. People threw coins into the water and the boys brought them to the surface in their mouths. My father and I went ashore. Women vendors were selling finger rings carved out of nuts. The rings were strung on ropes and held high above their head from poles. I wished so that my father would buy me one. Spanish was spoken around me and I felt shut out. As we left the harbor, Flying Fish whizzed across the bow and the climate became oppressively hot.

Arrival

Harbor smells in Colon, Panama were different than in New York. There was less of an industrial odor and more a mix of vegetation and people.

A turbaned dockhand secured the hawser. Popular tunes and marches were played at dockside by a military band. A chaplain escorted my family to a small packet ship and we joined a new group of passengers to cross Limon Bay to Fort Sherman. I was delighted to see monkeys scampering in the trees along the shore.

Immense royal palm trees stood as if they were at attention. They were painted white along the base of their trunks to keep the insects from harming them but they were very military looking and very decorative. Officers' quarters were on high ground to provide what little breeze was available.

Our home appeared to be composed entirely of screens, but this did not prevent sand flies from feasting on us at night. I was up at the first bugle call. Everywhere I saw moving things --- lizards of all sizes, shapes and colors both inside and outside the house. The jungle began fifty feet behind our back porch and one had first encounters with many of its inhabitants almost instantly. One day my father had to summon an MP to dispatch a boa constrictor that had wrapped around my swing. At another time, I saw a large sloth hanging on a high tree limb. I learned not to run between trees due to the ability of large spiders to string their webs from one to the next. Ants cut paths through the grass as large as sidewalks. Trees hosted parakeets and many species of multicolored birds. Iguanas were as plentiful as Michigan's squirrels. Many were three feet long. Rotting mangos added fragrance to the odor of dead land crabs and their oozing brownish puss. Soldiers often used the latter for target practice, littering the trails with their bodies. A post nursery cultivated sugar cane, guava, breadfruit and papaya plants. Fragrant frangipani trees, oleanders and wild limes were scattered at random, sometimes even into the jungle itself. Inside the forest curtain one could find chains of orchids and bright lilies. Almost all of our leather goods turned to mold overnight: shoes, suitcases, wallets, belts, purses and the ice skates from Michigan winters. Oh yes, add the smell of mold to my list.

Settling in

It was customary for a new officer to call on his commanding officer shortly after the arrival. Such authority stirred my curiosity, and I decided to make my own visit to Colonel French's home. Carefully, I climbed the hill that led to his back yard. From the edge of the jungle I saw a large building with wide screened porches. It was set from other buildings on the post by a spacious lawn surrounded by many flowering trees. I ducked back into the brush bearing the kind of secret that a seven-year-old would never divulge.

Fort Sherman was a Coast Artillery post --- a branch of service that had already become obsolete. Its purpose was to guard the Atlantic approach to the Canal with its large, stationary weapons and with ammunition pulled through jungle trails by mules and horses. Luxuries were not available. The post had a tiny Post Exchange that sold toiletries: Blitz Cloths to shine brass, Shinola to shine shoes, Vitalis to groom hair and Lucky Strike cigarettes to pass from one tedious moment to the next. Chewing gum was often too brittle to chew and chocolate bars melted in the wrapper. To placate the officer's families, prisoners were detailed from the stockade to harvest and deliver bunches of large, free bananas to officer's houses.

The Post Theater and the Post Chapel were the foci of social life. The theater was a tiny tarpaper building that could seat about fifty people. On Friday and Saturday nights the wives would emerge from the olive drab "command cars" that brought them from a hillside of terraced areas and homes that were grouped according to rank. Women wore their most fashionable wear and were escorted by husbands in snappy uniforms. They walked past MP guards, who were wearing mosquito netting pulled across their pith helmets. The cost of a ticket was 15 cents on week days. Inside, the Fort Sherman watched a succession of some of the finest and some of the worst movies that Hollywood ever made.

Church

On Sundays, a special bugle call signaled the time for church, Catholics had an early and a late mass and the Protestant service was sandwiched in between. I felt a certain pity for the Catholic children because I was told that on Fridays they had to eat those frozen blocks of cod that were sold in the Commissary. Frozen food did not survive the boat ride across the bay, and I I knew that I could never have survived eating fish that had made that kind of a journey. No mention was made of Jewish services or of rabbi chaplains. We sang Onward Christian Soldiers almost every Sunday. Undoubtedly, something was worked out for Jewish soldiers to go to Colon on Fridays, but I was unaware of that. I would have been surprised to learn that there were other faiths in addition to Protestant and Catholic.

Family activities

The men were invited to meet on Wednesday nights for Sing Along. My dad, the Protestant chaplain, would lead them in such songs as There is a Long, Long Trail A Winding, and Pack up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag. Mom would play the piano. Understandably, the soldiers would sit several rows back because they felt uncomfortable at revealing their sentimental side; and a large number preferred this to the Sunday morning church services. Only a few circumstances provided opportunity for enlisted men and officers to participate together in this kind of relaxed atmosphere. There was little mingling with the families, and friendships almost never bridged the line.

A community theatre put on productions of current plays. Dad and mom were often involved in character roles, enabling me to watch from back stage. Professional stage make up remained among our household items for years and somehow survived our many moves without melting or crumbling.

Fort San Lorenzo

An outing for family members took us on a jungle path five miles to Fort San Lorenzo. The Spanish fort overlooked the Chagres River and once protected shipments of gold and other valuable loot plundered from South America by the conquistadors. Victims of the Spanish Inquisition had been held there before being transported to the Inquisition Court in Cartagena. Later, militants for Latin America's independence from Spain were imprisoned and in some cases executed there. The pirate Henry Morgan, as well as a succession of visitors, had sacked the fort, blown up the walls, and left it in a state of great upheaval. The huge walls had fallen to the ground and were now covered with thick vines. Cannons and cannon balls laid scattered about the grounds. The fort's high perch had made it impregnable from the front but, as in so many other instances in Panama's history, it was taken from behind --- a lesson that the Coast Artillery might well have considered, with its large shore guns pointing outward.

Beaches

Of the two beaches that were accessible, Devil's Beach was a foreboding spot, not just because of its name but because it faced the Atlantic and took the full force of its tide and heavy surf. A large breakwater at the mouth of Limon Bay made Shimmy Beach the designated swimming area. A net was in place to protect us from sharks and barracudas, but occasionally dangerous fish were able to slip inside. I experienced one sudden bump that lifted me high in the water and I always suspected that it had been a shark.

This and that

During the last two months at Sherman an event of international interest took place just off shore. Because of the widening war in Europe an Italian passenger ship was held at anchor to keep it from entering the canal. We combed the beach daily for Chianti bottles and other artifacts from the ship. It was close enough for some to row out and shout the news gleaned from Lowell Thomas and Gabriel Heater, two of the newscasters accessible on our radios.

Many of the post children under six wore little or no clothing when at play. Skin infections, particularly impetigo, were rampant. Silver nitrate was the medication most frequently used and when dried it left purple colored patches. All three children in our family carried these blotches, and I can't think of any of my friends that didn't. Malaria and yellow fever subjected all to frequent shots and unwanted poking.

Gossip and scuttlebutt

No newspaper was available to keep us informed of local news. We were by all standards a very remote outpost, separated by jungle, the ocean and the large bay. New arrivals would bring news of the gathering war in Europe, and I overheard my mother speak of collecting clothes to send bundles for Britain. The air raids over London seemed far removed from us, but their plight was widely publicized. The usual manner of learning new information and gauging social change is by overhearing conversation and participating in observant interaction; but Panamanians seemed a rather opaque quantity. We were hustled through civilian and state matters as if they didn't exist. The difference in language was seldom inconvenient to those who had no need to ask or share.

Our attention quite often centered on the trivial. I wrote a poem many years later reflected the mood:

 My mother worried about a snub

 From the Colonel's wife at the officer's club

Officers' wives were focused on their husbands' careers and the required military protocol that governed what was expected of them. Children could not help but note how their parents reacted to social demands and the difference between what went on inside the home and that which took place outside. The slightest activity required promptness and a highly compliant attitude. When a bugle blew, those to whom it applied were expected to be present in the proper dress and act in the proper manner. This often meant that the atmosphere inside the home, like the barracks, could be quite tense. Clothes would hardly be changed, and baths be taken before another bugle call would announce yet another expectation. Many times, children were not a part of the routine and were isolated with a maid or an orderly.

The commissary

We took a small boat across the bay to Cristobal to shop. It was about an hour each way. The huge commissary had been built to serve the needs of the people involved with the canal, but it was largely patronized by the American community and the military. One of its entrances suggested a caste system not unlike the military distinction between officers and enlisted personnel, or the Jim Crow system practiced in the United States. Throughout the Canal Zone, workers were paid by two separate standards. Americans were paid in gold. All others were paid in silver. This resulted in a system that separated people into "Silver" and "Gold" communities. I thus learned my social status by the door that my family used at the commissary.

The commissary seemed to be a wondrous cornucopia of groceries, household items, furniture, toys and exotic duty free items from Asia and Europe. Mention of Germany's invasion of France came as explanation of unavailability of French perfume and fashionable dresses. This news was regarded as a hardship that we would have to suffer through.

Due to the problems of storing perishables, most fruits and vegetables were packed in cans. Some families were willing to experiment with fresh meat from South America, but we found that it often had a taste that we found to be "gamey." Fresh produce rarely would survive the humid boat ride back to Sherman. Gabriella, our maid, would relieve us of our foodstuffs immediately and store them where they would remain as fresh as possible.

Second grade at Colon

My journey to second grade began each morning in a small truck with four or five officers' children. At the boat landing we would join a handful of enlisted children for the ride over the bay to the Cristobel. This lengthy process was repeated in reverse at the end of the school day. The trip became easier in following months upon the arrival of one of the New York Staten Island ferries --- The General Humphries. It had been boarded up for sea travel and sent to the Canal to ferry Fort Sherman personnel across the bay. My family had ridden on the ferry many times while at our quarters on Bedloes Island (presently Liberty Island.) The General Humphries arrived to the fanfare of a military band and the presenting of several speeches and was immediately put into service.

 At the Colon/Cristobal school, I learned to sit in a row, to draw 'O's and to "push pull" my steel nub pen up and down in the prescribed Palmer Method. In a study of Japan, our teacher emphasized what the Western world believed to be a major characteristic of the Japanese people. She wrote "P-O-L-I-T-E" on the slate blackboard. During the year, not one word was ever mentioned that would help us relate to the mixture of races that we encountered in the Caribbean culture. (This failure to promote understanding of Panamanian culture proved to have unfortunate consequences throughout the history of the Zone.)

The driver of our school bus once left without me. I walked from my school to the dock at Cristobal straight through the city of Colon along a boulevard of French Colonial buildings, jitneys and horse drawn wagons. I moved quickly because of the fact that I was not only Caucasian but seven years old. As I walked I could not fail to take notice of language and the music favorite stop for my parents. Its proprietor, a "Chinaman," had once given my brother and me small hats with colored glass sewn into the cloth. Several shrunken heads from the Amazon hung in his window. Ordinarily it was a place that held great fascination, but I didn't stop to look this time.

Children my age were not in school. Some of them were completely naked. I detected the smell of urine where people had emptied their slop buckets. The only recognizable adults were the lottery vendors that stood by the kiosks on each street corner. I moved from one to the other like a stray puppy without a collar, seeking safety and reassurance. Sight of the General Humphries brought a link with my own culture, the Gold Standard and all the good things. I arrived at the dock in Cristobal having learned more about the Panamanian life in one hour than I would learn during the whole time I would spend in Panama.

Fort Davis and the 14th Infantry

At the end of 1940, we moved to another area of the Canal Zone, but we still remained on the Atlantic side. Fort Davis was considerably larger than Fort Sherman and situated on a rolling grassy plain near the small town of Gatun. I was stunned by an improvement in our living conditions --- no longer did we take it for granted that we would go to bed scratching insect bites. Though it was a duplex our home was well situated and comfortable. Mother was thrilled that our front steps led directly to the large Post Exchange across the street.

The 14th Infantry had earned a name for itself in the Civil War and in the Boxer Rebellion in China. Its motto "At the Right of the Line" was featured on its lapel insignia-a brass etching of a Chinese dragon on a red and blue background. We were all proud to see father attach this new emblem to his uniform. The motto was punctuated in the bugle calls by a tag of six extra notes. Ta Ta TUM TUM TA TA-A. The 14th was further distinguished by its nicknames, the Jungleers and, by some, the Dragoneers.   

At The Right of the Line

Soldiers were housed in rows of barracks a short walk from our quarters. I was fascinated with the close order drill and the display of so many weapons. My visits brought free Cokes and Baby Ruth bars. It was like having my heroes at my front door. The post tailor took my measurements and fashioned a khaki uniform for me that had short sleeves and short pants. I was proud that it was form fitted like the men in the regular army wore. The first of the draftees had arrived; and they were laughed at because their uniforms did not fit. We kids noticed such things.

The most competitive contests between the regiment's companies were among the boxers. I attended some of the matches with my parents and rooted for my favorites. Though the army had switched from horses to mechanized transportation, the horse culture was still evidence by polo matches and recreational riding. Many officers had their own private ponies. Military speech was still laced with profane reverences inspired by horses. Mules were used to pull heavy equipment. Some of the enlisted men had received their early training with cavalry. A man who was in his early forties demonstrated to me how he could lift a mule till its hooves left the ground. I even bent close to the ground and watched the hooves to be sure there was no cheating.

A navy family gave me a horse named Senorita. It was brown with a black mane and tail. Senorita was stabled alongside the polo ponies and I learned to groom and feed her and to ride her about the post. Shortly afterward, I found a Capuchin monkey just sitting in a tree. I named it "Chi-Chi."

A major invited me to ride in a half-track while he tested it out. It appeared to me something like a tank, with heavy armor and tiny slits to see out of. We drove through a patch of jungle, with many jolts and bumps; the engine making a terrible roar. I could see branches and vegetation smash to the ground before us like fallen wheat.

Bugles sounded times for each activity. The bugler stood before a large megaphone stationed at each corner of the post alerting us to each segment of the day's routine with a designated call. We ate when we heard mess call and went to the infirmary when we had sick call. At 5:30 the sound of a cannon would cause us to cease whatever we were doing and face the direction of the flag. The call, To Colors, accompanied the lowering of the flag while we stood straight as posts. After dinner and evening activities we would hear the beautiful Tattoo, a signal to put away daytime gear and to prepare for bed. At bedtime, we heard Taps, followed by the regimental tag --- six extra notes to indicate "At the Right of the Line." It was our day's final reminder that we belonged in this place at this time.

Gatun School

My third grade teacher was Miss Fall. She reminded me of Zelda, the beautiful witch in The Wizard of Oz. She skillfully molded the small cluster of canal children and Army brats into a classroom community. The school was a wonderful breezy building built upon a hill with a view of the ships involved in canal passage. My classmates included many of the children of civilian workers and technicians. There were about 20 in my class and not more than 100 in the whole school. Those from Davis rode back and forth in a small canvas covered truck. This resulted in our spending almost as much time in the truck as we did in school. I remember this well because there was the time when Senorita provided me with an excuse to skip the return to school after my lunch. An officer had saddled Senorita and taken her for a ride around the post. Had he asked anyone he would have been warned that the horse did not like adults. He had not ridden far when Senorita began to bite him and refused to go back to the stables. Her misbehavior was cause for my staying home to ride her back to her stall.

War

In the late hours of December 11, I heard my parents returning from a party at France Field. They were talking so loud that they woke me up. I asked my father what was the matter and he said something about the Japanese attacking Hawaii. He said not to worry because Japan was a small country and the problem should be over quickly. Throughout the day I found Davis preparing for war. Machine gun emplacements were carved out of the parade field. This did not appear to me to be something that was going to be over as quickly as my father said it would. Each home was supplied with a pile of sand at its back door. We were told that this was meant to help put out fires cause by "incendiary bombs." Our maid screamed in terror when she saw our whole family being fitted with gas masks.

The appearance of blimp-like barrage balloons, cabled at strategic points further brought home the reality of danger. Father instructed me where to find an emergency kit of food and supplies and how to lead my sister and brother to safety should I be alone when the siren sounded. We had a full alert at 2 a.m. My father had already been called to duty, leaving my mother in charge. A pounding on the door brought us out to a bus that was waiting with its lights out. At the bomb shelter, we were put on canvas folding cots. It all took place in ink black darkness and total silence. For a number of minutes we laid on our backs, literally waiting for the Japanese to come and take us. I then began to make out the voices of some of my friends. A baby cried. I ran my fingers along the damp, burlap sandbags that lined the wall next to my cot. After an hour of waiting, I noticed a soft glow moving about the room. My father had a handkerchief over his flashlight and was moving from cot to cot to reassure people. When he got to me, I was thrilled to see that he was wearing his steel helmet that made him look like Pat O'Brian as Father Duffy in the WWII movie, Fighting 69th. He told me that there had been a rumor about a Japanese spotter plane flying over the Pacific sector of the canal. He said the threat of trouble had appeared overblown and that we would soon be able to return to our quarters.

At school, Miss Fall asked class to prepare for an air-raid drill. She explained that the numerous windows around our classroom would put us at great risk because the planes could shoot right through them. None of us doubted her. At her signal we dropped to the floor and rolled under our desks. This drill became a part of our daily routine. Ironically, we continued to work on our Christmas program and the song Sleep My Child and Peace Attend Thee, All Through The Night.

Evacuation

At the post tree lighting ceremony, I looked around and noticed that half of the families were missing. My father used a word that I was unfamiliar with. He said that they had been "evacuated." He explained that we were being held back because "It would not look good for the chaplain's family to leave before the others." Christmas brought few toys. Santa left a cloth Chinese doll for my sister, a truck for my brother and a set of Gene Autry pistols for me. We left Panama in February 1942. My father woke us up whistling to the bugle call. He gave us the news as cheerfully as he could. We were being "evacuated." We responded automatically, as if it was one more drill. There would not be time for me to say goodbye to Senorita and Chi Chi. We packed what we could conveniently carry and ate a final meal at the snack bar in Cristobal. My dad gave us each three comic books to read during the voyage. Prince Valiant caught my immediate interest and I was half way through it before we were on the ship. The Shawnee Rainbow was painted a brownish gray, due to the need to camouflage our presence from the German U-boats. We would have an escort ship through the most dangerous part of the voyage. Fathers formed a small line on the wharf, just behind the Washington Hotel. As we looped out into the Caribbean, we faced a row of waving white handkerchiefs. It was clear to us that we were a part of something, potentially, very tragic. The men became tiny specks along the shoreline.

It would be 1946 before we would know father's regular presence in the home. There would be three brief visits, heated by pressures of wartime, before he left for the Pacific Theater as 11th Airborne Division chaplain. Evening blackouts and no-smoking regulations were in effect. Conversations between the mothers betrayed panic. Families left so quickly that they had not been able to inventory their belongings and complete important financial and legal business. Many, like us, did not have a final destination beyond the ships' docking point. Military families operate by assignments and we had no assignment other than to leave the Canal Zone. Daily lifeboat drills kept us aware of the potential for a torpedo attack. My station was separate from my family --- a situation that was discomforting. It was rumored that a sub had been sighted. I watched for a periscope as avidly as every other boy on the ship.

The home front

Entry into the mouth of the Mississippi River brought immense relief to all. We were at last free from the threat of torpedoes. We were greeted at the New Orleans dock by a military band, some USO ladies with doughnuts, and a number of people who came to greet loved ones. Voices called out from the ship: "What's happening in the Philippines?" "Has Singapore fallen?" All knew that the Panama Canal Zone could soon be included in such questions.

The Customs official frowned. The Chinese doll was probably his closest encounter with an "oriental" face. Perhaps he suspected that the doll would call Tokyo and report on our defense. He took a knife and cut open its back, before my sister's horrified eyes. "It is all necessary," he explained. Evidently, we were face to face with a new kind of anger --- one that this child found hard to understand. When I bought my first comic book in the States, I couldn't find a new edition of Prince Valiant. They had a comic on war heroes. On its cover, a grotesque Japanese soldier was depicted stabbing a knife through the back of Uncle Sam.

Epilogue

On April 15, 1995, my father was buried in the family plot at the Forest Lawn cemetery in Buffalo, New York. Our family was driven down Delaware Avenue in an army Humvee, due to the thoughtfulness of a National Guard sergeant. By chance, the military detail that was sent from Fort Drum to provide the honors, was the 14th Infantry/10th Mountain Division. The bugler mastered the long forgotten regimental tag. After careful coaching from my brother, six notes followed Taps one more time --- "At the Right of the Line."