This is My War, Too

Louise E. Edgar

• Publisher: Burtyrki Books
• Year: 2020
• eBook ISBN: 9781839742293
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: European History
• Index: History

This Is Our War, Too, first published in 1950 as Out of Bounds, is the story of one woman's experiences in the WAC's (Women's Army Corps), during the later days of World War Two. This Is Our War, Too unfolds in a fast-paced, often sassy manner, with a large dose of humor thrown in to help author Louise Edgar cope with Army-life as a woman, and also with the widespread devastation she witnessed. Her story takes the reader to New Guinea, Papua, Manila, and Shanghai, where Edgar describes her observations of life in these war-torn countries. The book ends with her return to the States and the start of her civilian life.

SHANGHAI

“Everyone will report for smallpox vaccinations,” the co-pilot called out.

This over, the WACs were taken to a truck where Chinese boys were waiting to take us to our new home. Somehow, landing in New Guinea, where we saw Fuzzy Wuzzies for the first time, or in the Philippines did not have the same thrilling excitement I was experiencing these first few minutes in Shanghai. It was as though I were living in a story book or dreaming a wonderful dream. I sat on the end seat purposely, even though the night was cold, so I could catch glimpses of the city and some of its people as we rode through the streets. I thought of the distorted stories told me when a child about the people of China. I expected to see men with long queues, sneaking in and out of alleys, waiting to pounce on some innocent victim. I looked for opium smokers lying about in the gutters, and perhaps a few hungry old men munching on rats.

Instead of all this, what I saw left me spellbound. Few of the books I ever read about China described what I was seeing.

The trip to our hostel took us through parts of the business section where there were many shops, large and small, displaying the most exquisite things I ever saw. The Chinese men I saw seemed to be gliding; they walked so quickly and gracefully. They wore long coats hanging to their ankles, their hands crossed and tucked in the sleeves, muff fashion. Some wore close-fitting caps, others were bare-headed. Ricksha coolies, pulling whole families, threaded their way through traffic betwixt trams and people calling “Wei” to anybody or anything blocking their way. There was an air of proudness about the coolies pedaling pedicabs carrying fur-coated customers. So far, I loved every bit of what I was seeing, and wished it were daylight.

We rode on wide Avenue Joffre after leaving the center of the city. It was an interesting, sedate-looking avenue, with its pretentious homes, fascinating shops, and strange-looking trees. The trees impressed me more than anything else, growing on the sides of the wide sidewalks, leafless. Their branches were thick and quite short. In the bright moonlight, they looked like queer men with many arms. There were no noises except the pattering of bare feet of the boys pulling rickshas or pushing pedicabs. This was my first impression of Shanghai.

It took nearly forty minutes to reach the WAC Mansion. Chinese boys rushed out with chairs for us to step on so we would not have to jump. This was the first courtesy of this kind we had experienced. A GI driving a truck would sit until we jumped or fell off.

“Hello, Missey,” the boys said to each one of us as we left the vehicle. “Missey no carry bags.”

“Heavens, what’s this all about! This can’t be the Army!” exclaimed Ada.

We were even more impressed when we entered the building. Furnishings were exquisite. There were large, fine Chinese rugs on the floors, toned-down richly colored drapes hanging at the windows, and comfortable chairs and couches scattered about the large room. A proud-looking piano stood in front of tall French windows that opened onto a terrace. Four or five Chinese men, who looked all the world like priests of some order, were huddled together under the staircase. They were not talking. They paid little attention to us. The whole atmosphere of the place was one of dignity, peace, and mysticism.

The housemother, a charming English woman, introduced herself to us. Then she called the house-boys, told us their names, and instructed them to take us to our rooms.

“Okay, Missey, this way, pleeze,” Tommy said with a big grin.

Ada and I followed him to the second floor, where he ushered us into a delightful room, with two beds, a bureau and two comfortable chairs.

“This is almost too much luxury,” Ada said, pouncing down on one of the beds.

Tommy grinned. “Me call in morning. Leave shoes outside, boy shinee. Amah come get silkee and washee.”

I gave him a dime. He bowed and left.

I walked over to the French doors opening out into a wide balcony and gazed on a magnificent blue dome encircled with bright lights. We learned later it was the dome of the Russian church. The sky was clear and the moon shone brighter than I had noticed for a long time.

“Come on, let’s shower and get into bed. I am dying to know how it feels having warm water touch this body of mine,” Ada suggested.

When we returned to our room, we found our sheets and blankets turned down, ready for us to jump into bed.

In the morning there was a gentle knock on the door, just as Tommy said there would be.

Ada looked over at me, half asleep, and mumbled, “Hey, is this a dream or is it the real McCoy?” “It’s the real thing, soldier. Hurry, get up and let’s go down to breakfast; I’m starved.”

During the time we washed and dressed, we didn’t stop talking a minute.

“Gosh, imagine eating from a table set for four instead of twenty-five or thirty women all talking at once! Fancy having a white cloth on that table with napkins and the luxury of waiters to serve you! Holy mackerel! I don’t know if I have any table manners left. Come on, let’s go. I’m hungry too,” Ada said. “Some elastic in that imagination of yours!”

But she was right. Everything she spoke of was there in a charming, colorful dining-room. And the food was delicious, same Army rations, but so expertly prepared no one would have guessed it. Two girls who had flown in from Calcutta sat at our table. I envied them because they had flown the hump. What an exciting experience!

“The first thing I want to do is ride in a ricksha or a pedicab,” I said to Ada after mess.

She was very enthusiastic over the idea.

“Let’s go tonight,” she suggested.

I wasn’t overly anxious to make our first attempt under the cover of darkness, but concurred.

The only place we knew in the city that was within bounds was the Red Cross Club, so we decided to make that our goal.

Tommy hailed a pedicab outside the hostel for us. Ada positively refused to ride in a ricksha and have a human being pull her.

“When I want to be dragged through streets in a cart, I’ll get a horse or a donkey, and not some poor half-clad coolie made of the same stuff as you and 11” She meant it too. What a gal, that Ada I “Red Cross,” I said to the boy with the pedicab. He shook his head, smiled, and said, “Okay.” It was a cold night. He pulled a blanket from under the seat and wrapped it around us, and then we were on our way. He peddled for a full twenty minute and then stopped in front of a dark gray building. “Okay,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘Okay’?” I asked him. “This is a hospital, not the Red Cross. We don’t want to get out here.”

“Okay,” he replied, and started off again.

“Do you think he understands where we want to go?” Ada asked.

“I thought he did. Perhaps the next stop will be the Red Cross building. It better be.”

It wasn’t! This time it was in front of a Chinese Hospital. He hardly stopped when swarms of men and boys gathered around us. They nearly climbed in the pedicab with us, they were so curious. Some had shaved heads, others had long beards, some were young and some were old. We didn’t fancy having them peering into our faces the way they did.

“Isn’t there someone in this crowd who can speak English?” I asked.

The only response was a series of giggles. Our pedicab coolie was busy, rubbing the sweat from his body and brow. He didn’t even answer “Okay.”

A ricksha boy, pulling a ricksha with a well-dressed, dignified gentleman in it, stopped in front of us.

“Are you in trouble?” the gentleman asked.

“Yes. Our coolie can’t understand English and we can’t speak Chinese,” I answered.

“Where is your destination?”

“HOME!” Ada exclaimed.

After explaining where HOME was, the Chinese instructed the pedicab coolie where to take us.

“Okay,” he answered, smiling.

We were so happy when we landed in front of the WAC Hostel, we emptied our pockets of all the change we had.

The boy bowed a couple of times and took off.

“Suckers,” the MP at the gate growled.

We ventured out on a long walk about the city the next day. Most of our time was spent in shops on Avenue Joffre. We had been wanting to do that ever since we arrived in Shanghai. A good-looking French boy greeted us very graciously in one of the antique shops. He told us his name was Max and that he was nineteen years old. This surprised us because Ada and I both figured he must be at least thirty-five. It was the tiny mustache he was wearing. He confided to us later that that was the reason he wore it. Everything we looked at in the shop was exquisite, but we couldn’t buy a thing; we were broke. He didn’t care. He was just plain glad to speak with American women.

“Have you seen much of Shanghai?” he asked.

We told him we had not seen any of the city.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “if you like, we can go to Old China City tomorrow morning when I return from mass. I shall be here at the shop at nine o’clock.”

It was about three miles to the “Old City.” It didn’t seem that far because we were so interested in the crowds of people on the streets and the many shops we passed.

I got a new perspective of China now. Beggars, half clothed, swarmed around us. Children, untidy and unkempt, looking starved and sad, stretched out their tiny hands to us, mumbling something that went like, “No mummy, no pappy, no sissy, nobody. Cumsha, cumsha (gimme), please, Joe.” It was heartbreaking. Ada and I always gave them something until Max told us begging in China was a racket. He said that most of the people we saw lying in the gutters and on the sidewalks were professionals in the game.

“These children you see,” he said, “are taught to beg as soon as they are old enough to speak. There are members of certain groups or guilds living in the provinces outside the city who break the bones of new-born babies so their deformities will arouse pity.” This was hard to believe.

We pushed our way further through the crowds with difficulty. We stopped long enough to watch an old man lying in the middle of the dusty lane, banging his head on the ground, making a terrible thumping noise. At the same time, he screamed and made other horrible sounds. Not far from him we saw women with tiny, misformed feet, that looked more like hoofs. Thank God the practice of binding the feet at birth has been done away with, except in a few provinces. Yes, Old China City was certainly a mass of humanity. We left the main road and went onto a very narrow one. On either side there were hundreds of shops where Chinese merchants were selling silks at exorbitant prices, good jade and poor jade, chopsticks made from real ivory and some from plain bamboo. There were beautiful mahjong sets, scrolls and gorgeous hand-carved teakwood chests and furniture. Chinese lanterns swayed in the breeze outside most of the shops, and loud speakers blasted out Chinese music. It was not very pleasing to the ears. The instruments sound rasping and squeaky. The voices of the singers were shrill and high-pitched. Every other shop was a teahouse. There were tiny, mangy, flea-bitten dogs lying in the streets. Loud voices came from groups of boys and men quarreling, but I never saw a Chinese hit another. Their custom of keeping “face” is a good one. Children were squatting, and men were standing anywhere they could find space, letting nature take its course without any inhibitions. There was a dirty pond at the end of the lane. The largest teahouse in the city was located on the edge of it. We went in. Chinese men were sitting around, smoking long pipes and drinking tea. We didn’t stay long. The stench was stifling. From there we went into an old temple. It didn’t seem possible that any people on earth could worship Gods that looked like those we saw. Some were so grotesque looking they were frightening. Everywhere, people were kneeling before their favorite Buddha. I was amused to see mothers holding their young children before an idol, bowing them three times. The youngsters didn’t have the faintest idea what they were doing, and had no interest in the performance evidently, for they craned their necks, gazing around, grinning at everyone passing.

I doubt whether the mothers knew much more. It all seemed more irreligious than religious. Food was piled high in receptacles on tables set before some of the images. These food offerings were made to ancestors of different households. It was placed on altar-tables, while hot, and ancestors were supposed to be satisfied with fumes and rising vapors. Max told us that in many homes Chinese have abolished ancestor worship, especially where families have become Christians. I should have liked to have stayed in the temple ...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• CAPE SUDEST
• BIAK
• MANILA
• BAGUIO
• AFWESPAC
• CHINA
• SHANGHAI
• ORDERS FOR HOME