My Fighting Congregation E-Book

William Taggart

• Herausgeber: Combat Books
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

My Fighting Congregation is the World War 2 combat diary of U.S. Army Chaplain William Taggart. His book details his work with servicemen aboard US ships in the Pacific, and the work he performed alongside Allied troops fighting on Java and stationed in Australia. 

Leseprobe

My Fighting Congregation

William Taggart

Published by Combat Books, 2019.

Copyright

My Fighting Congregation: An Army Chaplain in the Pacific by William Taggart.

Published by Combat Books. ©Copyright by Combat Books, 2019. All rights reserved.

E-book ISBN: 978-0-359-91852-2.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Further Reading: B-29 Superfortress

Chapter One

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WAR CAME TO US AS I was conducting a Sunday service on a transport bound for the Philippines. While we were gathered to pray and hear God’s word on the old S.S. Republic, ten days out of Honolulu, the news of Pearl Harbor reached us. There are some situations for which a man can just never be prepared. At religious school, we never considered what to do if, while leading a service, we suddenly learned that our congregation was at war. Yet that is exactly what I faced on that peaceful Sunday morning. At nine o’clock I had a khaki-clad congregation whose thoughts were far removed from war. Within a half-hour we were on a journey that would leave some of us sick and crippled; a journey from which many of us would never return; a journey that none of us would ever forget.

Sunday chapel was becoming more popular with the men each succeeding week. There’s not much activity for soldiers on a transport. The navy personnel handles the ship while the soldiers, aside from a few duties, are passengers. After a couple of weeks at sea, most of the men began to look forward to religious services. They wandered into the big lounge from the deck, from their posts, and from the hold of the ship. It was unbearably hot, for we had only yesterday crossed the equator. Although it wasn’t yet nine o’clock the men’s shirts were already visibly wet with perspiration. And while we waited for the others to come, we stood about in groups talking; just as we used to at home in front of the church.

I liked seeing Hal Walling and Tommy Whitehead at services. Hal and Tommy had both attended my mission in Wichita Falls, Texas.

“Just like home, eh, Chaplain Bill?” said Hal as he passed with Tommy at his side.

In the middle of the Pacific, a simple religious sermon helped bring home closer to many of us.

“Chaplain,” a soldier said as I was putting the hymnbooks on the table, “you know that sermon you preached last Sunday reminded me of one I heard more than a year ago. My mother and wife were with me...”

It reminded me, too, of another sermon on another Sunday in Big Springs, Texas. I had already made my decision. A minister belonged with the men being prepared for the inevitable war. A minister belonged with the men who would soon be called upon to rid the world of the pagan menace. I was no different from Hal Walling or Tommy Whitehead. I, too, had a service to give to my country.

But because of my decision several of the congregation would not come to church that Sunday. I was “participating in war,” they said. A minister, they insisted, should not help his country even if its existence was at state. He should just stay at home while the men in his congregation gave their lives for the very religion he was preaching.

Excited voices off to my right brought me out of my thoughts. Charlie was demanding, “Tell me, somebody, what’s today’s date?” Someone demanded: “Why, y’gotta date, Charlie?” Another: “‘Say, you goin’ sumplace?”

“It’s December 7, Charlie,” I managed to squeeze in.

“Then it may be here now!”

That brought more questions. “What may be here now?”

“Yeh, what’re you talkin’ about?”

Charlie tried to get away from the group. “Need some help, Chaplain Taggart?”

“Come on, tell what may be here now!” they persisted.

“You can’t get away from us now.”

“It’s just my baby, fellers.” Charlie gulped, embarrassed. “Jean, my wife, said that a couple of weeks before Christmas I might be a father...”

That’s the way it went that morning. Before beginning services we just stood around talking about the things dearest to us: our homes, our families, our sweethearts, our friends. Above the scraping of the chairs, as the men settled down with their life vests at their side, I heard a friendly voice call: “Give us a good sermon today, Chaplain Bill.”

I wish there could have been a good sermon that Sunday morning; a sermon that would have helped prepare them for what was to come. But on that Sunday, December 7, there was no sermon. The Japs interrupted it.

We had finished our prayer and had sung our second hymn with George Barker leading the singing. I had just concluded the reading from the Scriptures and was about to begin my sermon when I noticed Chaplain John Kinney, the transport chaplain, coming toward me from the back of the room.

I sensed something was wrong. Chaplain Kinney had been conducting services for officers at another end of the deck. One lounge couldn’t hold both the officers and enlisted men. Chaplain Kinney should have been in the middle of his settee. I went to meet him.

“It’s happened. Bill!” he whispered. “The Japs have attacked Pearl Harbor. We’re at war!”

“Shall I tell the men?”

“No, just dismiss them.”

I walked quickly to the front of the room and looked into the faces of my congregation as they waited for me to begin my sermon. I looked over their heads and through a porthole and saw an ocean that might now be hiding enemy submarines.

I caught a glimpse of the hot blue sky that might at any moment become a backdrop for bombers to blast at our ship. I saw in front of me Hal Walling and Tommy Whitehead and began to think of peaceful Wichita Falls. I heard the murmur of voices as the men became restless and wondered why I didn’t proceed, so I quickly said, “You are dismissed.”

They started to come to the front of the room as they usually did. But this time they would want to know why the service hadn’t been finished. Before they got to me the order boomed over the public-address system: “Lay down to your quarters ... lay down to your quarters ... lay down to your quarters.”

Chapter Two

Why did the news that we were at war leave me so stunned? I had felt all along that it was coming. While in Wichita Falls, Texas, words like “isolationist” and “interventionist” were becoming popular, millions throughout the world were being starved, crippled, left homeless, and slaughtered. Churches were being razed. At the point of the bayonet, the Bible was being replaced by Mein Kampf. If it could be done in Europe, then they would sooner or later try it in the United States; in Wichita Falls.

No, the war came as no great surprise. I was on this transport, wearing a soldier’s uniform, just because I expected war. And what I had seen in Honolulu only confirmed my expectations. Newspaper headlines on November 28 screamed: “HONOLULU ON ALERT.” At cafes, in hotel lobbies, at railroad stations, wherever I went it was apparent in the conversations I overheard that an early attack was feared. On the streets of Honolulu were armed guards and roving patrols.

It was the sudden realization of my responsibilities that perplexed me. I was a soldier in this army charged with helping to defeat the enemy just as surely as the gunner or the bombardier in a B-17; just as surely as the soldier in the artillery or infantry.

I could give cheer, encouragement, and God’s blessing to men embarking on dangerous missions. In combat, when men’s minds, nerves, and body have been tried beyond all possible endurance, I could give them renewed strength and courage. My work, if properly performed, could help attain victory as directly as a well-placed bomb on an enemy warship.

I paused for a moment at the deck railing and prayed that God would give me the strength, the courage, and the wisdom to properly serve my fighting congregation. I went down the stairs and through the narrow corridors to my stateroom on the deck below. I was gripped with fear for the safety of the eight transport and cargo ships that made up our convoy. I couldn’t get out of my mind the smiling face of the cab driver in Honolulu who said as we entered his taxi, “We were expecting you.”

“Expecting us?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You knew we were coming?”

“Oh yes, we knew you were coming. And your convoy is going to the Philippines.”

We looked at each other in the taxi, astonished. He knew the name of our ships, when we were expected, where we were going. Our destination was “Plum.” That’s all we knew. And here was a taxi driver in Honolulu saying that everyone knew our destination. We thought about it for a few minutes, but soon forgot the incident as we tried to see as much of Honolulu in the few remaining hours before sailing time. But now the driver’s face was before me. His words kept going through my mind: “We were expecting you. You’re on your way to the Philippines.” The words took on new significance. If everyone in Honolulu knew about us, then the Japs would know too. Would our escort, the U.S.S. Pensacola and the light yacht that served as our subchaser, be able to hold off a pack of submarines or a squadron of Zeros?

When I entered my cabin Lieutenant James Tull, who shared quarters with me, was about to leave.

“What do you think, Jim?”

“Quicker it starts, the quicker it’ll be over,” he replied casually as he left the cabin.

I sat on my bunk and thought how swiftly events had moved since I first met Jim at the army airbase in Salt Lake City, Utah. We were both reporting for duty; Jim as a lieutenant in the Air Corps and I as a chaplain. Jim noticed the cross on my shirt, one of the insignia of the Corps of Chaplains, and introduced himself.

He, too, had been a minister until he had been called up as a reserve line officer. His pastorate had been in Frankfort, Kentucky. So we sat there outside the commanding officer’s quarters chatting about his wife, my parents, and our mutual friend, Homer Reynolds, now an army chaplain at the Davis-Montham Field in Tucson, Arizona.

Tull, who has since become a chaplain with one of the fighter groups under General Chennault in the Far East, was a serious student of Greek. We spent many pleasant hours at his apartment with his wife, Virginia, discussing religious literature and the relationship of the Church to war.

All this debate about whether or not ministers should join the Army was so academic, we agreed. Did they think that when men became soldiers, they ceased to be God’s children? Did a uniform eliminate the need of the influence of the Church? Why didn’t they visit the army camps and see for themselves that military life often intensified emotions and created problems which a chaplain could best solve.

I sat on my bunk and wondered if, now that war had finally come, they were still debating in Wichita Falls—and in thousands of other towns and cities—if it’s right for a Christian to fight; if it’s right for a clergyman to minister to the men at war.

I saw Jim Tull’s civilian suit hanging on the wall. It had been nice to change into civvies every evening for dinner on board ship, I thought. It would be a long time, I was sure, before I’d be needing my civvies again. We were now wartime officers, and the orders would undoubtedly come through soon to wear army uniforms only. When we left San Francisco on November 21, we were permitted to take our civilian clothes, tennis rackets, cameras, golf clubs, and other personal effects.

I was folding my civvies when I heard a knock on my door. An enlisted man entered. He stood for a moment at the door. I motioned him to sit down next to me on the bunk.

“No, I’d better go,” he stammered. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Come in and sit down. Tell me all about it. Maybe there is something I can do.”

He had returned to his quarters in the hold of the ship from chapel a few minutes ago. They had announced over the public-address system that Pearl Harbor had been attacked.

“I had to get a message to my wife and so I came to you. But I guess it’s hopeless. The wireless can’t be used.”

“But why must you get a message to your wife now?” I asked.

“The shock of my leaving gave her a nervous breakdown. She’s been very sick. I’m afraid of what will happen to her now. She may think I was at Pearl Harbor.”

There was no use telling this man not to worry about his wife. It would have no effect. Yet, worrying about her would unquestionably affect his work as a soldier. It would render him less effective in carrying out his duties if our ship were attacked by enemy planes or subs. He needed faith in a power greater than himself—a power that would look after him and his wife.

“Why don’t you pray with me? Let’s tell God our problem. Let’s have faith in Him. Let’s give Him a chance to look after your wife...”

“But I’ve never prayed,” he interrupted. “I’m not a member of a church. I don’t know how to pray.”

“Let me show you how. Let’s bow our heads in prayer.”

As we sat there together on my bunk, I am sure that my anxiety was equal to his. I wanted so to transfer my faith to Kim. This man would be a better soldier if he could be relieved of his burden—if he could be given faith in God.

“This man at my side, Father, is here because he is worried about his wife. He wants her to know that he is safe so that anxiety about him will not aggravate her weak body.

Father, we know that we can come to You for help for we are Your children. Christ said: “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest/Give this man the peace of mind that comes from having faith in You, Father—faith that if You will it his wife will somehow learn that he is well. We thank You, Father. Amen.”

Four months later, at an advanced base in Northern Australia, this same man came to my tent. He had a letter from his wife. “Go on, Chaplain, read it,” he said.

The letter was, “December 8, 1941. Last night I went to sleep after a miserable day of worry about you. During the night I dreamed about you. You were well. In my dream you were not at Pearl Harbor when the attack took place. I prayed that morning that the dream was the truth. That dream helped me live through those long weeks until I received your letter from Australia...”

Against the roar of a B-17 about to leave on a mission, I thanked God for hearing my prayer that this soldier, worrying about his wife, might be given faith.

Chapter Three

By the time noonday chow was over, the organization for protecting our transport against enemy attack was well underway. General Julian F. Barnes, senior officer on the ship, took command. The sergeants’ lounge on the forward main deck became headquarters for the staff. In addition to General Barnes, the staff consisted of Captain Roscoe Nichols, who commanded the ground forces of a bombardment group from Salt Lake City; Colonel Thorpe, who commanded field artillery from Texas, now known as the “Lost Battalion,” and others.

Within a few hours, three thousand men were turned into a fighting unit prepared for any emergency. Portholes and windows were being blacked out. Guard details were posted throughout the ship. Lookouts were stationed day and night to watch the sea for hostile craft; to watch the sky for enemy planes. Guns were hoisted on deck and placed in position.

I watched this activity as I proceeded to staff headquarters where General Barnes wanted to see me. People don’t usually think of a chaplain as a man of action; certainly not one who should be painting portholes or helping to assemble guns. He is generally associated with the bowed head. But in all respects the chaplain is like the other officers and enlisted men. His love for his country is like theirs. He shares with them their desire to defeat the enemy. I wanted so much to be an active part of this preparation as I walked to General Barnes’ quarters.

“Tonight our commander in chief, President Roosevelt, will speak on the radio,” General Barnes said. “I want all men, except those with specific duties, to be on deck. After the President speaks, let’s have a singsong. Let’s have stirring, spirited songs.”

I had an important function to perform; General Barnes wanted me to know. The morale of the men must be at the highest possible level since anything might happen. Their spare time must be occupied. He wanted no brooding, no worrying about possible attack. I left staff headquarters feeling taller and stronger. I had a job to do; an important job. I was part of that group working on those French 75s; part of that group pushing those cases; part of those three thousand men preparing to defend the transport. While I was getting ready for the singsong, I could hear the noises of the men working. There seemed to be a harmony between these noises and the sound of the typewriter and mimeograph machine printing the songs we were to sing.

That was a strange assortment of songs. “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here,” followed by “Dark Eyes.” Then, “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny,” “Funiculi, Funicula,” “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” and “Battle Cry of Freedom.”

There were songs familiar to all of us: “Auld Lang Syne,” “Yankee Doodle,” “Dixie,” “The Man on the Flying Trapeze,” and “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

The men converged on A, B, and C decks in answer to the orders on the public-address system. They sat on the decks and booms, sprawled on hatches and lifeboats, and crowded against the railings to hear the President speak.

Now we would know the truth. Those reports were probably exaggerated, some thought. There couldn’t have been so much damage at Pearl Harbor. Didn’t that navy officer whose wife was near Pearl Harbor tell us about the powerful installations there? They probably dropped a few bombs. But our big guns opened up, our fighters got into the air, and the Japs ran—those that could get away. That’s what the President would tell us.