The Return of Private Small

ARMY & NAVY

Into New York Harbor last week steamed four Army transports carrying nearly 15,000 soldiers of the 86th Infantry, the first complete division to be shipped out of Europe for redeployment to the Pacific. For these men the war was far from over. But immediately ahead was home and a furlough.

Among 4,070 soldiers on the U.S.S. General Brooke was Pfc. Philip W. Small, 21, of Burnham, Me. It was early afternoon and hot before Pfc. Small finally staggered down the gangplank, bent under his barracks bag, sweating in his heavy O.D.s and battle jacket. By late afternoon --filled with anticipation and excitement--he was riding across the" New Jersey flatlands with the rest of Company I of the 34 2nd Infantry Regiment.

His main and almost sole wish was for lighter clothes. At Camp Kilmer he got them: summer tans discarded by Air Forces cadets. Some of the caps even had Air Forces piping, which Pfc. Small and his pals promptly ripped off. "An infantryman can't ever look good," Small observed.

The Home Front. The stay at Kilmer was short. Next day the men of the 86th were shipped off to reception centers nearest their homes. Small was tagged for Fort Devens, near Boston.

At 6:15 p.m. he entrained. He and his best buddy, Pfc. Edward Vickerson, of Portland, Me., grabbed a double seat, lounging grandly, sticking their heads out the window to whoop at the girls. As the train rumbled through The Bronx, Small caught sight of victory gardeners working their patch-size plots. "Take care of the home front," he called.

At 2 a.m. Small and Vickerson climbed out at Fort Devens, lined up groggily to hear a welcoming speech from a colonel, blinked at a band playing Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here, swallowed coffee and cake in the mess hall and fell into bunks. At 6 they were up again. Small got in line for a physical examination. Pfc. Small's right arm was heavily tattooed with his own name and that of his girl, Myrtle, all surrounded with hearts & flowers. Below was a large swallow carrying in its beak a banner with the legend "Mother."

A slight snag developed. Procedure in the finance office, which had handled 2,000 men in the last 24 hours, broke down. It was 9 p.m. before Phil Small finally got $15 due him. He needed it: he had lost $70 shooting craps on the trip across.

Late that night he and Vickerson finally got to Boston. With their caps cocked over their eyes, they ambled around the streets, swaggering a little. Vickerson caught sight of a hamburger shop. "That's where I want to go," he said. They ate hamburgers until four WAC lieutenants came in, whereupon Small said loudly: "Let's get out of here; there's too much brass."

At 1 a.m. he caught the bus for Burnham. A good-looking blonde sat down next to him and Small offered her a cigaret. "I don't smoke," she said icily. "Neither did I," said Pfc. Small with studied weariness, "until I got into all that fighting over there." By the time the bus reached Portland, Me., they were both asleep, Small's head on the blonde's shoulder.

"Well, Well, Phil Small." Burnham (pop. 643) is little more than a crossroads. Rain was pouring down when Small alighted from the bus in the dawn and dragged his bag over to the general store. Old Frank Cunningham, town jack-of-all-trades, was standing there. Said Cunningham: "Well, well, it's Phil Small." In Cunningham's battered coupe, Phil Small drove off cross-country through the rain.

A string of washing hung on the porch of the Smalls' shingled cottage. Small's frail mother came out as the coupe drew up in the front yard. With her was Small's sister, Irene. "Oh, you're back," said Small's mother. He grinned and led the way into the kitchen, lugging his barracks bag. "We thought you'd be coming home," said the mother. "We heard on the radio that the 86th was back. Your father said for you to be sure to come down to the factory."

But first Phil had to see Irene's three-weeks-old baby. He bent over the baby's crib and chuckled approvingly. "Damned if you ain't a bustin' rig," he said. "You're a bustin' rig."

Then Phil opened his barracks bag and pulled out a watch he had brought home for his father, a palm-sized pistol he had taken from the Mayor of Mannheim, a .38 automatic* he had taken from a German, a flashlight he had picked up. in Hitler's house at Berchtesgaden and a pile of dirty clothes, which he dumped in a corner.

His mother put two eggs and some potatoes in a frying pan and Phil talked about the war: about K rations and the time he rode a German motorcycle to get some ammunition. Mrs. Small turned the eggs over. "It don't seem hardly possible that you got over there and got back," she said. Pfc. Small sat on a stool and put his feet on the stove rail. "There's nothing to it," he explained. "They fire some shots at you and you lie down and fire some shots back."

"You better call Myrtle," said Mrs. Small.

Pfc. Small pulled off his shirt and undershirt. "First I guess I better shave.''

*Known to all U.S. soldiers in Germany as a P-38, because of a large "P" on the frame. P-38s bring upwards of $150 in soldiers' money.

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