Somewhere in Alaska

My parents told me Uncle Harry was killed in World War II. They never said where. Somehow, I never asked.

His picture peered at me from 1950's walls, frozen forever in his army uniform, the same lopsided smile. Handsome, even with a lazy left eye. The same side as my wandering eye, corrected in childhood. I grew up under the gaze of his eyes, crossed but kind.

I was born in 1951, an only child. I never much resembled either of my parents. But if you place my uncle's photo next to mine, you'll see our features are practically identical. He wanted to be a writer. I make my living as a writer.

My mom always spoke of Uncle Harry with utter devotion. He was her strong big brother who always looked out for her. My mother died in 1990. When my father died five years later, I inherited the peeling leather valises filled with letters and old photographs . . . all that is left of my family. I promptly put the suitcases in my attic, where they've been for six years.

Recently, I was seeking a baby picture to grace my 50th birthday party invitation. My husband Dave brought the cases down. When we sorted through them, I got to know my Uncle Harry for the first time.

My husband began reading from a yellowed newspaper clip picturing my grandmother being honored as a hero's mother. She looked dazed, a woman who had never learned to speak English . . . who had immigrated to America from a country far away, and gave it her son's life.

The Distinguished Service Cross will be given to Mrs. Sarah Gilbert, mother of 2nd Lt. Harry Gilbert, who was killed May 20, 1943 while leading a patrol reconnoitering enemy mountain positions on Attu, in the Aleutian Islands.

"Where did you say your uncle was killed?" Dave asked.

"I assumed it was Europe." I said. "I never even knew the war was fought in the Aleutian Islands - wherever that is."

We looked up the Aleutians in Dave's Encyclopedia Britannica. We found them between Russia and Alaska, stretching across 1100 miles of the North Pacific. "At the western end lies Attu Island," I read out loud, "famous for the second most brutal pacific battle of World War II." That's when it hit me. I began to cry.

Sweet Uncle Harry, so far from the warmth of his mother's kitchen, from the small town "shtetl" atmosphere of Chicago's West Side, where everyone knew each other. My grandparents, Sarah and Samuel Gilbert, came here from Russia in the early twentieth century. Uncle Harry and my mother Anne were born and schooled in Chicago. They taught my grandfather how to read and write English. My grandmother never learned and spoke only Yiddish.

I remember my parents telling me about the West Side, where no one locked their door and, to escape the summer heat, everyone took their pillows to Garfield Park and slept outside.

Similar to the Jewish tenements on the Lower East Side of New York, pushcarts came through the streets selling fresh fruits and vegetables, milk and ice. The women called to each other from their porches, aromas of beef flanken and kreplach soup rising from their kitchens like old, familiar melodies.

A wealth of synagogues nurtured the community with Jewish culture and education. Douglas Boulevard, the main street, was lined with shuls one after another.

Hardly a Saturday passed without someone's son having a Bar Mitzvah, which all the neighbors attended. Everyone knew each other then.

I don't know if anyone is alive today who knew my Uncle, Harry Gilbert. I've had to piece this story together from the letters and newspaper articles in the suitcases, augmented by my own research of World War II.

In 1940, when war tensions rose, Harry enlisted like so many other West Side men. He went to officer's training school and become a 2nd lieutenant. He wanted to fight for his country - to be a hero.

Dear Folks,
I arrived at Camp Roberts yesterday on the bus from San Francisco. The officers here are a fine group of men and very friendly. The food at the mess is wonderful. I pay one dollar a day for three meals and it's worth twice that - all the butter I can eat.! The table is beautifully set and waiters bring anything you want. I'm afraid things are too good to last. I've been in California three days now but I haven't seen any movie stars yet - when I do I'll let you know.

Many of Harry's letters had no month or year at the top. They began simply with "Saturday 9 a.m." or "Wednesday evening." I've figured out the rest as best as I could.

Louisiana, 1941
Dear Folks,
Today is my first anniversary in the army. Who would have thought I'd be in Louisiana now? However, things aren't half as bad as they might be. Right now we're out in the thickest woods I've ever been in. The whole area near Marshall La is half swamp and half forest. Right now we're killing time and getting accustomed to the climate, similar to the South Pacific, and waiting for the war to start, which is scheduled for 4 p.m. Sunday

I might have inherited his sense of humor too.

Fort Bliss, Texas, 1942
Dear Folks.
Lately the weather has been perfect. Three weeks ago the desert was sand and cactus. Then suddenly one day the flowers came out. I never thought that the desert could be so beautiful. Even the cactus blooms.

Salt Lake City. 1943
Dear Folks,
I'm still out in the woods in charge of forty-two parachute troops. My life is so easy that I have trouble sleeping at night. I asked my commander for a transfer to something more active. He said he would see what he could do.

Harry got his wish and was transferred to a troop ship packed with thousands of GIs, who were told they were en route to fight in the Pacific. But when their ship anchored on frigid Attu Island, the soldiers realized that this was not the balmy South Pacific for which they had been trained.

What were they doing in this God forsaken place? In May 1943, Japanese had invaded the American Islands of Kiska and Attu at the end of Alaska's Aleutian chain. U.S. military censors had released no information of this invasion. It was strictly top secret. The soldiers couldn't tell their families where they were. All letters written home had to be from "Somewhere in Alaska."

The war department was panicked because this was the first American land held by an enemy since the War of 1812. If the Japanese took control, they would have a strategic base for attacking the U.S. mainland.

The Aleutian Islands are home to the world's most ferocious weather. Constant storms, freezing winds - and worst of all, blinding fog. On May 12, 1943, the first day of fighting on Attu, the fog was so heavy, the Americans couldn't see who or what they were shooting. Tragically many American soldiers shot at each other. The wind was blowing at about 30 miles an hour, producing a wind chill of 10 degrees below zero. The Americans were given orders to move up into the valley, into the wind and fog, where the Japanese were waiting.

There wasn't a single tree on the entire island to shield them. Forty-four Americans, most of them who never saw the enemy, were killed in the first two days. The American plan had been to outnumber and trap the enemy. But the Japanese knew this treacherous terrain better. They stayed high in the mountains, building tunnels.

Amazingly, Uncle Harry wrote this cheerful letter home from "somewhere in Alaska" on May 13," after spending 2 days in this frozen shooting gallery

It's not bad at all. We've got a job to do and we are doing it well. There is very little to worry about and before you know what's what I'll be home covered with metals and glory and some real exciting experiences to tell.

For four bloody days the Japanese beat back every U.S. advance. Invisible in the fog, they could see the Americans, but the Americans couldn't see them. When the fog came down, the Japanese came down with it and shot the Americans. When the fog went up, the Japanese followed it.

By May 21, there were an unbelievable 1,100 Americans dead. My Uncle Harry was one of them. To think that he withstood these brutal conditions for nine days breaks my heart. Yet Harry, in his endearing bravery, wrote this letter home on May 15, seven days before he died.

In a way it is a great honor and a pleasure to do what I'm doing. The American boys that I have are the bravest and most courageous anywhere. They do the impossible every day and every hour and just keep grinning. They're wonderful and so am I in a modest way.

When I read this letter, I was overcome by Harry's selflessness. I had never seen such patriotism. I grew up during the Vietnam War and vividly remember attending a war protest in 1969, on my first day of college. I watched in horror as the American flag was burned.

All the young men my age had been issued draft numbers, the higher the number, the better their odds of alluding the draft. A lottery game of chance determined the fate of a generation. My friends with low numbers tried to stay in college as long as possible for the student deferment. Some even continued on to Masters and Ph.D. degrees, if they could afford it. Many of the boys who couldn't ended up in the rice patties of Vietnam.

Here is Harry's last missive from "somewhere in Alaska," dated May 17, 1943

Dear folks,
I know you must be worried about me but rest assured that I am okay. I was slightly wounded a couple of days ago but besides a very small bandage, you'd never know it. All I can tell you is that I am in (the name of the place had been snipped out by army censors)

My pretty 21-year-old mother penned the family letters to Harry. I can just picture her and grandma huddled together, frantically conjuring images of their Harry. And wondering where in the world he was.

My mother wrote her final letter on June 9, 1943, 20 days after Harry died.

Dearest Harry,
We received your letter and mom and I were nearly frantic after reading that you were wounded. It seems so unbelievable that after such a short time you're in the battle already. We sent you a birthday card so if this letter reaches you let us know if you received it. I want you to know that we still don't know where you are at. They censored both of your letters. Take care of yourself the best you can. Hero or no hero come home to us safely. Mom sends all her love to you. Love, Anne

I found this last letter at the bottom of the suitcase. It had been returned. Deceased in blood red letters stamped out Harry's name.

The remainder of the mail was a bureaucratic nightmare - mounds of impersonal correspondence. I couldn't believe the amount of letters the U.S. army sent to my grandmother, a woman who could not read. I counted over fifty from the war department alone, mostly form letters, with Harry Gilbert scribbled in on the appropriate line.

Dear Madam:
The army effects bureau has received from overseas certain personal property of your son Second Lt. Harry Gilbert:
1 leather wallet, 1 shoe shine kit, 1 cigarette case with cigarettes, etc.
Sheet D and Instructions for next of kin. Inasmuch as there are no permanent American Military cemeteries in the Alaskan area, your choice is limited to Option 2, 3 and 4.

Dear Madam:
Enclosed is a picture of the beautiful Little Falls cemetery, his final resting place. I want you to know that in the selection of this location the most careful consideration was given to secure a place of lasting beauty and enduring tribute.

There was a standard letter from the Governor, and one from the President. But I did find a few handwritten, heartfelt expressions, like this one from the Protestant chaplain of Harry's infantry "Somewhere in Alaska."

Dear Mrs. Gilbert,
You may be very proud of your son, for he played his part in the battle with true valor. We shall not soon forget him. Let me assure you that he was buried according to the rites of his own faith and that his body now lies in a place removed from the noise and terrors of the battlefield, surrounded by summer flowers. It is possible upon your request that his body will be returned home after the end of the war.

And this one written by Harry's commanding officer, "Somewhere in Alaska" dated June 26,1943.

Harry died at the head of a patrol, which he was leading into enemy occupied ground The patrol was fired upon and your boy was hit - death was instant and he did not suffer. He was a brave fine boy and a fine officer. The regiment is proud of him.

After the war, the Army learned the Japanese had no plan to use the Aleutians for anything. It is the consensus of many World War II historians that the battle of Attu didn't need to happen at all. Apparently the Japanese had been stranded on Attu. It was "too far and too cold," they said. "Certainly not a place to fight over."

Harry's body was shipped home at the war's end. He was re-buried in Oakwood cemetery on the South side of Chicago, next to his father and mother - in the neighborhood where we once lived. In 1969, my parents moved to the North Side. No one has visited his grave since.

Because I have no children, I am the last living member of my family. If Uncle Harry had lived, I would probably have some cousins at least. But more than that, I would have had the pleasure of knowing my uncle . . . a man I fell madly in love with sixty years after his death.

I hung Harry Gilbert's cross-eyed image on the wall of my office, next to his Purple Heart. A war hero deserves better than being locked in a suitcase. The floor of my office is still populated by dusty cases and tear stained pages. Being a writer can be a lonely job. The letters are good company, gathered all around me like . . . a family.