Jim Kelly was a rifleman. To be more precise, he was a sniper. As his Platoon Sergeant said, "Ol' Jim could hit a gnat in the ass at a thousand yards. Jim had been drafted out of the Cumberland Mountains of Eastern Kentucky. He said "he lived in a little holler, 'bout ten mahls fum Polk's Knob. Jim probably never would have succeeded as a peace-time soldier. Because he came from that Scotch-Irish heritage that has been derided as "Hill-Billy", where they had maintained many of the seventeenth century mores, Jim was grudgingly respectful of authority. But not overly awed by it. James Kelly knew his own worth as a man.
Because the only marketability of his culture was his ability to fire a rifle with unerring accuracy, Kelly was a natural from the very start to be initially, a first scout, and later the Company sniper. While the rest of the Company were enthused with their semi-automatic, eight-round Garand, or as it became known, "M-1" rifles, Jim Kelly took particular care of his "Star Gauge"*, caliber 30, bolt action Springfield, Model 1903 rifle. He treated it as diligently as if it was his first born child. With or without the telescope sight, Kelly was probably the best shot in the Division, if not the Army. As an enlisted man, I had been a fairly good rifle marksman. I was good enough to have been selected to go to the National Matches at Camp Perry, Ohio. Twice. Kelly made me look like Mr. Magoo.
Kelly was no more than an average soldier. He came from a culture where straight talk and a man's word are common currency. Where fools were not tolerated. When, as so often happens in large, expanding organizations (The U.S. Army increased in strength from 250,000 in 1938 to more than 10,000,000 by 1944.) it is not unusual for untrained or inept individuals to be placed in positions of authority. When Kelly would receive a particularly inane or stupid order, he would stop dead in his tracks, look directly at the non-com who uttered the instructions, and say, "Sarge, y'all cain't be serious, y'all joshin me, ain't ya?” Then he would sadly shake his head and mournfully go about doing as he was bidden. Not too many men can stand the glare of ridicule, implied or overt. Jim Kelly, intentionally or not, managed to avoid many stupid chores because of his attitude.
Except for his uncanny ability with a sniper rifle, Jim Kelly was not an outstanding soldier. He never went AWOL, was never drunk, disorderly or engaged in fights. He contracted no social disease or otherwise brought any discredit or dishonor to his unit. Even when it was possible, Kelly never applied for or went on pass. One of the Sergeants asked him, "How come?”
Kelly said, "Me and Betty Sue's engaged. Ahm savin' all ma money so we-all kin buy a piece of bottom-land, git married, start a farm and have some chillen what'll have more than Betty Sue and me growin' up had. When th' war is over, Polk's Nob'll be a diffrunt place."
One day, high in the hills of Northern Luzon, my Company was informed that General Krueger, Commanding General of the Sixth Army, was going to pay us a visit. There was little we could do to primp or prepare for his visit. My troops were in the mountains, all one-hundred and fifty men, spread out in key locations that stretched for more than a mile along the mountain crests. And we were a sorry looking lot to be seen by any visitor, especially a good officer like General Krueger. We had been in the field for more than two months, nearly all of it on the front line in contact with the enemy. We had not had a hot meal or a bath in all that time. Early in the afternoon, General Krueger arrived with three or four staff members and my battalion commander. After reporting to the General, Kreuger said to me, "Captain, I want to talk to a rifleman. I can talk to Officers anytime; I want to talk to someone who is actually fighting this war, to find out how the troops are handling things."
I should have known better. If the General had said "soldier" or "Infantryman" it would not have occurred to me. But the word "Rifleman" triggered but one name. I said, "General, all of our riflemen are up on the hills and I can't afford to pull any of them off the line in daylight for an interview.” Krueger replied, "Well, Captain, if the rifleman can't come to the General, I guess the General will have to come to the rifleman. Lead on!" The staff officers, in their starched and neatly pressed uniforms, looked uncomfortable, downright uneasy. My Battalion Commander looked at me venomously. None of these fine gentlemen had spent much time within earshot of the sound of guns. As we climbed the relatively steep slope of the mountainside, I noticed that the General and I were the only ones not sweating. I, because I was dehydrated, the General because he was probably in great shape. I didn't know if the sweat appearing on the other's uniforms was from uncommon exertion or from fright, and didn't give a damn.
As we neared the top of the hill, I said to the General, "Sir, from here on it's bellies and elbows". He motioned to the others to stay where they were (he got no argument from them), and we crawled the remaining few yards to the foxhole of PFC James Kelly. As usual, Kelly was massaging his beloved "Star Gauge" Springfield and looked only mildly inquisitive when I said to the General, "Sir, this is PFC Kelly."
General Krueger squinted into the hot sun at this disheveled soldier with his scraggly beard, his filthy uniform and his spotless rifle. He said, "Soldier, what's your job?"
Kelly replied, "Sir, ahm a rahflman, a sniper. When them Japs pops up theyer haids, ah Kill 'em. Then, looking the General straight in the eye, he said, "Genrul - What's yours?"
We could hear gasps from the group down the hill, but the General, with a small smile, said, "Kelly I command the Sixth Army."
Kelly looked the General over and said, "Genrul, I s'pect that'a a pritty import'nt job. Do y'all think y'could hep us get some hot food 'n some clean clothes? We's so dirty now, 'n so short of water, ah just scrapes the dirt off." More startled gasps from the hillside. Krueger turned to me and said, Captain, when was the last time your company has had a change of clothes and a hot meal?"
"Six weeks, Sir. I have ignored the order to shave every day. Water is so short up here, if we shaved every day, the men would all be dehydrated and wouldn't be worth much as soldiers. Besides complaining, I haven't been able to do much about clean clothes and good food."
Krueger turned back to Kelly. He said, "Thank you Private Kelly, you seem to be one of the few men in this Theater of Operations who has his priorities straight." To me, he said, "Let's get out of here Captain, before we draw more fire while we are ‘inspiring the troops’." As he left, I thought, "There is one senior officer who has his priorities straight.”
We scrambled down to the Company Command Post, a hole in the side of a hill, and General Krueger said, "Thank you Captain, for a very informative visit", and he strode off with his entourage. At 1700, the Battalion Commander personally delivered our first hot meal in six weeks. At 2000, dusk, we were relieved by a full Battalion, about 1500 men, and went back to the beach for a bath, clean clothes and a few days of relaxation. Our esteemed Battalion Commander tried to take credit for the sudden improvement in the quality of our lives, but every GI in the Company knew that PFC, James Kelly was the true hero.
The war dragged on. The same routine was repeated over and over -- long periods of mind-numbing boredom, brutally punctuated by short periods of horrifying terror. And Jim Kelly continued to be the finest rifleman in the Army. One night, during a particularly vicious Banzai attack, Kelly was bayoneted in the leg before he could dispose of this "Celestial Son of Heaven" and send him to his ancestors. Kelly told no one about his wound. He dusted some sulfa powder on it and wrapped the wound with the compress packet from his First Aid pouch. It was several days until his Platoon Sergeant noticed the rip in his trouser leg and the surrounding dried blood. When he questioned him about it, Kelly said "I didn't want to tell ennybody 'cause the sumbitch never should've got that close!" He was actually worried that his reputation as a rifleman might be impugned!
Eventually the war ended. We immediately sailed for Japan as part of the Occupation. Nothing had changed for Kelly. Every month, he sent most of his pay to a joint account back in Kentucky that he and Betty Sue had maintained since he was drafted. With the exuberance of young men finally relieved of the strain of combat, our troops were cavorting around town, having the time of their lives. "Wine, Women and Song" were the watchwords of the day, with particular emphasis on "Wine and Women." But not PFC James Kelly. He would not consort with the "enemy" or spend his money in any idle pursuits that would take away from his nest-egg.
We had been in Japan about one month when a distraught looking Kelly entered the Orderly Room. In a mournful voice, he said. "Top, I need a pass." We could have dated time with that request. Since Kelly joined the Company, we had had three different First Sergeants, and none of them had ever had a request from Jim Kelly for a pass, not even for a few hours. So the First Sergeant said, "What's up, Jim? Do you finally want to celebrate the end of the war? Kelly dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of lined note paper. With a resigned shrug of his shoulders, he handed the paper to the First Sergeant. The salutation alone was warning enough, "Dere Mister Kelley. I am writing this here note to tell you all thet our ingagemint is off. I bin luckee enuf to find a fine defense worker who wants to marry me, now. I rilly don't want to wait no longer and the money you give me during the war will help us a lot to get a start with married life. Thank you and good by, your ex-friend, Betty Sue."
The First Sergeant said, "I suppose you're going to go out and get drunk?"
Kelly repleid, "Your f---ing A, Sarge. Ahm about to get as drunk as a f---iing skonk!" Kelly got his pass and we thought no more about it. He was neither the first nor the last soldier to get a "Dear John" letter. Around midnight, we heard a commotion at the front gate. That of itself was not unusual with soldiers returning after a night on the town. It was usually the youngsters we had received as replacements before we came to Japan. They had never been in combat.
We paid little attention because the guards on the gate were all from the Company and, as there were no high crimes involved, we would not have to be writing reports to any higher authority.
As the First Sergeant said, "Who won the goddam war anyway? A short time later we heard a rumbling noise as if some one was rolling something down the cobble-stoned street. There was a short pause, sounds of someone grunting and groaning and suddenly, the door to the Company Orderly Room flew open. There stood James Kelly, "dronk as a skonk', and laying at his feet was a keg of beer.
The First Sergeant tried to ease him out of the Orderly Room and back to his bunk. Kelly would have none of that nonsense. He slurred that he wanted his 'friends, the Company Commander and the First Sergeant, to have a beer with him. The First Sergeant told him that was not a very good idea. Kelly insisted. The First Sergeant said it wouldn't work. The beer was all roiled up from being rolled a couple of hundred feet down a cobblestone street, it wasn't cold and besides, we didn't have a bung starter. Before anyone could react, Kelly lurched across the room and lifted the fire-axe from its rack. He drove the point of the fire-axe into the bung. His aim was as good with a fire-axe as it was with a rifle. He hit the bung dead center. Beer spewed everywhere, all over Kelly, the First Sergeant, the Orderly Room and, try as I might, all over me. Kelly just stood there with a drunken, sloppy grin on his face and said, "Enny-buddy got a canteen cup?
We had been through a lot together, Kelly and the members of the Company who had been together since Camp Forrest days. The war was over. We were all going home. This was no time to stand on protocol. Somebody produced the canteen cups and, with a few more of the old-timers who popped in when they heard the commotion, we all had a beer with: Private First Class James Kelly, Rifleman.
*"Star Gauge" refers to the policy of checking the gauge of every thousandth rifle as it left the assembly line. After corrections were made to insure the accuracy of the rifling, the next rifle milled was marked with a 'Star", and much prized by marksmen.
George M. Lindsay
Formerly, Commanding Officer
Co. "L" 136th Infantry
PFC James Kelly's unit in WW II
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