The Women of WWII: A Revolution within a War

The day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 8, 1941, men of all ages, races, and backgrounds came together and left to help fight the war. In the meantime, the girlfriends, wives, daughters were left to fend for themselves. For a while, women thought they could not help their men from across the ocean. However, once propaganda kicked in, they were soon of to work in factories, dock, and assembly lines. By realizing their potential, women were able to provide the base for wining the war and creating a new name for women everywhere.

Women workers were in a desperate need during the war simply because all the laborers at the time were men. And these men were overseas. Because most women during the time were housewives- stayed at the home, cooked, cleaned, cared for the children, etc...- factory owners needed a way to sway their minds into getting jobs. The most effective way of doing so was using propaganda. The United States Government provided the country with most of the propaganda because they knew that their war efforts would fail unless the women took up war jobs. Probably the most well-known person who acted as a means to get women to work was named “Rosie the Riveter”. She became the icon that gave all women a sense of independence and strength. Approximately six million women everywhere scrambled to find jobs working as craftswomen, factory workers, farmers, and even airplane or barge builders. These women were true heroines during the time of World War II. These women would work long hours in sometimes unbearable conditions. Their motives however, were mostly patriotic.

This time period did not only stand for patriotism and unity, but for gender and racial equality as well. For the very first time, women were able to help the fighting troops directly. Although these women were not able to actually fight, they were able to partake in training to become air force pilots, free men from combat, heal those who were injured, or become part of the marines. These special jobs gave women satisfaction because they learned how to be independent and self-relying. Another important aspect of this war was that women of all races, backgrounds, and ethnicities were able to reach high rankings and reach true equality.

While most women became patriotic and unified through working for the war, a small group of women chose a different path. Philip Wrigley owned much of the male baseball league, a saw a problem with his income due to the war. Since most of the male baseball players were away fighting the war, he faced a serious problem. Philip had to figure out a way to keep his sport alive throughout the duration of the war, while still keeping the excitement of the game. His answer became what is known as the “All-American Girls Baseball League” (AAGBL). Those who played in this all girls baseball league were tempted to join because of the income they would receive. Many earned thirty to fifty dollars a week more than those who worked in factories. Despite the increase, the women who played in this league had to meet the standards that were set to differentiate women's baseball and men's baseball. The women were required to wear a shirt and skirt one piece, high stockings, and even partake in “how to be a true lady” classes. These baseball playing ladies would go from game to game, playing their hearts out, while showing their love for the sport and the ideas of patriotism and unity.

There is no question whether or not women had a role in World War II because they most certainly did. They were the backbone of the entire war effort. They produced weapons and armor that was needed on the battlefront, instilled independence among women, pride, unity of the nation, and reached equality among all races. The question that many faced was based on the homecoming of the countries' soldiers. What was to become of the country, that the women helped create and maintain once the men were back. Women took the jobs of many men in their leave of absence. Were the workers that labored for long hours six days a week give up their jobs to men and become housewives again? Were the female baseball players simply there to entertain the men who didn't fight and serve as a time killer until the male baseball players returned? Were all women, of any race or ethnicity, supposed to simply give up everything they have worked up to because they men were returning?

Beaches and Screams

Gary Hosfield
5/5/08
Period 8
Art & War
Beaches and Screams
The sounds drove me crazy. I wanted to sit down and hold my ears. Maybe it would all go away. The sights were worse. So bad, in fact, that you can convince yourself they’re not even there at all. Those hit you later. It’s amazing how much damage even a few minutes of combat can do to you, even if you manage to survive. Surrounded by all of the chaos, all you can think about is, “Why?”
I remember storming the beaches. How many were there? It doesn’t even matter. The story, my story, is the same at each one. You hear about it and it seems like a pretty good idea. I remember an operation called D-Day from 1944. It was on some beach, but they all end up looking the same. The plan was simple. We just needed to get off the boats, take out some machine gun nests, and just like that the beach would be ours. I don’t remember why we needed that beach, but I was going to try damn hard to get it.
As we were approaching the beach, the boat right in front of me got blown to hell. It was so loud I thought I was dead too. And there were these screams. It could have been the shell right before it hit, it could have been the dead men’s last cry, or it could have been me. All I know is nobody should ever have to hear that noise. It sounds like death. We made it to the beach okay, and we all started running off the boat. I have no idea where everyone thought they were going. All of our training was done, well, in training. None of that makes any difference when real bullets are whizzing by you and your buddies are falling dead into the sand all around you. All you can do is run to somewhere you think you might be less likely to die, and not let anything stop you. Everywhere you looked there was something bad; sometimes it was the fire coming from the hill or else it was the sand stained red by the men there only five seconds before you were. Every man out there looked the same; just trying to stay alive. Most were unsuccessful. I remember I was running next to my friend, or maybe I didn’t even know him at all, or I guess it could gave been me, but that’s not important. What was important was that he was running, just like the rest of us. Then just like that there was no life left in him. He was just a little more blood for the sand to soak up. This kid could have been any of us. He grew up, celebrated birthdays with his family, took his first steps, learned to ride a bike, kissed a girl for the first time. Almost two decades of life gone. That’s it.
I remember that feeling. My whole life didn’t flash before my eyes, but I sure knew that it was all there. What a waste. All I could think about as I ran up the beach was after all of the decisions I made in all of my years, how the hell did I end up here? Then it went black. And there was that noise again. I know it was me that time. I wanted to apologize to all of my buddies running all around me; no human should ever have to hear that noise. A real scream is like nothing you’ve ever heard before. Makes you go cold.
There was another beach somewhere on a Japanese island called Iwo Jima - halfway around the world but the exact same story. Kids ran up, got gunned down, and that was that. Nobody knew why. It was chaos. I died over and over again on both of them and all over the place. Sometimes I was driving a car, sometimes I was walking and didn’t even know I was under attack. There were a few times I was trying to help out a friend and just like that I was gunned down. Bullets don’t have any idea who they’re hitting; they kill everyone just the same. After all of those battles I remember walking around and seeing myself all over the place. I was being washed back and fourth by the waves, it was my blood staining the sand and coloring the water, I was the one moaning on the stretcher with half an arm gone. I remember seeing myself lying next to some road trying to hold onto my last few minutes on earth. All of those memories of a time when I never would have believed man could do something like this and all of those why questions, those were all mine. I watched myself die over and over again, and knew it would be me soon because, in all seriousness, war is hell. War is chaos, and war is that goddamn noise. It’s that scream that I may or may not have let out as I watched my friend die, or as I watched the shell falling right next to me, or as I struggled to cling on to life as I bled out there. After all of this, you may be wondering why we all do it or what its all for. Keep asking, nobody’s going to be able to tell you.
Who am I to be lecturing about the beaches and the screams? I am the American soldier from World War II. I fought and died on those beaches. I let out and heard those screams. I carried myself back to the camp as I screamed in pain. And when it was all over I looked over the battlefield at thousands and thousands of lost lives. I’ll never understand why.

Living Hell

Out here, nothing is ordinary. With every new day it feels like I’m going insane
just bein out here. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m not in a living hell. Just a few days ago we lost fifteen men in a bunch of those god damn VC booby traps. This supposed VC, they’re ruthless settin traps for us like we’re a bunch of animals. After we walked through that jungle, instead of fruit hanging from those trees is was fifteen ripe, young boys dismembered beyond recognition. We see killing every day but that really got to us. It’s demoralizing cleaning up the bodies of your only friends and companions that you’ve had for years. But, the worst part about this whole thing is we never even catch a glimpse of who we’re fighting. They’re always sneaking around us at night and you can hear ‘em moving but still, you never see them. It seems useless being here, like we were set up to loose seeing as we never seen our enemy and we’re always getting ambushed. Anyway, now we’re heading over to some small town called My Lai; never heard of it but hell, I’ve never heard of all the places we go out here. I’m out here with Charlie company in the first brigade led by this real idiot Lieutenant William Calley. Nice guy and all but if you ask me, he really ain’t got no business being out here. Calley led us into this town as if he was on a mission of his own; like he had something to prove to everyone. As we approached My Lai nothing seemed wrong, it was the usual Vietnamese town. Just a bunch of woman, men and children farming with absolutely no idea what was being thrust upon them. Just then, as soon as we he saw the first woman he started firing his machine gun like it was the last time he would ever get to do it. One, two, three, four, women just fell over, lifeless as he swept through the fields. As I looked around everyone in our platoon stood there motionless and shocked at what they had just witnessed. Soon shots could be heard everywhere, bullets whizzing by in every which direction but none of them were coming form the enemy. Lt. Calley was just screamin at everyone ordering us to kill everyone in sight whether they were innocent or not. This was hell. Meaningless killings of innocent people. I would see women running out of their huts screaming holding there babies in sheer terror only to be murdered by a soldier ordered to shoot them. One of the clearest memories I have is looking over at my best friend Brown as he prepared to partake in these killings. Calley had lined up fifty or so Vietnamese civilians all on a line next a hole and ordered Brown to “take care of them”. But when Calley returned and all them people were still standing there crying and screaming and Brown was just motionless standin there too. Calley was furious, he came back screamin asking why he hadn’t taken care of them already. So right then, Calley just started shootin all of them holding his trigger as hard as he could. Then he ordered Brown to start shooting and all of us looking on saw brown crying, balling as he held his trigger down completely motionless and killed the rest of those woman and children. That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Calley was a crazy son of a bitch but I never thought he’d have us murdering children along with him. When that day of ruthless killing and murdering was over with My Lai was unrecognizable. Anything that had previously been living was gruesomely murdered and dead. Dead children and animals lay next to eachother blown to pieces. The entire village was set a fire as Calley walked around taking his last look of the destruction he had just ordered. This was not war. This was insanity. It was cold blooded murder of people that wanted nothing to do with any of the madness taking place in their country.

Sleepless in Iraq

I awake with a sharp gasp and a cold sweat dripping down my back. Once my eyes come into focus, I slowly begin to remember where I am. The same place I've been for the past four months. As I breathe in the sticky, humid air, I listen to the snores of my cabin mates, and I realize once again that it was just another nightmare.

It's the same one I've had over and over for the past several weeks; I'm running to catch up to Lt. Samson and the rest of the platoon as we sprint through the war-torn streets of Ramadi, Iraq. No matter how fast I run, the entire platoon seems to drift farther and farther away, until eventually they completely disappear, and all I can hear is the distant echo of Lt. Samson barking out his orders. I come to a complete stop, my heart pounding, and notice that I am completely and utterly alone. I see abandoned and crumbling buildings, and the only movement is the flutter and flap of a dirty American flag, ripped at the seems and hanging from the door of an Iraqi grocery store. Suddenly, two figures appear from down the dusty road- the silhouette of a woman holding the hand of a small child as they slowly walk towards me. I run towards these figures, eager to see human company amidst the quietness of the streets. The woman wears the traditional garb of a black cloak and veil, while the young child is wrapped in brown cloth from head to toe. As I come closer, I can barely believe my eyes; the figures are my wife Linda and my daughter Isabelle! Linda's hazel eyes sparkle with tears, and her veil unwinds as she breaks into a run with Isabelle stumbling behind, laughing. I laugh while tears of joy run down my face, and I am almost there...I can almost touch them, embrace them, kiss them....and then it happens. Linda and Isabelle are within feet of me, when in almost slow motion Linda takes the forward step that ends this nightmare every single time. I look down in horror at the landmine that has appeared out of thin air between us, and before her final step, I quickly glance up and see that the woman is just another Iraqi woman with her young daughter, not Linda and Isabelle. The Iraqi woman gives me a cold look with her hauntingly dark eyes, and then - BOOM. It's over. The same nightmare over and over, and despite my best effort, I never do reach the woman and child in time to save them from the explosion.

I lie in my bunk, struggling to fall back asleep. I check my digital watch - 4:53 a.m. local time- and give a groan. Lt. Samson will be waking us up at six, like he does every morning, and then it will be another day under the scorching and merciless Iraq sun. After several minutes of flopping around in my bed, I make up my mind to take a walk around camp to settle my mind. I quietly slip on my boots and leave the cabin, leaving Green, Ward, and Campbell to mumble in their sleep. I know that I should be trying to get all the sleep I can, (sometimes our platoon has to go for days with only a couple hours of sleep), but this is the only time I have to relax, be alone, and just think about everything. I plop beside the wheel of one of the nearby Jeeps, and lay my back against the hot rubber, staring out at the deep purple night sky and millions of flickering stars. I think about my nightmare again, and my mind drifts through sweet and pleasant memories of my old life back in Fort Worth, Texas.

They tell us not to think too much about home, family, or friends. They told us that the guys who think too much about that stuff sometimes drive themselves crazy, and in rare cases, they're sent back home. At first, going to Iraq was just like going to summer camp-It just seemed like an adventure and a chance to see an exotic place. I wasn't too worried about anything-I graduated at the top of my class at the academy back in Fort Worth. "How hard could it be?" I thought to myself smugly while packing for Iraq. "It's not like I'm going to Vietnam or something...I'll only be there for a couple of months...What's the worst that could happen?". I remember the day I left so clearly. The other graduates and I strutted across the air force base, preparing to board the plane that would send us to this godforsaken hellhole. Our family and friends stood aside the plane, cheering and waving as we walked up the plane's steps. After a brief kiss with Linda, I twirled Isabelle in the air while she grinned. I turned to board the plane, when I heard Linda holler, "Don't you be forgetting us, Chuck!". I turned around, gave them a toothy grin, and yelled back "I don't think that will be a problem!". Only know do I realize how true those words would come to be.

I see them everywhere, daily. It's not like I'm trying to remind myself of them, it's just that their faces will jump out of nowhere sometimes, with no warning at all. You would think I would be used to it by now, but I feel like everyday is another struggle just to stay focused and sane. I'll hear Linda crying from a neighborhood home, only when I enter and frantically try to find her, it's only an old Iraqi woman, screaming in Arabic while she holds the limp body of her grandchild in her arms, most likely killed from a nearby gunfight. I'll see a glimpse of Isabelle's eyes when I look at the faces of the Iraqi children, who come and stare in awe at the sight of Americans and their strange, foreign food and goods. While driving the jeep, I'll see Linda's face for only an instant, laughing at me as she stares from a shop window. It's only for an instant, a small lapse in time that I can never catch and hold onto.

Iraq has changed me. War has changed me. I'm not the same man I was. How much easier it would be to be back in America, and completely oblivious to this almost alien world. I call Linda whenever I get the chance, and I want her to know everything so badly. "If only she knew" I mutter to myself, "If only the rest of the world knew!". I've seen the news coverage, I know how they portray the war. They're very careful in the images they decide to use, the language they use, everything. I really don't think anyone could possibly know what it's like down here without experiencing it themselves. If you think you've seen blood and violence, you just wait until you get down to Iraq. I see things here everyday that I would never even think of in my darkest nightmares. So many innocent people have died, and will continue to die. The worst is when you see the children and mothers in pain, that's the thing that really hits me hard. Children will wander into our base camp, covered in their dead mother or father's blood, begging for help. You have to get used to this type of stuff happening everyday, and you can't let it affect you too much, just like they told us. "

The very first rays of sunlight begin to trickle across the desert sands. It never ceases to amaze me that I can't share the same sun and moon with Linda and Isabelle, another painful reminder of the vast differences between here and home. I hear some of the others beginning to wake up, and I get up and stretch with a groan just when Lt. Samson yells, "Get up privates!". I stare at the bright sun, and think of Linda and Isabelle on the other side of the world, fast asleep, safe, and unknowing. "Only five months left..." I whisper into the wind.

Without us there would be no war story

Most people who watch wars from the sidelines admire the soldiers that fight for them, though few would ever consider joining the cause them self. We are the forgotten warriors. We make the images of foreign conflicts massively available to the public. We are never congratulated for our efforts, though we are the ones who rally the citizens to support the cause that so many are fighting, and dying for. We are war photographers. We endure the same harsh conditions that the rest of the nation's soldiers do, though at the same time, we must take life-changing pictures that can make a difference in the overall war effort. Their primary concern is to kill the enemy. Ours is also to shoot people, but in a vastly different way. We cannot worry about our own safety, for being overly safe does not yield pictures that can change public consciousness. We are as much a part of our camera as the rest of the men are a part of their guns. We are useless without it, and it is the only reason that we are here, encountering so much unending death and suffering. Some of our time in Vietnam is spent
relaxing in peace, though far more of the time is spent being scared and tired. The wilderness that we have become used to trudging through has become a new home for us. Thoughts of our old lives are almost forgotten, and the idea of comfort seems so far off that it no longer exists. But we push on. We know that we must continue in our search for

powerful images, as a way
to attempt to end the war on both fronts; the home front, as well as the battle front.
Most of the photographers that you encounter are not as dismal and dreary as many of the soldiers that you may see on the battlefield. They are encountering many of the same horrors, though it seems as though the photographers can often remain far more optimistic than the rest. This is because we are aware of our effect on the war. While one solider may be searching for a reason to stay in this war, we can change the direction of an entire war with a single image.
Just as it is important to tell any story with powerful images, even my own must contain its share of photographic representation of who we are. But like most of our photography, what happens here is often full of misery. At times, even people who are in positions such as ours are vulnerable to the enemy. It seems odd that people in the media would be targeted by our Vietcong enemies, though tactics such as that are often common in Guerrilla warfare. This whole war seems both pointless and endless, but for the sake of those who died in the pursuit of freedom, we must press on. In the end, web attempt to remain as hopeful as possible, that this war may end soon, and hopefully that we had a part in doing so. One may think it to be rather easy to photograph war, but in reality, it is far harder than killing a man. To kill in a war is simply an impulse, and it is what you are being told to do in order to survive. Taking a photograph on the other hand, is highly mechanical, and far from a primitive instinct. Every part of your mind is telling you to get out of there, to grove up, drop your camera, and leave. Instead, your heart makes you push on, in pursuit of the perfect photograph, to end the most flawed war. We have learned to rely on each other, because there is no one else watch our back. We keep each other informed on the wars events, as well as what we have encountered. We have a bond unlike any other in the war, due to the unique goal that all photographers in Vietnam are attempting to achieve. Our ultimate goal is to capture the perfect image, return it to America, and attempt to rally public support. We are some of the most important people in this war, because without us, there would be no war story.

-Adrian Cortez
(Just one of many war photographers)

Vietnam Story

With only three months of duty served in Vietnam I had already begun to have my doubts. Doubts that questioned my ability to get out of that place alive. Doubts that questioned why I was even in Vietnam to begin with. Doubts that my life when I got back home would be anything close to the same as when I had left. At first I was constantly asking myself these questions, but I soon became accustomed with Vietnam life.

My platoon called it humping. Waking up in the morning, eating, taking deep breathes, and then walking miles over the rugged terrain. I got used to it after about three weeks, there wasn't much to it really. We would usually take paths because the elephant grass there resembled something out of hell. Paths were usually muddy, narrow, and for the most part seemingly never ending. Every once in a while there would be an enemey or two passing across our path and instinctively we would take aim with our M-16s and fire. The site of dead men became more normal than most people would think. It was just how things worked. You would wake up in the morning, if you had even slept the night before, you would hump, and you would fight and kill. I had become more apart of death than I
had ever wished but at the time I didn't see any other options.

During the final months of my stay in Vietnam coming home didn't seem as appealing as it did two years previously. When I took my first step onto Vietnam soil I was thinking of ways to get myself out of there. I had heard a guy back home got out of the draft because he faked some medical condition and got a doc to right him "unelgible" to fight. What shit I thought that was, it was unfair. I thought that I might be able to go home if I pulled off some really great asthma attack my first night there but I didn't have it in me. My first night there I was scared out of my shorts and decided not to do anything that I might regret. However, I didn't end up staying in Vietnam. When given the opportunity I did come home eager to see my newly wed wife, Martha.

Coming home was a bit more different than I had expected. I remember one night out in the brush looked up at the stars and imagined them as banners and posters of my name when I got home and the smiles that would take over my familie's and friend's faces but as I most unexpectedly discovered that wasn't the case when I got home. The only person waiting for me at the bus station was Martha. My sweet Matha. When I got off the bus we were brought to eachother like magnets and we hugged quietly for a while. As we reluctantly released each other from our grips we looked at eachother and at that moment I knew it was worth coming home.


As later years would tell though, Martha and I slowly became more distant. I didn't find work for a while when I got back because to tell you the truth there wasn't any job in the world that was like fighting in Vietnam. I felt like my purpose was there, fighting the Viet Cong army, not here. My love for Martha also began to fade as time unraveled. I wasn't too sure what it was that made me but all I knew is that it became harder to live with her than to not. Eventually we got a divorce. She didn't want to and told me she didn't understand why I wanted this.

We still talked by sending each letters and we weren't geographically separated by that much. I had moved just a couple miles out of where we used to live together. But let me tell you that I sure as hell felt alone. I ended up never being employed and I was living off money that the government had given to every Veteran. It wasn't much but I didn't need much. I missed the guys that I fought with. There were who I missed the most, the guys that I had once trusted my life with. I tried writing some of the guys but after a couple weeks I didn't get any responses. After that I coundn't stop thinking about how I felt like I had left a part of me over in Vietnam that day when I came home.

Vietnamese Cevilians

A true war story is never about war. This is my story.

The war has been hard, not just for the soldiers, but for people like us. Today our lives changed. At noon several U.S troops came into our village and we knew their grisly intent. We had heard and anticipated this for a long time, but somehow the event itself seemed distant, impossible, too dreadful to be true. U.S. soldiers were ordered to burn down all that was associated with the enemy—including us. I’v heard the Americans call it “Operation Pershing,” but I just called it mindless demolition. The soldiers carried backpacks full of guns and I observed a few holding lighters. One shouted at us to get out of our huts, and I subconsciously picked up my son, Bao. I assume they were searching for Viet Kong soldiers—I don’t even understand it. My eldest son, Duong, was already outside, glairing at the soldier.

I told him to stay close but the boy is too stubborn, and almost too independent. The soldier grabbed Duong and tossed him aside as if he were a toy. "I'm counting to three, and if you are not out of your little huts, you will burn along with them," yelled the soldier. He walked along to each hut, pointing his gun at the people inside and gesturing for them to leave. I clutched Bao to my chest and rushed to Duong, who was lying on the grass. I looked into his eyes and saw no fear, just anger. We looked around to see the rest of the townspeople walking towards us, confusion and terror in their eyes. The soldier made sure everyone was out, and simply flicked his lighter open and lit the roof of a house. He walked around and did the same for each, without any emotion, as if he didn’t care that he was leaving a defenseless village without shelter.
The soldier walked back past us and all I could think of was the possibility of the soldier lining us up and shooting us one by one. I thought as long as I had my family, there was still hope, still a purpose for living. I clutched Bao tight to my chest and grabbed Duong’s hand as the soldier walked by. Behind him was our village—engulfed in flames.

As the soldiers walked away, I could sense some humanity within them. Their eyes were plagued with sorrow and regret. Though we were the victims, I almost felt sorry for them. After all, they were just doing what they were told, weren’t they?

When the soldiers had left we sprung into action. Much of our village was already destroyed, but we felt we had to do what we could to save the remains of our homes. Duong was braver than anyone in the village. He seemed to have no self-doubt. Without hesitation he grabbed a bucket lying outside a hut and went to get water.

He told us to start throwing sand on the roofs to combat the flames, something that some people were already doing. Everyone was pitching in, the women the children, everybody. Duong soon returned and climbed to our roof with the bucket of water. He crawled along the roof, pouring water wherever he saw smoke beneath the straw.

After what seemed like hours, the last of the flames had died, and we could do nothing but stand back to look at what remained. He had managed to save much of would have been ruined. But then again, many families’ homes were completely destroyed. Because of the bravery and decisive actions by Duong, our hut had been salvaged.

We could hear the savage outcries of people in neighboring villages, but we tried not to imagine the devastations inflicted being inflicted upon them. We thought we had lived through the worst of the hell, but that was before the napalm bombs were dropped. We could hear the awful thunder of the planes overhead and the ominous crashing of the bombs in the distance. We knew the intent of the bombs—to strip the leaves from the trees in the jungle, and luckily we were some distance. We could do nothing but huddle in our hut and imagine the horrors taking place around us.