The Alcan Saga, 1942-1943

There was no welcoming committee or band to herald our arrival, only mud, rain, and gray skies. We assembled in an area on the north edge of town, where each company received rations, and were assigned vehicles and other miscellaneous equipment. By May 6 we established base camp next to Charlie Lake, Mile 0, just north of Fort St. John.

Because of rains that lasted through May and most of June, true to the predictions of the British Columbians, the 341st was bogged down only a few miles north of base camp. During this time, pontoon boats used to move men and supplies up Charlie Lake never reached their destination, and a volunteer search party was called for. Although I was a strong believer in not volunteering for anything, in this case it did not seem to apply. That evening I was among ten volunteers who found cigarettes and partially filled drums of oil that had drifted to shore. Soon after starting a signal fire, Colonel Lane, our regimental commander, and a trapper from across the lake arrived by motorized pontoon boat. It was then, while Colonel Lane stood silent, that the trapper told how he watched helplessly as the overloaded pontoon boats capsized in the gusty wind, and twelve young men from the 341st Engineers drowned in the icy cold water of Charlie Lake. On the way back to camp by boat, the eerie northern lights reflected on the black water as we passed over where the tragedy occurred.

The next day charges were dropped into the lake to bring the bodies to the surface. I will always remember my buddies and the sound of their stiff, statue-like bodies thumping into the recovery boats. I was lucky on that unforgettable day that I wasn't one of them.

Building the first twenty-five miles of the highway was a process of trial and error. Rain, mud, and swarms of hungry mosquitoes made it the most memorable, frustrating, difficult part of the three hundred miles assigned to us.

By this time I had long since dismissed the idea of shaving, bathing, or changing into clean, dry clothes. In order to travel light our company commander ordered us to leave our extra clothing and shoes at base camp (Charlie Lake), saying they'd catch up with us in about a week. They never did. It's difficult now to believe that I didn't change the clothes I was wearing until nearly four months later. I remember itching a bit, but what bothered me most was when the soles of my shoes disintegrated from getting them too close to the fire too often, in attempts to get them dry.

The highlight of this particular period was when my buddy Joe Schneider and I heard the roaring and rumbling of something (big for sure) coming from the south. It turned out to be our first Caterpillar D-8 bulldozer clearing everything in its path, and behind were four more. I remember Joe remarking, "The goddamn road will go through now!" And us, a couple of GIs from Company D, cheering and being splattered with mud as each one rumbled by. That was the turning point. Instead of each company using its own equipment and doing its own thing, a special "Cat camp" was formed to blaze trail and set the pace for the line companies who were ditching and building culverts. By the Fourth of July we were camped at Mile 48, north of Charlie Lake. There was still a long way to go, but at least we were now making progress.

That Fourth of July was memorable. Before leaving base camp we all chipped in for a two-quart ration of beer. The intended delivery date was to be the Fourth of July. On the morning of the Fourth the sky was clearing after a couple of days of heavy rain. The road behind us was a sea of mud, and the prospect of supplies of any kind reaching us within the next few days seemed very remote. We were lined up and about to move out when in the distance we heard a Cat headed our way. Soon a flying wall of mud came into view and behind it was a D-8, driven by a farm boy from Kansas and pulling a trailer with our long-talked-about-beer. Needless to say, when he rumbled into our washed-out-camp and cut the throttle there was much yelling and jubilation. Only the whites of his eyes were showing under a heavy coating of mud. He said at times the mud nearly covered the cat tracks. He had indeed delivered our beer against incredible odds.

After we shoveled the mud from the wooden barrels containing our quart bottles of beer, we formed that memorable beer line on the Fourth of July, 1942. Soon there was harmonica music, singing, and time for thoughts of home. When I got around to shaking hands with the hero of the day and told him we didn't think he'd make it, his only reply was, "I had to. It's the Fourth of July."

There was more to come that day to boost our morale. As we were drinking our beer, a couple of bombers that were headed north flew just above the treetops and dipped their wings to say "Hello." Late in the afternoon when we set up camp at the fifty-mile marker it seemed to us to be a symbol with special meaning. If we could go fifty miles, we could go a hundred, and if we could go a hundred, we could go all the way! That night, a long way from Hometown, U.S.A., we were proud, but very lonesome.

Because of the long northern daylight hours, time during the next two weeks seemed to lose all meaning for us. Rest was wherever and whenever we could get a couple of hours along the side of the road. Food was mostly C rations, Broadcast Brand Chili, orange marmalade, biscuits, and coffee.

When we reached the Buckinghorse River, Company D was assigned to build a 150-foot bridge over the river's cold, swift-running water. The bridge was completed in the record time of two weeks, but at the cost of one young man's life. He died of pneumonia. I'm sure he would have lived if he had received adequate medical care.

While we were building the bridge, rations arrived and were left by the side of the road near the field kitchen. Late the next night it was a little rainy and quite dark. Joe and I heard what appeared to be a civilian contractor truck growl up the road and stop near our rations. Next, as Joe and I lay holed up in the bush, we witnessed a person, well known to us all, trade several cases of our rations for liquor. When the truck pulled away, he stood quietly for quite a long time, then slowly returned to his quarters.

The night before we moved from the Buckinghorse River, Joe and I sat huddled around a small fire on a hill overlooking the bridge. We talked of home, which seemed like such a long time ago and so very far away. For two months now we had been sleeping in the mud, rain, and brush and had not changed our clothes. We joked about Joe's shoes. They were worse than mine. He was able to stick his toes out the bottoms. As the fire died down we sat alone with our thoughts, watching a truck and some equipment going over the bridge built by Company D of the 341st Engineers.

In the morning we were loaded onto trucks and moved out to rejoin the regiment several miles north. As we were about to leave, the driver advised that truck wasn't safe as he had to pump the brakes to make them hold. Our commander's only reply was, "Use gears."

Much of the way had sharp curves and in some places sheer drop offs where I couldn't see bottom. On the way I moved back to the tailgate. I figured I would have a better chance if I had to jump. Fortunately, there was no need.

We stayed at our new camp site for about a week, repairing culverts and building new ones. The night before we moved, our commander got drunk in the privacy of his quarters. He knocked down the tent center pole and the tent collapsed on him. Luckily, his lieutenant arrived on the scene. Many of us, myself included, had clubs and were intent on beating anything that moved under the canvas. His lieutenant played the officer role quite well. He stayed aloof, quartered by himself, and performed according to orders without question.

About a week later and several miles further north, torrential rains mired us in the mud. Nothing was moving north or south. During this time we ran out of food. Even the C rations were gone, and we were ordered to remain in our tents to conserve our energy until food arrived. As Joe and I holed up for the next two days, we shared our last few Hershey bars and talked of the things we'd eat when we got back home.

In the afternoon of the third day, rations arrived on a wagon pulled by a D-8. Then an incredible thing happened. Our commander ordered rifles and ammunition issued to the noncoms to guard the food from his own men. I was ordered up on the wagon to hand the cases to a line formed to pass them along. Joe was at the end of the line, inside the kitchen tent. When I came to a wet carton of pineapple I managed to kick it open without being noticed. The cans were then passed along, one at a time. I knew if there was a way, Joe would get one for us. Actually, he managed to get three. However, the following night at the bottom of a steep hill in back of the kitchen tent, we were only able to find two.

A couple of days later I was assigned to temporary duty with the maintenance crew of the Cat camp at the head of the road. Why me, I never knew, except it had to be someone. As Joe would say, "I broke lucky." The sergeant in charge of the crew managed to get me a pair of shoes. They were pretty beat up and much too large, but at least they had soles. I remember lacing them up tight so my feet wouldn't slide around so much. I went on duty about 8:00 P.M. and worked until 5:00 A.M. During these hours we fueled the bulldozers, checked and changed the oil if necessary, cleaned the tracks, and took care of other general maintenance. Changing the oil was the worst part. When the bottom plug was unscrewed from the last thread of the crankcase, the hot oil came gushing out. There wasn't any way to keep from getting splattered.

In the morning when the first shift of Cat skinners arrived we were hauled back to the Cat camp field kitchen, which was already being loaded to move up. Breakfast was cold pancakes (the first ones cooked), coffee dregs, and orange marmalade. After the usual morning fare, I'd sack out until about two in the afternoon. Then I'd have a can of C rations and hitch a ride up to the new Cat camp kitchen for supper. It usually was Vienna sausages, biscuits, and diced beets or carrots. After catching up on the latest rumors, I'd go on duty. On the morning of August 24, word spread that the Muskwa River was only a few miles ahead and there was a possibility that we might reach it that day. This particular morning I sacked out in the brush near the side of the road and was awakened about noon by the sounds of much activity and excitement. For as far as I could see, the road south was jammed with trucks and equipment. Colonel Lane was directing a Cat skinner to block the road with a large tree, stopping all traffic from going further. I was then ordered up on the kitchen truck. Colonel Lane was holding up the regiment so those who led the way in the Cat camp would be first to reach the river. That afternoon, as the kitchen truck bumped and rattled out onto the Alaska Highway, the colonel waved us by. We saluted, and, with a grin, he snapped to attention and returned the salute. Once on the road we stopped and waited while the road was cleared and the Cat that Colonel Lane was now riding pulled in front to lead the way to the river, our destination and the end of three hundred unforgettable miles. At this point there was more than on GI whose emotions were showing as the long-talked-about and rumored Muskwa River came into view.

When the kitchen truck reached the river and ground to a stop, I jumped off and made my way to a point about a half-mile back up the road to wait for Company D, and to wave to the dirty, jubilant young men of the 341st as their limping, beat-up trucks and equipment growled slowly by. When Company D passed by, Joe reached out, grabbed my hand and pulled me up on the side of the truck to join him and the rest of my buddies in their triumphant experience of going the last half-mile.

Good things were still to come that unforgettable day. The company clerk had mail for me, including a package from my folks. After reading the letters, beginning with the oldest first, Joe and I had a party with the goodies from Clifton, New Jersey.

During the festivities I noticed Joe was wearing a pretty good pair of shoes. I inquired as to where he got them. He smiled and told me the story. According to Joe, on a particularly dark night he checked out our commander's foot locker, which had been left in the back of a jeep. He found a pair of shoes just his size and exchanged them for the ones he had on.

When I asked what he meant by "exchanged," he told me he put his old ones back in the "bastard's goddamn footlocker." As Joe smiled and saluted his shoes, it's the only time I can remember tears and my sides aching, both from laughter.

In the evening a brigadier general arrived with a radio-equipped command car, and his driver managed to tune in a station from Edmonton. Although it faded a bit, we were able to hear strains of Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade." As I listened, my thoughts drifted back to the previous summer and a new maroon Chevy convertible with red leather upholstery.

Circulating among us was a member of the 341st who had boarded our troop train and joined up somewhere between Edmonton and Dawson Creek. He had no special breeding or rank, just a sort of collie mix with mud-caked fur who affectionately responded to the name of Muskeg. He never attached himself to any one person or outfit, nor was he intimidated or impressed with rank. All of us were his family. Sometimes he'd be seen riding in a jeep with the brass, and sometimes on the back of a truck, or even on a bulldozer. Most of the time, though, he'd be tagging alongside an outfit moving up the line. Muskeg was loved by all of us and to many he seemed to bring home a little closer. The last time I saw him, he was crossing the Muskwa River bridge on the back of a trailer. Destination: Fairbanks, Alaska.

At the Muskwa River I rejoined Company D. A couple of days later we moved several miles north to service and improve a section of the highway, which was now said to be passable from Dawson creek, British Columbia, to Fairbanks, Alaska.

During this time the 447th, a quartermaster regiment newly arrived from the states whose commission was to haul food and supplies, delivered two cases of frozen steaks to Company D. Our commander commandeered the steaks for an officers' party and morale in Company D hit a new all-time low.

A few days later, I was in an isolated squad when the driver of a 447th Quartermaster truck had to stop until the road was cleared. We learned that he was part of a convoy that was pretty well strung out. Among other supplies, they were hauling eggs and meat. It was decided then and there that if any meat was on the next ruck, we'd unload it. After posting a man at a sharp bend about a half-mile down the road to signal when the next truck was coming, we blocked the road with a couple of trees and waited. About twenty minutes later we got the signal, and a quartermaster truck growled around the bend. It pulled up to our road block and stopped. For the first time, I was glad the wind was blowing and gusting because it muffled the sound of Joe inventorying the truck. A couple of boys engaged the driver in conversation while others cleared the road and helped distract the driver. As I waited, I wondered what Joe might find. He soon stuck his head out from under the rear flap and, with a big smile, handed me a case of eggs. Before our lookout signaled frantically that another truck was coming, the eggs were followed by two cases of frozen steaks, a case of Crisco, four cases of canned fruit, and a twenty-five pound box of hard candy for dessert.

It was all stacked and covered with brush as the hijacked truck proceeded on its way and the driver of the second waved as he rolled by. When the day ended we were a jubilant group of young men as we made our way toward camp, carrying the groceries, singing typical army songs, and enjoying the heady feeling of executing such a successful operation. That night, about a quarter of a mile from camp, there was a party for the enlisted men! All the steak they could eat, topped off with canned fruit of their choice and hard candy. We divided up the eggs for breakfast. As the evening festivities continued, our commander's curiosity was roused to the point of putting in an appearance. Without speaking to anyone, he made his way over to the edge of a deep ravine where a buddy and I were sitting with the remainder of the steaks, about a quarter of a case. As he glared down at us it became apparent that he intended to have it taken to company quarters. However, this did not happen. To show his contempt, my buddy shoved it over the edge of the ravine with his foot. As it rumbled and bounced down out or sight, our leader whirled around and returned to his quarters. There never was any question or mention of how, or where, our windfall was acquired.

Late in September I received orders from regimental headquarters to proceed to For Nelson on special assignment under the command of a Major Heitt -- one of the reasons I was not with Company D when they eventually cleared mine fields in France and Germany on their way to Berlin. The next morning I stood by the side of the Alaska Highway and said goodbye to the finest group of young men I've ever known. Joe and I didn't speak, just shook hands. I saluted his shoes and we laughed.

On the truck transporting me to Fort Nelson there were five other men from various companies who were also assigned to Major Heitt. After two dusty, bumpy days we finally arrived at our destination at about midnight. I spent the remainder of the night in one of several tents left by a previous regiment that had used the hill behind them for a garbage dump. I was awakened early in the morning by a large rat crawling over my face. It and the rest of its buddies seemed unafraid and quite friendly. However, after being intimidated with a shoe, they all elected to leave. Since washing, shaving, and dressing were now only a memory, getting up was just a matter of crawling out from under a couple of O.D. blankets. The closest they had come to being washed was during the spring rainy season.

As I made my way to the field kitchen for breakfast a major in his mid-forties, wearing a shiny new uniform and driving a command car, pulled alongside and stopped. I saluted, which seemed to embarrass him. He smiled, nodded, and introduced himself as Major Heitt and asked if I was assigned to help him. When I told him I was, and introduced myself as Private Norman Bush, he not only shook my hand, but also ate breakfast with me and the five other boys. The major kept insisting the mess sergeant bring us more hot biscuits, bacon, eggs, and juice, choice items we hadn't had in a long time, even though at Fort Nelson they seemed to be abundant.

During breakfast we learned the major had been employed by the Caterpillar Tractor Company. He was commissioned as a major from his civilian employment to establish a parts warehouse at For Nelson and at Dawson Creek. Since the leaves had already turned and there was a brisk nip in the air, the major's first priority was to get his boys a new issue of warm clothes and quartered in tents near the large circus-type tent known as the "parts warehouse."

By November first we were experiencing sub-zero temperatures, and by Thanksgiving Day there was a low of forty degrees below zero. Our light was from a Coleman lantern and we received some warmth from a wood-burning, thin-gauge metal stove in the middle of the tent. The stove would glow red hot as long as we were able to stuff it with our nightly supply of dry wood. About all it was really good for was melting the ice in our canteens and thawing the food in our mess kits. These became partially frozen, even if carried only a short distance from the field kitchen.

Our duties until mid-December entailed inventorying and moving spare parts to a warehouse closer to the highway. Since daylight hours were short and the temperatures averaged between fifty and sixty below zero, progress was slow.

At night I'd zip my sleeping bag over my head, leaving only a small opening to breath through. However, my breath would condense and freeze around my nose, and I'd have to rub it to get the feeling and circulation back. My closest encounter with the "all-embracing cold that kills softly and quickly" was the night a buddy who drove the mail truck from Whitehorse to Dawson Creek arrived with a couple of bottles of liquor. I drank too much and then decided to take the major a drink. On the way, the last thing I remember is peacefully and pleasantly sinking down into the snow. The temperature was fifty below zero. I was lucky that the driver of the last truck to arrive that night saw me. The part I remember most is the pain of thawing out. The winter of '42 was one of the coldest on record.

To keep vehicles from becoming deadlined during the extreme cold, motors were left idling and smudge pots were placed under the transmission, differentials, and axles.

During this time, some authoritative idiot was instrumental in having twenty horses transported to our small unit for the purpose of pulling deadlined vehicles and equipment. Someone had to feed and water them. My buddy Ruben Wertzel and I were elected. Feeding them from the accompanying bales of hay was easy, but getting them water in a liquid state at sixty below was a problem -- although not for long: They soon froze to death.

At about the middle of December Major Heitt left Fort Nelson to set up the spare parts warehouse near the railhead at Dawson Creek. Before leaving he arranged for us to move from the tents into a Nissen hut. It was fairly well insulated and had a wood floor, two large wood-burning stoves -- one at either end -- and electric lights from a portable generator. The Major also gave us the news that names would be drawn to determine when we'd be scheduled to leave on a two-week furlough. The drawing was tense and emotional. One of the first two picked to be home for Christmas was a quiet, very religious boy; it almost made a believer of me. My name was drawn to leave February first, almost a year to the day from when I was inducted at Fort Dix, New Jersey.

Soon after, I was assigned to drive over the sector built by the 341st, hauling scrap iron and parts of deadlined equipment from Fort Nelson to Dawson Creek and, on the return trip, spare parts and miscellaneous supplies. The trip I remember most was when I stopped where a truck had rolled over a steep embankment. The driver was sitting against a nearby tree. He didn't respond when I called. He had frozen to death.

I always though of my buddies as I eased over the Buckinghorse bridge, wondering if it would hold. When I passed the fifty-mile marker, I occasionally thought of a third can of pineapple. Mostly though, I thought about February first when I'd board the Great Northern Train at Dawson Creek to go home.

Perhaps during this year's fiftieth anniversary of the building of the Alaska Highway, a gray-haired old guy (never shot at or a war hero) will return with memories of a great dog named Muskeg, the strains of Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade," and the young men of Company D, 341st Engineers.

Norman Bush was a member of the 341st Engineers, Company D, from 1942 to 1943. He now lives in Prescott, Arizona.