Kilroy Was Here

En route to Vietnam in the 1960s, American G.I.'s recorded their hopes and fears on the canvas undersides of troopship sleeping berths

  • By Owen Edwards
  • Smithsonian magazine, October 2004, Subscribe
 

Of all the graffiti that humanity has created across the centuries, perhaps most touching are the inscriptions left behind by soldiers. Since long before the Achaeans set sail for Troy, military life has been marked by loneliness, inaction, anxiety, sudden intense drama and the very real prospect of early, violent death. Because of a heightened sense of impermanence, perhaps, the scrawls, squiggles and drawings that record the passage of troops to and from battle—or, as the play Mister Roberts so aptly put it, "from boredom to tedium and back again with sidetrips to ennui"—take on a poignant significance far beyond a handprint in the wet concrete of a new sidewalk, initials in a heart carved into an old tree, or high-school graduation messages spray-painted on a highway overpass.

Military graffiti can range from fatalistic to scatological to ironically funny, from countless plaintive variations on "Why me?" to the bluster and bravura of young men heading into the unknown. During World War I, British soldiers, after reading the motto on the belt buckles of German soldiers—Gott Mit Uns (God is with us)—wrote on the walls of their trenches, "We got mittens too." And one of the most famous characters of World War II was a crudely drawn, long-nosed fellow peering over a fence whose announcement, "Kilroy Was Here," appeared almost everywhere American soldiers went.

In 2003, the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History acquired examples of G.I. graffiti with a particular resonance. They are works on canvas—drawings, words and doodles inscribed on the undersides of a troopship's cramped hammock-style berths by soldiers and marines on their way from Oakland, California, to Vietnam. The discovery of these tantalizing fragments, documenting the experiences of men who were soldiers once and young, came about as an unintended consequence of another quest altogether. In February 1997, Jack Fisk, production designer for The Thin Red Line—a film adaptation of novelist James Jones' evocation of World War II combat in the Pacific—wanted to create a movie set that would accurately simulate a troopship. Fisk consulted Art Beltrone, a Keswick, Virginia-based collector of military memorabilia who has served as an adviser to films and museums for 30 years. He and Fisk decided that the best place to get a feel for a World War II troopship was aboard the real thing: they traveled to a maritime-reserve installation on Virginia's James River, where a ghostly fleet of mothballed troop carriers lay rusting at anchor awaiting demolition. At 4 on a cold winter morning, wearing miners' helmets equipped with lights, they entered the General Nelson M. Walker, a 609-foot-long P-2 troopship taken out of service in 1968. The Walker had been part of a lumbering fleet that ferried 500,000 soldiers and marines to Vietnam.

While Fisk videotaped the troop quarters, Beltrone discovered that the canvas undersides of the bunks, stacked three high and canted at a 45-degree angle in their daytime storage position, contained drawings and words written by the soldiers in the berths below. "There was a little of everything," Beltrone recalls. "Obscenities, drawings, even poetry." He was fascinated by the manic mix—"Bong the Cong," "George Washington Slept Here," "Capitalist Yankee Dogs go Home!" Beltrone had been in the Marine Corps Reserves during the 1960s but had not been called up during the Vietnam War. "I knew I'd stumbled on a unique sort of personal history," he says. "These young men were going to war, while I had spent those years on Long Island."

Beltrone decided it was important to salvage some of the canvasses, their messages conveying bravado and suppressed fear of the immediate future. (He points out that the tedious 18-day trip across the Pacific pleased most troops, because the time in transit counted as "in-country" duty.) On several visits to the ship with his wife, Lee, a photographer, Beltrone recorded the inscriptions on the canvasses. (The full story is recounted in their book Vietnam Graffiti: Messages From a Forgotten Troopship, to be published in December by Howell Press.)

Beltrone convinced the Maritime Administration to donate 127 of the canvasses to seven museums around the country, including the NMAH. He was particularly intrigued by one of the four canvasses in the Smithsonian's possession: it contains several lines of Morse code and, below that, a mysterious poem. Using a code book, he deciphered the dots and dashes, thereby unearthing the author's name, Robert Simpson, and street address in Plainwell, Michigan. The canvas was dated 1967. The lines, written in free verse, read:

You're the one who
must decide who's
to live and who's to die.
You're the one who gives his
body as a weapon of the
war—and without you all
this killing can't go on.

 

Beltrone was able to trace Simpson. He was, as the Morse code suggested, a radio operator. Serving with the First Armored Cavalry Regiment, he had been drafted in 1966 at age 21. Simpson survived the war only to be killed in 1992 in the crash of an ultralight civilian aircraft he was piloting. The Walker will likely soon be demolished, but the Beltrones continue to rescue its relics before the inscriptions end up, in a very real sense, on the scrapheap of history.


Of all the graffiti that humanity has created across the centuries, perhaps most touching are the inscriptions left behind by soldiers. Since long before the Achaeans set sail for Troy, military life has been marked by loneliness, inaction, anxiety, sudden intense drama and the very real prospect of early, violent death. Because of a heightened sense of impermanence, perhaps, the scrawls, squiggles and drawings that record the passage of troops to and from battle—or, as the play Mister Roberts so aptly put it, "from boredom to tedium and back again with sidetrips to ennui"—take on a poignant significance far beyond a handprint in the wet concrete of a new sidewalk, initials in a heart carved into an old tree, or high-school graduation messages spray-painted on a highway overpass.

Military graffiti can range from fatalistic to scatological to ironically funny, from countless plaintive variations on "Why me?" to the bluster and bravura of young men heading into the unknown. During World War I, British soldiers, after reading the motto on the belt buckles of German soldiers—Gott Mit Uns (God is with us)—wrote on the walls of their trenches, "We got mittens too." And one of the most famous characters of World War II was a crudely drawn, long-nosed fellow peering over a fence whose announcement, "Kilroy Was Here," appeared almost everywhere American soldiers went.

In 2003, the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History acquired examples of G.I. graffiti with a particular resonance. They are works on canvas—drawings, words and doodles inscribed on the undersides of a troopship's cramped hammock-style berths by soldiers and marines on their way from Oakland, California, to Vietnam. The discovery of these tantalizing fragments, documenting the experiences of men who were soldiers once and young, came about as an unintended consequence of another quest altogether. In February 1997, Jack Fisk, production designer for The Thin Red Line—a film adaptation of novelist James Jones' evocation of World War II combat in the Pacific—wanted to create a movie set that would accurately simulate a troopship. Fisk consulted Art Beltrone, a Keswick, Virginia-based collector of military memorabilia who has served as an adviser to films and museums for 30 years. He and Fisk decided that the best place to get a feel for a World War II troopship was aboard the real thing: they traveled to a maritime-reserve installation on Virginia's James River, where a ghostly fleet of mothballed troop carriers lay rusting at anchor awaiting demolition. At 4 on a cold winter morning, wearing miners' helmets equipped with lights, they entered the General Nelson M. Walker, a 609-foot-long P-2 troopship taken out of service in 1968. The Walker had been part of a lumbering fleet that ferried 500,000 soldiers and marines to Vietnam.

While Fisk videotaped the troop quarters, Beltrone discovered that the canvas undersides of the bunks, stacked three high and canted at a 45-degree angle in their daytime storage position, contained drawings and words written by the soldiers in the berths below. "There was a little of everything," Beltrone recalls. "Obscenities, drawings, even poetry." He was fascinated by the manic mix—"Bong the Cong," "George Washington Slept Here," "Capitalist Yankee Dogs go Home!" Beltrone had been in the Marine Corps Reserves during the 1960s but had not been called up during the Vietnam War. "I knew I'd stumbled on a unique sort of personal history," he says. "These young men were going to war, while I had spent those years on Long Island."

Beltrone decided it was important to salvage some of the canvasses, their messages conveying bravado and suppressed fear of the immediate future. (He points out that the tedious 18-day trip across the Pacific pleased most troops, because the time in transit counted as "in-country" duty.) On several visits to the ship with his wife, Lee, a photographer, Beltrone recorded the inscriptions on the canvasses. (The full story is recounted in their book Vietnam Graffiti: Messages From a Forgotten Troopship, to be published in December by Howell Press.)

Beltrone convinced the Maritime Administration to donate 127 of the canvasses to seven museums around the country, including the NMAH. He was particularly intrigued by one of the four canvasses in the Smithsonian's possession: it contains several lines of Morse code and, below that, a mysterious poem. Using a code book, he deciphered the dots and dashes, thereby unearthing the author's name, Robert Simpson, and street address in Plainwell, Michigan. The canvas was dated 1967. The lines, written in free verse, read:

You're the one who
must decide who's
to live and who's to die.
You're the one who gives his
body as a weapon of the
war—and without you all
this killing can't go on.

 

Beltrone was able to trace Simpson. He was, as the Morse code suggested, a radio operator. Serving with the First Armored Cavalry Regiment, he had been drafted in 1966 at age 21. Simpson survived the war only to be killed in 1992 in the crash of an ultralight civilian aircraft he was piloting. The Walker will likely soon be demolished, but the Beltrones continue to rescue its relics before the inscriptions end up, in a very real sense, on the scrapheap of history.


Single Page 1 2 Next »

    Subscribe now for more of Smithsonian's coverage on history, science and nature.



 

Add New Comment


Name: (required)

Email: (required)

Comment:

Comments are moderated, and will not appear until Smithsonian.com has approved them. Smithsonian reserves the right not to post any comments that are unlawful, threatening, offensive, defamatory, invasive of a person's privacy, inappropriate, confidential or proprietary, political messages, product endorsements, or other content that might otherwise violate any laws or policies.

Comments (4)

ah,but do you know who the real kilroy was? he was a ship inspector during the second world war who was accussed of not inspecting every part of the troop ships after they were built. so, mr. killroy would write" killroy was here " on every bulhead he inspected to prove he had indeed done his job. this fact was discovered by troops who rode these ships to war....ergo 'KILLROY WAS HERE" was spread all over europe by the soldiers who had traveled on these ships.please don'r forget that in the 50's and 60's millions of us rode on these very same ships on our way over and back from the cold war in germany. i was on the UPSHUR in 1963.we left from the brooklyn navy yard,crossed the atlantic and docked in bremerhaven germany to then be shipped to ur our posts all over west germany. other ships that brought troops to germany and later to vietnam were THE PATCH and THE WALKER mentioned in your aticle.

Posted by don mcgrath on October 1,2012 | 11:45 AM

Here is a link to Buffy Sainte Marie singing the wonderful song she wrote:

http://youtu.be/qYWsRAKaPaY

Here is a link to the more well known cover by Donovan:

http://youtu.be/UC9pc4U40sI

Posted by Ray Beckerman on January 20,2011 | 05:49 PM

I was there! I returned to the United States aboard the Walker in 1967. After completing my 13 month tour of Vietnam with the Marine Corps. In September of '67 we sailed from Danang Vietnam to Okinawa then on to San Diego, CA. A very memorable trip....typhoon and all.

Richard Moore
Cpl USMC
4th Marines - Vietnam '66 -'67

Posted by Richard Moore on June 23,2010 | 01:55 PM

Just read this article. Can't believe you didn't recognize the lyrics of "universal Soldier" by Buffy Saint Marie. Where were you in the sixties?

Posted by Ethan M. Allen on June 8,2009 | 03:40 AM



Advertisement


Advertisement

Follow Us





First Name
Last Name
Address 1
Address 2
City
State   Zip
Email


Travel with Smithsonian




Smithsonian Store