Toilet Paper in WWII: What Soldiers Really Used

Somewhere in Normandy in June 1944, an American GI ducks into a hedgerow, rifle slung, helmet on, pants down. In one hand, an M1 Garand. In the other, a precious, crumpled length of brown paper torn from a K-ration box. The German army is a few hundred yards away. So is dysentery.

World War II soldiers did not charge across Europe with permanently filthy backsides. They worried about toilet paper, they improvised when they had to, and their armies cared enough to ship millions of pounds of the stuff across oceans. But they also used newspapers, ration box liners, leaves, snow, and sometimes nothing at all.

World War II soldiers did regularly use toilet paper or substitutes, and most major armies issued some form of it, though not always in the quantities troops wanted. When supplies failed, men used whatever they could find, because hygiene was a matter of survival, not comfort.

By the end of this article you will know what different armies issued, what they did when that ran out, how much time and logistics went into something as mundane as wiping, and why historians take this kind of question seriously.

What was “toilet paper” for WWII soldiers, exactly?

When people picture WWII toilet paper, they imagine modern white rolls. That existed, but what soldiers actually used was a mix of official issue and improvised material that barely resembled the soft stuff in your bathroom.

For U.S. troops, the main “toilet paper” in the field was often the waxed or brown paper wrapping from K-rations and C-rations. Official rolls of toilet paper did exist in quartermaster supply tables and were issued in camps, on ships, and in rear areas. In the field, though, the easiest thing to get your hands on was the packaging of the food you were already eating.

U.S. medical and quartermaster manuals from the war list “toilet paper” as a standard item for units and for field latrines. It was not usually part of an individual soldier’s personal gear like a canteen or mess kit, but it was part of the unit’s general supplies. Soldiers often grabbed extra when they could and stuffed it into pockets or packs.

British and Commonwealth troops had a more formal system. The British Army had issued toilet paper in garrison since before the First World War, and during WWII it continued to appear in unit supply scales. Veterans’ memoirs from the North African and Italian campaigns mention the familiar, stiff, non-absorbent sheets of British toilet paper, sometimes joking that it was better for writing letters than for its intended use.

German soldiers used a mix of official and improvised materials. The Wehrmacht issued a standard item called “Abortpapier” (latrine paper) in bulk to units. In practice, men also used pages from newspapers, old letters, and any scrap paper that came their way. German field manuals stressed the need for proper latrines and hygiene, which implies that some sort of wiping material was expected, even if it was not always neatly rolled.

Japanese troops had less standardized access to toilet paper, especially later in the war when supply lines collapsed. In garrison and in early campaigns, Japanese soldiers could use paper in latrines. In jungle campaigns like New Guinea or Burma, veterans recall using leaves, water, or nothing at all when supplies ran short.

So “toilet paper” in WWII was not a single product. It was any reasonably soft, disposable material that could be used to clean oneself. The fact that armies bothered to list it in supply tables shows that this was not an afterthought, but a recognized need that shaped daily life in the field.

So what? Defining what counted as toilet paper shows that this was a real logistical item, not a joke, and that different armies approached the same basic human need in different ways.

Why did WWII armies care about toilet paper and hygiene?

Armies did not ship paper across oceans because they were sentimental about comfort. They did it because disease could destroy a unit faster than bullets.

In the First World War and earlier conflicts, far more soldiers were put out of action by disease than by enemy fire. Diarrheal diseases, dysentery, and other intestinal infections spread rapidly in crowded camps and trenches. By 1918, military doctors had learned a hard lesson: excrement left in the open, poor handwashing, and lack of wiping material were perfect conditions for outbreaks.

By the time WWII began in 1939, most major armies had hygiene baked into their doctrine. U.S. Army Field Manuals and Medical Department circulars hammered home the need for latrines, handwashing, and proper waste disposal. British and German manuals did the same. Latrines were to be dug a certain distance from water sources, filled in regularly, and supplied with some kind of wiping material.

Toilet paper was part of a bigger system that included:

• Latrine construction rules
• Handwashing points and disinfectants
• Medical inspections and discipline around camp cleanliness

Medical officers knew that if soldiers skipped wiping or used filthy rags, they were more likely to spread bacteria to their hands, food, and equipment. That meant more sick men, more strain on field hospitals, and fewer rifles in the line.

There was also a morale angle. Armies learned that small comforts helped keep men sane. A cigarette, a hot drink, a clean pair of socks, and yes, something to wipe with, all signaled that the army cared whether you lived like an animal or a human being.

So when quartermasters ordered toilet paper by the ton, they were not being fussy. They were trying to keep divisions healthy and functional in conditions where basic hygiene was under constant threat.

So what? Understanding the medical and morale reasons behind toilet paper supply shows that this was about combat effectiveness, not just comfort or squeamishness.

What was the turning point from improvisation to planned supply?

Soldiers have improvised wiping material for as long as there have been armies. What changed in the early 20th century was the scale and planning of modern warfare.

In the First World War, industrialized armies learned that they could not simply throw men into the field and hope for the best. The static nature of trench warfare forced them to manage sewage, waste, and disease in a semi-permanent environment. That experience carried straight into WWII.

For the United States, the turning point was the interwar period and the early years of WWII mobilization. The U.S. Army Quartermaster Corps and Medical Department spent the late 1930s and early 1940s writing detailed tables of equipment and supply. Toilet paper appears in these documents as a standard item, with specified quantities per man per day in camps and hospitals.

By 1942, when millions of American soldiers were training in camps across the U.S. and deploying overseas, toilet paper was part of the planning from the start. It arrived in bulk on ships, was stored in depots, and was issued to units along with rations, fuel, and ammunition.

In the field, improvisation never disappeared. During fast-moving operations like the Normandy breakout or the advance across France, supply lines stretched thin. Units sometimes went days without resupply. In those moments, soldiers fell back on ration wrappers, newspapers, and whatever else they could find. But the expectation, especially in Western armies, was that toilet paper existed somewhere in the supply chain and would reach them again.

In more desperate theaters, such as the Eastern Front or the Pacific jungle campaigns, the gap between planning and reality could be brutal. German and Soviet troops in winter sometimes used snow. Japanese troops cut leaves or simply used water. The turning point in doctrine did not always match the turning point in practice when supply systems broke down.

Still, the fact that armies planned for toilet paper at all marks a shift from ad hoc improvisation to industrial-scale hygiene. The modern military machine tried to control even the most private parts of a soldier’s day.

So what? The move from improvisation to planned toilet paper supply shows how industrial warfare extended logistics into every corner of soldiers’ lives, including their most basic bodily needs.

Who made sure soldiers got toilet paper, and who went without?

No famous general built his reputation on toilet paper, but entire branches of the armed forces existed to handle this sort of thing.

In the U.S. Army, the Quartermaster Corps was responsible for procuring, storing, and distributing “Class II and IV” supplies, which included clothing, equipment, and comfort items like toilet paper. Quartermaster officers and noncommissioned officers decided how much to order, where to store it, and how to move it forward.

At unit level, company supply sergeants and battalion quartermaster officers were the ones who physically handed out bundles of paper or stocked latrines. If they were good at their jobs, their men noticed. If they were bad, everyone noticed.

Medical officers also had a say. U.S. and British medical inspectors could and did complain when units neglected hygiene. They could order better latrines, insist on handwashing points, and nag commanders to ensure that wiping material was available. Their authority came from the fear of disease outbreaks.

On the other side, German quartermasters (Intendantur and Nachschub services) handled similar tasks. German supply was often excellent early in the war, especially in Western campaigns. As the war dragged on and fuel and transport collapsed, toilet paper was one of many items that became scarce. Memoirs from late-war German soldiers mention shortages of everything from food to soap, and toilet paper was rarely top priority.

Japanese logistics were strained from the start. Japan fought a maritime war with limited shipping capacity. High-priority items were ammunition, fuel, and food. Paper products, including toilet paper, were often sacrificed as the war went on. Japanese soldiers in remote island garrisons lived in harsh conditions, and hygiene suffered badly.

Within each army, there were also differences between front-line and rear-area troops. Clerks and staff officers in headquarters towns were far more likely to have regular access to proper toilet paper and latrines. Front-line infantry, artillery crews, and tankers were the ones squatting in ditches, hoping their ration box liner did not disintegrate.

Even within the same unit, rank mattered. Officers often had better access to private latrines and supplies. Enlisted men shared communal pits and whatever paper made it down the line.

So what? Looking at who controlled and received toilet paper reveals the class, rank, and logistical hierarchies inside WWII armies, and shows how even basic hygiene reflected power and priority.

What did this change for soldiers’ health and daily life?

Toilet paper and hygiene did not win battles, but they helped keep the people who did the fighting alive and functional.

In terms of health, better sanitation reduced the rate of diarrheal diseases compared to earlier wars. Exact numbers vary by theater, but medical reports from U.S. and British forces show that while dysentery and diarrhea were still common, they were less catastrophic than in 19th century campaigns. Clean water, latrines, and wiping material all played a role.

For individual soldiers, the difference between having something to wipe with and not having it could mean:

• Less skin irritation and infection in areas that were constantly sweaty and dirty
• Lower risk of spreading fecal bacteria to food or wounds
• Slightly more dignity in a life that stripped away most privacy

There were also practical and cultural side effects. Soldiers used toilet paper and ration wrappers for all sorts of things: cleaning weapons, starting fires, padding boots, writing notes. When mail was scarce, a sheet of British-issue toilet paper could become stationery.

In some armies, the lack of toilet paper fed into existing cultural practices. In parts of Asia, water rather than paper was the traditional method of cleaning. Japanese soldiers often used water when they could, especially in jungle environments. For them, the absence of paper did not necessarily mean the absence of hygiene, though the realities of war often made any method difficult.

For Western soldiers used to paper, going without could be a shock. Memoirs from American and British troops in the Pacific and North Africa mention the discomfort and embarrassment of improvising with leaves or sand. These details rarely make it into official histories, but they appear in letters and oral histories, which is how we know they mattered to the men who lived through it.

On a broader level, the focus on hygiene in WWII helped normalize the idea that modern armies had a responsibility to care for the bodily needs of their troops, not just feed and arm them.

So what? The widespread use and expectation of toilet paper in WWII improved health, shaped daily routines, and reinforced the idea that modern soldiers were entitled to basic dignity even in war.

Why does WWII toilet paper still matter today?

At first glance, asking whether WWII soldiers had toilet paper sounds like a joke. But it opens a door into how modern societies wage war and how they think about the people who do the fighting.

First, it reminds us that logistics is human. We usually talk about supply in terms of fuel and ammunition. Toilet paper shows that the same system had to think about bowels, blisters, and boredom. An army that ignores those things pays for it in sickness, low morale, and desertion.

Second, it shows how expectations of comfort and hygiene have changed. A WWII soldier using a stiff, brown sheet torn from a ration box might envy your modern bathroom. A Napoleonic soldier would envy the WWII man. Today’s professional armies issue wet wipes, portable toilets, and detailed hygiene kits. The trend is clear: as societies get richer and more medically aware, they invest more in the bodily comfort of their soldiers.

Third, it helps puncture the myth of the invulnerable, stoic warrior. The same man who charged a machine-gun nest also worried about diarrhea, dreaded dysentery, and hoarded a scrap of paper for his next trip behind a hedge. Remembering that makes the past more real and less like a movie.

Finally, this kind of question pushes historians to look at everyday life in war, not just battles and leaders. When we ask what soldiers wiped with, we are really asking how they lived, what their armies valued, and how industrial societies tried to manage millions of human bodies under extreme stress.

So no, WWII soldiers were not all running around with “poopy butts.” They worried about it, their quartermasters worried about it, and their doctors really worried about it. The fact that we can track toilet paper through supply tables, manuals, and memoirs is a reminder that history is not just about flags on maps. It is also about the small, unglamorous details that kept those flags moving.

So what? Paying attention to something as mundane as toilet paper helps us see WWII as a lived experience, not just a series of battles, and shows how modern war reaches into every corner of human life.