Reflections On My War
By: Maurice Meyers M.D.
ISBN: 978-1-877546-43-3
All rights reserved
Copyright © Oct 2010, Maurice Meyers M.D.
Cover Art Copyright ©Oct 2010, Brightling Spur
Bluewood Publishing Ltd
Christchurch, 8441, New Zealand
www.bluewoodpublishing.com
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
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FOREWORD
“...the race is not to the swift,
nor the battle to the strong, neither
yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches
to men of understanding, nor yet favour
to men of skill
but time and chance happeneth to them all.”
(Ecclesiastes 9:11) The Bible
This book is a true account of my war, World War II. Although primarily a story of warfare, it is the memoir of one 19-year-old boy as he experienced the conflict and its aftermath.
I was a veteran of infantry combat before reaching my 20th birthday. Serving in the European Theater of Operations in a frontline infantry rifle company of the Third Infantry Division, my main combat job was to carry a 33-pound 300 radio on my back. With this radio, I directed artillery fire onto enemy positions, and kept our CO (Company Commander) in constant communication with Battalion and Regimental Headquarters.
Most of the original members of all the division’s companies were gone, leaving a few, if any, real ‘old timers’ at any given time. Therefore, my narrative deals only with my singular experiences involving a few new and close relationships. There was a rapid turnover of all positions in our rifle company. Many men came up to us as replacements and were gone, dead or wounded, before we could learn their names or even what they looked like.
Ground warfare was a terror-filled, day after day, minute by minute experience. Fortunately, there were intermittent periods of calm and relative safety. However, the mental and physical duress under which the infantry lived was constant and inescapable. Even now, so many years after the war, I find myself wondering: how could I, a 19-year-old intellectual from an orthodox Jewish family, not especially athletic or macho in any way, survive the life and death struggle that enveloped me without mercy?
I believe that my generation in the 1940s was of another ilk compared to our counterparts in the present younger generation. We were much more provincial, family-oriented, and, generally, far less worldly. The vast majority of us seemed to fit this stereotype.
In high school, I had excelled in my studies, not in gym or after-school sports. I had never been away from home except to visit relatives. I ate out very rarely. Yet in battle, I survived the weather, living in foxholes, in barns or even scooped-out pockets in the snow. I ate anything available from the moment I entered the army. It was amazing how I adapted to all of this while maintaining a certain dignity among those who, albeit reluctantly, accepted me, a Jew, as an equal.
“Meyers. You're sure different from other Jews. You don't run away when the shootin' starts.”
Despite the malicious innuendo and the obvious prejudice involved, this was a high compliment in our nightmarish world. All else was unimportant.
Xenophobia was widespread. It subsisted by the mixing of vast numbers of disparate men, most with very little knowledge or understanding of other cultures. Although routine, it usually was not particularly malignant.
Anti-Semitism, however, was a notable exception to the relatively benign prejudices that existed. This blind, rampant bigotry, never far from the surface, reared its ugliness under countless guises, and it influenced many of my experiences, despite the horrors of the Holocaust that became undeniably recognized by the world as the war came to a close.
I feel very strongly that World War II was the last of the ‘romantic’ battles of history. I realized that I had survived one of life's most unique and dangerous experiences and, somehow, should try to preserve its outline. The tiny kernel of memory lingered within me, waiting for a stimulus to awaken it.
I believe that the overwhelming stimulus has been my desire to touch the spirit of the 19- year-old who experienced those events, thereby bearing witness to his metamorphosis from youth to man.
Throughout these many post war years, there has also been an ever-present nagging concern regarding a seven-year-old French orphan whom I had befriended during the war.
In May-June 1992, my wife Ruth and I decided to visit Europe and to trace our way back those 47 years into that haziness, to re-experience spiritually as much as possible.
I had hoped our itinerary would duplicate my wartime route, but, because of the time allocated, two weeks, we traveled as expeditiously as the geography would permit. Thus we covered many, but not all, of the salient features of my entire 15-month European war experience.
Throughout my book, I have acknowledged the presence of a ‘fate theme’ that very subtly wove its way throughout my war experiences. After various events had occurred, the presence of fate could not be denied. These actions and decisions kept me safe when other scenarios would probably have left me injured or killed. Perhaps in war, the laws of reason or science that govern the physical universe we know are suspended. All is then possible, but not always understood.
A ‘proper time’ and ‘proper fortuity’ or ‘chance’, were at work. Fate? Coincidence? Luck? Somehow, I always knew that I would survive the war and return home.
My coming of age was due to a gradual molding and shaping of a soul by a number of forces too numerous to recognize at the time, yet all rooted in the war.
CHAPTER 1
“Angels are bright still, although the brightest fell.
(Macbeth) William Shakespeare
“M....I…A? M...I...A?” Each letter pounded my brain as a searing brand, indelible and beyond pain. These were the letters stamped across the envelope. This was the only time that I had ever written to Billy. Here it was, nestled among the pile of my unopened mail.
It was only several days after I had arrived in Fort Meade, Maryland. I sat on my footlocker, staring at the envelope, trying to hide my emotions from the guys who were reading their mail at the other end of the barracks.
Missing? What kind of bullshit is this? I just couldn't hide my agony. What kind of typical army snafu is this? Some son-of-a-bitch was just too fucking lazy to deliver my letter to Billy! Good mail service, free for our boys over there! All that European Theater A.P.O. crap—just more shit! God damn! God damn! I must have appeared almost deranged as I muttered and moaned unintelligible sounds.
“Hey, kid! What's the matter? You sound kinda’ worked-up. Trouble at home?” The sergeant spoke as he slowly moved through the barracks toward me.
“Sarge, how often does the army screw up when they claim a guy is missing in action?”
“Not very often,” he answered. “That's one thing they're pretty fussy about, but I guess it can happen. They sure don’t like to make that kinda’ mistake!”
“Well, I'm sure this’s gotta’ be a mistake, a big fuckin’ mistake. My friend just shipped overseas not very long ago. It would take that long just for him to join some freakin’ outfit just to get oriented! Wouldn’t it? Christ, he couldn’t go missing that fast!”
“Why not?” the sergeant answered. “It just takes a second to die. Remember that, kid. Also, how do you know he didn't go AWOL? Maybe he's now living it up somewhere. Did he like the girls? He could be hiding in Paris, screwing his brains out. Guys have been known to do that. I knew of one or two who did that while I was over there.”
“Hell, no!” I answered, almost smiling. “He wouldn’t do anything like that. He wasn't…isn't that type of guy. No way!”
“But he could’ve just gotten scared enough...many good men have cracked in battle. Yep. He could’ve done just that,” said the sergeant. “Yeah! He could already have a nice dose of clap from one of those Parisian whores.”
“No, not Billy! I would swear to that. Maybe he was just lightly wounded and was unconscious when they looked for him. Couldn’t that be? Couldn’t it be that he's been found by now and is okay? He can’t be missing forever! Couldn’t he be okay by now, Sarge?”
“Sure. All that might be…but don’t count on it, kid. The chances are that your friend is dead and had not been found when your letter arrived. There are thousands of men missing and presumed dead. I know you've heard of the Unknown Soldier. Many bodies are never found. Was he a friend from home or just another GI you met in the army?”
“A friend—a good friend—but not from home. I met him in basic training at Fort Benning. We've been good friends since then. But he went overseas some time ago. This was the very first letter I wrote him.”
Sensing my need to be alone and knowing there was no more he could say, the sergeant walked away without further conversation.
I sat motionless for some time, my emotions swinging from extreme to extreme, from desolate sadness to almost violent, unrelenting anger.
“Billy, you stupid bastard!” I murmured. “How could you get yourself killed so fuckin’ fast?” You're probably lying bloody dead in a cow-shit, French ditch. No one will probably ever find you! You promised—we both promised—to be careful. We promised to stay alive and meet after this god damn war. You broke your promise! All the plans we made. All our hopes. Best of friends. Gone! Boy, oh boy! You sure are a dumb hillbilly, son-of-a-bitch! A real bohunk! Stupid...stupid...stupid! Tears blurred my eyes—I sobbed quietly. “Maybe...maybe they'll find him alive. Oh, please, God, make it so!”
Despite my grief, nothing changed around me. From Camp Campbell, I had shipped out to Fort Meade. This was next to the last stop in my trip to go overseas. Here the quartermaster issued each of us the exact number of every item to be carried by an infantry replacement: underwear, socks, shirts, a rifle, etc. We then spent most of the days counting and recounting the specified articles. I later learned that this was just a way of shipping supplies and equipment, without any real regard to what each GI would eventually be issued on arrival at his overseas’ destination. However, we counted and packed, then unpacked and counted, repeatedly, day after day. In retrospect, one can also see the use of this repetitious activity as a good means of keeping anxious troops busy.
Several times daily, the whistle sounded and we fell out and stood in formation. “Here we go again,” someone always had to make a remark.
Then Sergeant Vaughan would repeat his fearful admonition prior to the inevitable clothing check that followed. If there ever was a stereotypical southern, regular army sergeant, it was Master Sergeant Jimmie Vaughan.
“Men, you all got to take this serious. It is most impo’tant for all of you to have the correct items when you get over there. If you don’t have these correct items in your possession, you just cannot do your job in fightin’ for your country. Y’all have got to get it right this here time. If this is not the case, I can promise you, ab-sa-god-damn-lutely that y’all are in for a real unpleasant series of shit details, every god damn goof-off, gold-brickin’ one of y’all!”
The humor of this charade, played out so frequently, was that each time there was a count, at least one person found an error of too few or too many of an item (a handkerchief, a pair of socks, etc.). This daily, non-brain activity with its enormous entertainment value, helped me bear my sadness, but only slightly. I had to smile as I wondered whether Billy got his count right when he came through this base.
In due time, we were notified that we were moving out. We loaded onto trains for the short trip to Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, only several miles from my home. There, on the way from the train to our new barracks, I stopped to look around. I couldn't overlook the irony of being in this place at this time.
“Boy, oh boy! I really have to tell you guys about the great time I had when I was working as a civilian here two years ago, a year before I entered service. Man, I tooled around all over the camp in my six by six army truck, like it was a sports car.”
“Sounds okay to me,” said one of the guys, “especially if you got good pay too.”
“Yeah, you're right. Look over there—those low warehouses along the tracks. That’s where I picked up my loads of food to deliver to all the kitchens. There was an army quartermaster platoon working there. They sure had it made. I wonder if any of them are still there. They even had a horse-shoe pitching court that they used off and on throughout the day.” I smiled as I thought about those days that had been so much fun, those days when I had only some fleeting thoughts about my destiny, when my military life was still an eternity of one full year in the future.
* * * *
Each day, I watched as columns of heavily equipped troops arrived in the camp and similar contingents packed the awaiting trains that were heading to embarkation docks in New York City and ports along the Hudson River in New Jersey.
I soon became friendly with the platoon of GIs operating the warehouse. I listened to their constant gripes: "You know, kid, I had to work overtime last night since the next shift was late. It just ain't right.”
"Yeah! Well, the lieutenant told me this morning before work that my furlough would not be until the end of next month. Christ! I haven't been home in almost a year! They expect us to work like mules carrying all this shit every day without real time off." This was a GI named Angelo who had been here for almost two years, perfectly safe.
“I guess you guys don't pay much attention to the constant line of GIs going past here to the trains every day, do you?” I couldn't keep quiet. I appreciated how lucky they were, but they did not.
“Who wants to pitch a game?” It was a corporal named Urbanoff whose family had emigrated from Russia when he was a small child. Soon, the well-kept horseshoe court alongside the warehouse resounded with the clanging of horseshoes and the chatter of the GIs.
* * * *
Someone, of the unknown thousands of GIs who had preceded me in staying here in Camp Kilmer, had conveniently forced a large opening in the wire fence surrounding the camp. This made it easy for me to go AWOL—much to the pleasure of my family. I visited them every night. When the night finally occurred without my appearance at home and without an explanatory phone call, my family knew that I was on my way overseas.
On the day before I was to ship out, I visited the warehouse to see if any of the original guys were still there after two years.
“Hey, Angelo. Remember me?” I called out to the first person I saw on the loading platform.
“Yeah! Yeah! You're the kid who used to drive a truck here a couple a’ years ago. What the hell are you doing here? I sure hope it ain’t what I think it is. Heh, guys! Look who's here.”
Most of the same GIs were still there. They all appeared glad to see me and extended a warm welcome. “How did you let this happen to you?” Urbanoff asked. “Couldn't you have gotten a different unit?”
“You know, it's the way it is,” I answered as I tilted my head. “I see you guys are still playing horseshoes. I guess you’re not too busy.”
“Here! Have a couple of oranges and candy bars on us,” offered a guy named Davis. This reaffirmed our past contact; it also severed our bonds forever.
I thanked them. It was not long before their feelings of pity toward me became too obvious and uncomfortable for all. They wished me well. I returned to my barracks to find the order restricting our movements indicating our departure within the next 24 hours.
The following morning, I joined the stream of the inestimable hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, who passed the quartermaster warehouses on the final journey to an embarkation port. I waved to my old friends who were intently trying to pick me out of the mass. In recognition, they hooted and unabashedly shouted out, “Meyers, give the Krauts hell! Let's get this war over with! We wanna go home—Good luck! Good luck—God bless!”
We detrained at a large pier somewhere along the Hudson River. I did not know if it was in New Jersey or New York. There were contingents in formation wherever I looked. The variety of uniforms was beyond anything I had ever seen. Group after group, following commands belching from an over-loud sound system, moved quickly through a huge terminal building, up a gangplank and disappeared into the dark belly of the waiting ship.
A guy standing just ahead of me was obviously a southern country boy. He shouted out, “Hey, guys! I just heard it's the Queen Mary! They sure as shit want to get us over there in a big hurry—no worry about the expense either. Man! Oh man! My girl friend should see me on this luxury of all luxury ships!”
The ubiquitous army band blared above the din, very loud, and without interruption.
Will a band also play when I return—if I return? Had Billy also come this way?
Had that same heavyset guy with the large curly mustache played his tuba for Billy? How about that trombone player? What a great job these GIs have. I should definitely have taken music in high school instead of Latin and English Composition.
CHAPTER 2
“Acquaintance I would have, but when’t depends
Not on the number, but the choice of friend.”
(Of Myself) Cowley
In an entire lifetime, how often does anyone have the opportunity and privilege to befriend innocence personified? Where, indeed, does one seek such a person? It certainly is not expected that a war would be the backdrop for such an occurrence. Yet it happened to me. At least, I feel it did.
The first time I saw Billy Penn was when he marched through our barracks to his new bunk in the rear. He walked with big strides, his head and body erect, like a duck, wide-based, with each foot pointing out at an angle of 45 degrees.
Billy was just one of the many new faces whom I met when we reported for basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia, in August 1943. All of us in this particular unit were in the ASTP (Army Specialized Training Program), comprised of the ‘cream’ of the 18-year-old intellectuals drafted into the army, usually very shortly after graduating from high school. Although we were all destined eventually for college programs in the field of basic engineering, we were subjected to the same unrelenting, rough and tough infantry basic training which all infantry troops had to endure.
I didn’t feel prepared for the great physical challenges that I had heard about, and I was neither mentally nor scholastically suited for any form of engineering. I did not like, and had not taken, any of the engineering prerequisite courses in high school that most of the other men had taken: physics, chemistry, or advanced mathematics courses. There were no choices in this matter; each of us had to accept the program he had been assigned. Despite the alleged likelihood of non-combat duties for most of us in the ASTP at that time, the strenuous infantry training we all received was fortuitous, and life saving for many in view of what was to happen later.
Billy and I were in the same barracks and platoon. We were cordial to one another, but we each had struck up our own friendships with others from the beginning. But he was well liked by all. His gentleness seemed to invite some occasional good-natured kidding, mainly because of his marked southern drawl, the fact that he came from Suffolk (not Norfolk), Virginia, and his sister's name was Dixie Lee. All of these were unimportant, but marvelous grist for baiting him. Billy's pleasant demeanor, warmth and good humor did not, in any way, hide the fact that he was intelligent, well educated and far from being a pushover.
It was inevitable; occasionally, I too would be sarcastic to him regarding something about which he had deep feelings, usually things related to his beloved South. His face would change, his eyes became slits and his nose twitched.
“Mey-ey-ey-er-er-ers! I'm gonna kill you-u-u-u,” he would yell. At the same time, he waved his fist in front of his face. That was the epitome of his anger, which quickly dissolved amid our laughter. He displayed no hates, prejudices or obvious needs to prove himself. Kind and fresh, he conveyed a sensitivity to all those around him. Billy did not, in any way, fit the stereotypical mold I had envisioned for a southerner in 1943.
The guys in our platoon would gather around Billy, asking silly questions just to tease him into some type of reaction merely for the humor involved.
“Billy, how could anyone come from a place like Suffolk, a place that no one has ever heard of?”
“Are you sure you're not from Norfolk and you just plain forgot?”
“Do you have houses there with toilets or do you have to go out in the back yard with a shovel when you gotta take a crap?”
“You got any stores, or just a trading post?”
“How’s the slave situation on your cotton plantation?”
Calmly and with due amount of posturing, Billy would draw himself up to his full height of six-foot one inch, lift his right hand, and slowly and deliberately point his index finger at his provokers. “Well, I shall not dignify most of those questions with answers. However, for those among us who are truly interested, I was born, raised, and schooled in Suffolk, and I'm headin’ back to good ol’ Suffolk when this here war is done!” His muscular face contorted as he accentuated almost every word, his broad grin reflecting the joy and honest pride in his hometown.
Lieutenant Pursick, a 20-year-old recent graduate from O.C.S. (Officers Candidate School), was our platoon leader. It would have been difficult to find a more decent, fair officer. He was extremely dedicated to his present mission of turning blobs into ‘killing machines’. He went by the book and was very well versed in every page of that book. He also voluntarily endured every physical challenge to which he subjected us. Even if we had wanted to, no one could honestly find fault with the lieutenant's conduct.
Early on, I noticed that there would be greater problems with our two platoon noncoms (non-commissioned officers), Sergeant Nathan Bartkowsky and Corporal Earl McCaine. The sergeant, a Jew from Pittsburgh, was a complete incompetent, but wore the three stripes which gave him authority. Rumor had it that before the start of our basic training program, many of the noncoms joined together in an effort to help him pass certain prerequisites to allow him to take over a training platoon. All such details were kept quiet, but there was no doubt that Ben had to have help on the firing range to qualify for the M-1 rifle. The poor boob tried his best, but just did not have any ability, was not a veteran of combat, and happened to have been born Jewish. None of these attributes stood him in good stead. Besides, he was an embarrassment to all the men, especially us Jews.
Corporal McCaine was the exact opposite to Bartkowsky. He was a southerner, a Purple Heart veteran of combat in North Africa, very tough, and immersed in army life. He did not in any manner hide his extreme dislike of ‘all Jews’. As was bound to happen from time to time, the corporal got into arguments with many of those in our barracks. Some such altercations occasionally came close to fist fights thanks to McCaine’s violent temper. When any of those involved in these fracases was Jewish, McCaine always added an anti-Semitic slur to his usual diatribes.
Bartkowsky tried to pacify everyone. “Come on, John! You don't always have to add that a guy is a Jew, just because he made you mad about something.”
“I'm sorry, Ben. I know you’re Jewish, but I just won’t take that kind of crap from any of these guys, especially Jews!”
Nat Bartkowsky did not have the ability or the guts to stand up to McCaine, and we Jews had no ally to stand with us.
Infantry basic training was hell on earth. The physical hardships pushed every man to his ultimate and even beyond. Sleep was short. Extremely cold nights followed the long, hot, southern daylight. Day after day, we were subjected to interminable hours of close order drill in which “right turn”, “left turn”, “about face”, and “forward march” was barked by Sergeant Bartkowsky, or Lieutenant Pursick, or by Captain Carter, our Company Commander. Occasionally, Corporal McCaine stood in for the sergeant. Of course, all of these marching exercises were interspersed with hiking, bayonet training, obstacle courses, poison gas exposures, and crawling in the mud for long distances while live bullets were being fired above our heads. There was also some hand-to-hand fighting and running from place to place, along with a few classes for airplane identification and weapon disassembly and assembly.
Every man had to qualify on the rifle range, attaining a minimum score of 100 on the target. I, who had never fired any type of weapon, amassed a score that put me in the highest category possible – Expert (score over 180). I was quite proud of that. However, in retrospect, my greatest achievement was finishing the 25 mile, full pack march that was, more or less, our graduation from basic training. This was extremely difficult for everyone, even those who had come into the army in good physical condition. A few of our more macho trainees did not finish. I’m not sure when I first began to feel pains in the soles of both my feet. We still had many miles to go. During a rest break, I removed my shoes and found that the nails in my shoes were penetrating the skin of both feet. My socks were bloody. The lieutenant said that I could finish the march in one of the accompanying jeeps. I refused and continued walking until the official end of the eight hour event. I was so very happy to reach my barracks and start bathing my damaged feet.
No one would be able to say that this Jew couldn’t do as well as any of the others!
Amazingly, most of us did develop into relatively well-trained, hardened specimens, far different from our pre-draft physical conditions. Along with this toughening up of our bodies, there was the gradual loosening of the mental security blankets we carried from our homes. Each of us was experiencing his own epiphany of maturity.
Sergeant Bartkowsky did have several ways in which he tried to show his authority and military talents, though he was pathetic in all such attempts. One of his favorite practices was to constantly bug me whenever we were in marching formation. “Meyers! Get in step! Left...right...left...right...!” While singing the cadence aloud, he tapped the beat on my leg with his walking stick. This occurred so frequently that I began to worry if there was something wrong with my timing or coordination. It was not possible that I was always out of step. It was accepted by the rest of the platoon as just another silly event to be laughed at and “Meyers! Get in step,” became a platoon cheer as we marched.
The solution to this annoyance was forthcoming. One day as the platoon marched, Sergeant Bartkowsky, his head held high, neither looking to the left nor to the right, sang out: “Left...right...left...right...Meyers, get in step! Left...right...left...” The laughter that followed was without precedent; Private Meyers and two others were at bed rest in the barracks, each covered from head to toe with the rash of poison ivy.
CHAPTER 3
“In every parting there is an image of death.”
(Scenes of Clerical Life) George Eliot
After the completion of our basic training, most of our company was transferred to Bloomington, Indiana where we started the basic engineering program at Indiana University. My relationship with Billy continued about the same as before, friendly, but each with his own close buddies.
Some of us were not adequately prepared for the subjects being taught. Moreover, the studies were difficult for all but a few ‘genius types’. Among these was a guy from New York City named Jerry Levin. He was brilliant and unequivocally obnoxious.
The one course none of us took very seriously, to our peril, was Geography 101, taught by a world famous Professor Phillip Gallagher. No one could muster any real interest in rock formations, how they developed, or how the various land faults moved throughout their subterranean milieus. Jerry Levin took special delight in baiting the professor who obviously did not abide even the hint of any criticism. Jerry loudly differed with the professor’s interpretations regarding almost everything: rock formations, the theoretical influences of various weather conditions, or any other minutiae he could find to bring up in class. Furthermore, he enjoyed asking leading questions which always allowed for diverse explanations.
There was an increasing tension felt in the geography class as the daily jousts between the two grew in intensity. The explosion finally occurred when Professor Gallagher could no longer contain his temper as Levin added the final straw: “Professor, according to what I have read, your interpretation of that specific geologic happening is incorrect. It could not have occurred as you stated.”
Professor Gallagher’s face became a mask of hatred. His eyes squinting through thick glasses, he raised his arm toward Levin, who was sitting far to the rear of the room. “Get out!” he shrieked. “Get out and never, never return to my class! To think that I have to be insulted by you…that I have to be insulted by someone with a name like Levin!”
No sooner had the final words reverberated throughout the room, than the entire class rose as one, and silently walked out, leaving the professor shaking with rage.
Within minutes, our CO, Lieutenant Wilson, had been notified of this event. We never learned any of the details that followed, but it was soon apparent that the Army and the university had both sufficiently chastised the famous professor for his bigotry. We all returned to class the following day along with Jerry Levin. The remaining days of this course passed placidly, without humor or anger, just lecture after lecture of facts without any real interest or discussion—also without any obvious prejudice.
Since the studies were very difficult for all, including me, I spent as much time as possible with my books. Everyone was not of the same accord, however. One Saturday night, I had studied very late in the library so as not to bother anyone else. I returned to my room to find my mattress soaking in the shower.
“Meyers, you just can’t do that heavy studying while your friends are all having fun!” It was Osborne, one of my new roommates. “It just isn’t fair!” Thus, my three roommates, all strangers to me, enlightened me as to the judicious verdict of all concerned: I was not to succeed if the others could not.
There were few light moments during those months. The main hang-out for non-drinkers was the Book Nook, an ice cream parlor which became famous as the place where ‘Hoagy’ Carmichael wrote his celebrated Stardust. There I learned to drink lime malteds while listening to the juke box blare out the popular songs of the period, including the ubiquitous ‘They’re either too young or too old...’
Many flunked out, including two of my roommates, long before the first 12-week term was finished. They were sent to various army units destined for overseas duty. Those of us who remained felt tremendous empathy for those unfortunate guys, who, we had no doubt, were headed for destruction on a foreign battlefield. Ironically, however, those of us who survived the course were compensated similarly: the entire ASTP was disbanded after our first term. Our unit was split up, all of us being sent to outfits preparing for eventual shipment to the European Theater as infantry replacements.
* * * *
Billy and I were among a small group sent to the Twentieth Armored Division in Camp (now Fort) Campbell, Kentucky. We were assigned to adjacent companies within a several minute walk of each other. Now for the first time in my military career, I lived with an assortment of men not with intellectual backgrounds similar to my own. Many had not finished high school, others had been in the army for much longer periods than I had, and many were regular army. There also were a great number of southern ‘rednecks’, and, in general, there was a constant anti-Semitic overtone. Despite the fact that Billy had now become a large part of my life, I was extremely unhappy during this period at Camp Campbell.
Here our friendship blossomed, primarily because there were very few others from our past associations. Because we each felt so completely out of place with our surroundings, it was only a short time before we recognized a kindred spirit that existed between us.
Most of our daily activities involved strategic maneuvers in which various tank companies and/or half-tracks drove around the base or through the countryside simulating combat conditions. These exercises lasted from several hours to a week, in which we, the armored infantrymen, sat in the half-tracks for many hours at a time, often sleeping in position while the driver continued on his designated route. Sometimes, we bivouacked overnight in a pine forest, sleeping atop pine needles or, when ordered, in a self-dug foxhole. Except for the tedium and body-bruising jouncing of the steel bench-seats in the half-tracks, the training at Camp Campbell was not bad at all. Of course, we also frequently did infantry drilling between our more serious combat preparations.
Billy and I met almost daily after we had both finished our duties and evening meal. Our nightly entertainment usually consisted of walking to the nearby PX (Army shop and bar) to watch most of the men we knew guzzle glass after glass of 3.2 beer. Meanwhile, we sipped orange soda and confided to each other that we didn’t even like to drink beer or whiskey. We went on day-passes to the nearby town of Clarkesville only twice during our stay at Campbell. Neither of us had any great urge to go to town, although passes were easily available almost every night and weekend. Most other guys did go for the inevitable bar scene with its available girls. However, for us, things were much different, although we each tried to hide his fears from the other. We were content to merely laugh at what we considered to be the foolishness of the typical GI. In time, even those innermost, concealed teenage fears were silently understood and accepted by each of us. Some things, however, needed the light of day to foster the comfort of real trust.
One evening, as we slowly walked back to our barracks, I stopped and turned toward him. “Billy, have you ever been laid?”
His mouth opened and his eyebrows rose. Very deliberately he whispered, “Do you mean screw a girl?”
“What the hell do you think I mean? A sheep? A cow? Boy, the stories I’ve heard about you southern boys must be true! Sure, I mean did you ever screw a girl?”
“Don’t you ever tell anyone! Promise?”
“Okay, I promise.”
“Well! I’ve never done any of that stuff. I guess I’ve always been a little shy about girls.”
“Don’t let it bother you, Billy. We’re both in the same boat.” I smiled and gently patted him on the back.
“I’ll be darned, Meyers! I sure feel better now that we’ve both been honest about such a personal thing.”
“You know, Billy, I often wonder about all those guys who are always bragging about their conquests. How many of them are just plain full of crap?”
“You said a mouthful and I agree with you. I often think about the same thing. I’ll bet you’re right.”
Neither of us had any real sophistication nor the street knowledge we attributed to so many of our peers. I found Billy to be a soul mate, despite our markedly diverse backgrounds. I’m sure he felt the same way. Our friendship very quickly sprouted into a rare bonding between two perfectly normal teenagers enmeshed in a world for which neither was prepared, yet both had to survive.
We spoke about many things, usually about family and our dreams for the future. Billy never spelled out his specific ambitions, except that he did plan a college education of some type. All in all, we actually never spoke about profound subjects, but rather the simple, everyday likes and dislikes of the teenage boys we were. We shared our fears for what was to come, as well as our optimism about both of us surviving the war. He frequently wrote to his sister and family, speaking of them with obvious warmth and love. Although he did not have a steady girlfriend, he did correspond with several girls from his high school. Essentially, we were different only in our roots.
* * * *
It was shortly after being transferred to Camp Campbell that I was summoned to the company office. Lieutenant Jerome Mangini, the Company Executive Officer, greeted me rather abruptly, while leafing through a file which was lying on his desk. I soon learned that it contained my army records.
Between deep puffs on his cigarette, he noted, “I see you’re from Plainfield, New Jersey.”
“Yes, Sir!” I answered.
“Do you know someone by the name of Bill Ellis?” he continued.
“Yes, Sir! He and I went to high school together,” I said.
The lieutenant then explained that he was very close to the Ellis family, and especially, Bill’s sister. (I was never sure whether this alluded to a romance or not). Very nonchalantly, he then told me that in the future, I should come to him if I ever needed help. I did not ask for any further explanation as to why, or what he meant. The conversation was finished, both of us returning to our statuses: officer and buck private.
As I left the lieutenant’s office, I felt that something good had happened, but I wasn’t sure what it was. It was nice to know that I had unexpectedly acquired a friend of some import. Billy was genuinely pleased when I told him about Lieutenant Mangini.
“Don’t you forget his offer if we become separated. You got it? You never know what kind of favor he may be able to do for you. Listen, we can use all the good help we can find!”
I promised I wouldn’t forget, but expressed my concern as to what type of help he could possibly be to me.
The day arrived for Billy to ship out, leaving me on my own. Both of us promised to write often and to catch up with each other as soon as possible after the war.
“Can you imagine you or me doing anything worthwhile in fighting the Germans?” I laughed to hide my tears. “Shit! It’s absolutely comical to imagine either one of us sticking a bayonet into some poor German’s gut! Yeah! Yeah! It sure is funny thinking like that! Listen, you,” I went on. “Take good care of yourself. Don’t be a hero! You’ll be okay—we both will be. Just don’t do anything stupid, you hear?”
“You’re right,” Billy mused somberly. “I don’t know what we can do, but we sure don’t have much to say about it, do we, Meyers? You take care now. Maybe we’ll both be lucky.”
I held out my hand and we shook our final farewell, neither one wanting to let the other’s hand loose. Billy nodded his head several times, turned and quickly strode toward the line of waiting trucks. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him march away with an uplifted head and broad determined gait.
Without much idling of the engines, the trucks pulled away, leaving me with an awful sense of loneliness and loss.
These feelings were mild, however, compared to my state of mind when that first letter to him was returned quickly, stamped M.I.A. I was devastated, inconsolable. This beautiful, decent, gentle human being was most likely dead.
* * * *
The lists coming down from Division Headquarters became more frequent and contained increasing numbers of names, those, like Billy, being transferred from the division to go overseas as infantry replacements, the historic ‘cannon fodder’. Eventually my name appeared on such a list. It was about two months after Billy had left.
There had been no further formal contact with Lieutenant Mangini until this day. Although muted, the ‘fate theme’ could now be heard by a discerning ear. It was then, while standing in formation, listening to the roll call containing my name, that Lieutenant Mangini approached me and quietly asked if I wished to have my name removed from the list.
I mumbled, “Sir, will this division be going overseas soon?”
His answer was in the affirmative; but he also readily admitted that he had no definite idea when this would take place.
“So, I’m going to have to go sooner or later. Right, Lieutenant?” I asked. Not waiting for his answer, I continued. “In that case, I might just as well go now.” The lieutenant nodded in agreement and slowly moved away.
It was only a few days later that I shipped out, never seeing the lieutenant again. Many years after the war, I heard that he was alive and well.
CHAPTER 4
“Sweet is the scene where genial friendship plays
The pleasing game of interchanging praise”
(An After-Dinner Poem) Oliver Wendell Holmes)
The first event accompanied by fate whistling around me occurred very shortly after I entered the army as a draftee in August 1943. Along with my boyhood friends, Seymour Hollander and Himelstein, my first stop was the induction center at Fort Dix, New Jersey. Here I found myself, at age 18, fresh out of high school, completely at the whim of the strange alien world I had now entered. The first lessons I learned from those of great wisdom was that ‘you must always appear to be busy and never volunteer for anything’. Why then did I volunteer the first time I had the opportunity to do so? I could think! I was not a sheep. Yet I did volunteer.
Several times daily, all new draftees would assemble outside the barracks, where they received various work projects for that day. One morning, the sergeant asked whether anyone knew how to operate a sewing machine. One draftee raised his hand. This was quite innocuous in itself, but since we never saw him again, our imaginations worked overtime augmenting the gospel about volunteering. What terrible calamity could have befallen him? Of course, no one would think that the man could simply be operating a sewing machine somewhere in the service of his country.
So it went for several days. Then on one of these occasions, my ‘fate theme’ played in the background of my life for the first time. The sergeant asked if anyone had any experience with radios. I vaguely remembered that sometime while in high school, I had belonged to a radio club, which taught proper radio operating procedures, not the technical aspects of radio. All that it really meant was that I had some knowledge of radio language such as the alphabet (able, baker, charley, etc), and the procedures used to initiate and finish radio conversations (‘roger’ and ‘roger and out’). We also learned to adhere to radio courtesy: no vulgarity, be polite and terse.
In spite of being quite rusty in all of this, I volunteered. Why? I had no good reason at that time and certainly no answer later. However, for what it was worth, I gained the opportunity to brush up on army radio procedures, which was, more or less, what I already knew.
I gave little thought to this event at that time. It was just one more means of avoiding most of the nasty work details, which the others had to do. However, with the benefit of hindsight, this was one of the most fateful decisions of my life, one that I did not recognize until much later. During the interim, I also would have to make many other decisions of great import.
Although I did not follow the accepted wisdom of “not volunteering for anything,” I most certainly did follow to the letter the commandment: “Thou shalt always appear to be busy.” Appearing to be far too busy at all times, I easily evaded the daily shit details that were assigned to keep everyone active and out of the barracks: digging trenches, picking up cigarette butts, loading and unloading trucks, and various other no-brain activities. All of this was an attempt to keep everyone busy and not worrying about what was really going on in his life. I began to rebel against the system even at this very early stage.
I simply walked away from any assignment and found an assortment of hideouts in which to spend my time, relaxing until lunch, and then again, until afternoon quitting time. Whenever I noticed an officer or noncom approaching, I bowed my head, walked very quickly toward, and then past him. No one dared to stop me; I appeared much too busy.
There were shipments of troops out every day to posts all over the United States. It was a giant lottery that started each of us on the road to our separate destinies. Each man could only wait and hope for the best.
In our civilian days, Seymour had always been quite concerned about his appearance, dressing up to the latest style whenever possible. Here, he quickly added a wrinkle, about which he proudly told us. He now laced his boots so that the laces went directly across from hole to hole rather than across and up to the next hole.
“Why do you bother with doing your laces in such a silly way?” I asked one day.
“Well,” he answered. “That’s so the laces can be cut quicker and my boots removed in case I get killed.”
“If that’s what you want to do, I certainly wouldn’t try to change your mind.” We all laughed, but I felt that he was serious.
After several days of heavy digging projects under a sweltering sun, Seymour approached me at breakfast and implored, “Please take me with you today, wherever you go! I’ve never worked like this in my entire life. I’m going to drop dead long before I get the opportunity to be shot by someone in some faraway place.”
“Well, Seymour,” I said with a smile. “If you agree to follow exactly what I tell you to do, I’ll be glad to take you with me. What the hell! They sure can’t do much else to us—we are already in the army—so what can we lose? Screw them all. Let’s go!”
Using my busy fast-walking routine, the two of us cleared all the danger points without difficulty. “Holy shit! You're an absolute genius!” complimented Seymour as we easily bypassed an assortment of officers and noncoms. “This is really great!”
We reached a grassy hill with several medium sized shade trees. Lying down, we stretched our limbs in all directions, purring in our sheer delight. Looking around at our surroundings, Seymour could not control his glee, as we watched our friend Joe and his contingent digging holes at the foot of the hill.
“Yoo…hoo! Yoo…hoo!” He waved to Joe, who looked our way only long enough to sneer with total contempt and to flick a cigarette butt toward us. Our day continued after lunch in the same fashion, but now we also had time for a nap under our shade trees. The coolness of the deep grass was a godsend on this steamy day. In all, we scored another successful triumph, as we once again awaited any word concerning our eventual transfers out of the induction center.
The following day, Seymour again approached me at breakfast. With a big smile and without hesitation, he quickly let me know that he was looking forward to another day out with me. Joe, a firm believer in following all rules and regulations, immediately let us know his views without any equivocation. “You guys are in for real trouble. I wouldn’t do what you two are doing, no matter what! You think you’re both so damned smart? Well, let's see what happens!”
I didn't take Joe’s admonitions very seriously, but becoming bored, I decided the next day to go along on one of the work projects.
“Listen, guys. Today I feel like doing something different,” I said. “I'd like to go on one of the work details.”
Seymour’s smile evaporated into disbelief when he heard what I said. But since I promised emphatically that, somehow, I would manage for the three of us to be together, his obvious rising panic seemed to lessen. However, he was not entirely convinced of the rationality of my decision to spend a day working. He gazed over at the shade trees and thick cool grass nearby.
“Boy, oh boy! Wouldn’t you rather we go up there and lie under those wonderful shade trees?”
“Oh, come on,” I answered. “Let's give it a chance. It's not going to kill us.”
The three of us were detailed to report to one of the warehouses along the railroad siding serving the fort. As we approached our destination, we all commented how good it was for three close friends to be together on such a beautiful, very hot day. Joe, also venting some of his inner frustrations, let us know that he wasn’t going to forgive us so quickly for the previous day’s events.
“This sure as hell beats being laughed at by you guys while I was sweating my ass off. Boy! It was so God damned hot yesterday! I kept thinking of how over the years we have been to all those nice swimming pools at home. I’m glad that crap from yesterday is over. Don’t let it happen again!”
The warehouse had a large loading dock that extended to the railroad siding on which there presently stood a single freight car. The car’s doors were ajar; one could easily see the crates of cantaloupes that completely filled its gigantic inners, with very little empty space remaining. There was no doubt in my mind that, by the end of this day, all those cantaloupes were to be stacked inside the warehouse, leaving a completely empty freight car. There also was no doubt as to which three sets of human muscle were to supply the energy needed to accomplish that task of unloading and stacking.
I immediately sized up the logistics of this operation, and slowly approached one of the two hand-trucks available just outside the warehouse door. Nonchalantly putting my hand lightly on the truck, I watched as Joe, mimicking my moves did the same. Seymour stood quietly and awaited the sergeant, who then appeared through the warehouse door.
“Okay, you guys. You're here to do a day’s work, so let’s get started. You two with the hand-trucks move over to the freight car door. You—” pointing to Seymour. “Load a crate on each truck. Then, you two push the trucks inside where you—” again pointing to Seymour. “Will take the crates off and stack them against the far wall. Okay? Let’s go!” As the sergeant disappeared into the warehouse, he reminded us that we had to complete this project before we could quit for the day.
There was no way for us to get out of this very unpleasant situation. No amount of conniving on my part could possibly grant us any relief. We started our assigned duties, each one silently pondering the outcome of this day. We should have counted to see how many crates we moved that day, but we didn't bother. A freight car has an enormous capacity; we learned the hard way.
Our initial communal good mood rapidly dissipated as the hours passed. It was late in the afternoon before we finally could count the crates remaining, and knew that we were almost done. It was then that Seymour let us know that he was exhausted; he was unable to finish the job.
“I kid you not,” he mumbled. “I’m absolutely fucking dead on my feet. You two must help me out. Please!”
“Seymour, you take my hand-truck. I'll do your bit.” I pushed my truck over to him. He grasped the handle and showed his gratitude with a broad grin. It was just then that the sergeant reappeared. He stood in the center of the loading dock, hands on his hips, nodding his head in approval. He scanned the entire scene as we finished the final crates.
“Yep, you guys are okay. You did a good job. Now, one of you should get the broom and sweep out the freight car, the dock, and the warehouse. Then we’ll be all finished for today. You—” He pointed to Seymour. “You, the fat guy. You didn't work that hard all day pushing that hand-truck. How about you getting a broom and clean up? You other guys can leave.”
As Joe and I walked away, we were afraid to laugh. Later, poor Seymour dragged himself into our barracks and collapsed onto his cot without saying one word to anyone. From that day, none of us ever mentioned that event again.
Even here, where no one was in harm’s way, each day of army life presented us with new challenges with which we had to deal. Everyone constantly searched for his own means to overcome these challenges.
CHAPTER 5
“...for being in a ship is being in a jail,
with the chance of being drowned...
A man in a jail has more room, better food,
and commonly better company.”
(Letters) Samuel Johnson
The Queen Mary left the United States from a New Jersey pier on October 12, 1944 (Columbus Day). This huge liner, converted to a troop carrier, was able to carry thousands. Because of her great speed, Mary traveled the northern Atlantic lanes without the need for a destroyer escort. Sailing a zigzag course made it almost impossible for prowling German U-boats to aim or successfully fire a torpedo at her.
Carrying 35,000 individuals of all descriptions, the ship was packed. The plethora of uniforms mirrored the broad presence of so many American and Allied servicemen and women: from Belgian marines and English WAVES, to American U.S.O. tour groups comprised of many celebrities. This latter group somehow remained well hidden throughout our trip, and there was no entertainment of any kind aboard the ship.
The great numbers and diversity of the voyagers necessitated the need for restricting various groups to specific areas. We could not enter certain decks, and I assumed that this type of restriction included everyone else on the ship.
I moved into a luxurious, paneled, single cabin on ‘A’ deck. In its past peace time glory, this was a room to be envied.
“Holy Christ, ain't this something?” said Tony Assante, one of the GIs who was to share this cabin.
“I think this is about the best there is on this boat,” I answered. “But it sure isn't gonna be great for all of us to share.”
There were three triple-tiered units, each with three sleeping bunks occupying this small space. Nine men were to sleep in this single cabin, while nine others would sleep on the floor of one of the covered promenade decks, each group using the cabin on alternate nights. Meanwhile, all the baggage of the 18 men was stacked in the cabin at all times.
After spending the first night in my luxurious cabin, I decided that the best solution to the unbearable crowding and over-stressed ventilation system was for me to sleep on a promenade deck.
“Guys, don’t count me in anymore I won’t be using this cabin any longer. Make your arrangements without me. I’ll be okay.” For the remainder of our voyage I slept on one of the promenade decks in relative comfort.
There were five sittings twice daily for meals, each one assigned by a color-coded card. Soon, there sprung up a type of black market for different colors, so that one could have the advantage of choosing the exact time he wished to eat each meal every day. I easily obtained all the necessary cards. But why this was so important really escaped most of us. It was just another way for me to ‘beat the system’ and to maintain some semblance of individual control over my life. How else could it have mattered when there was little to do except sleep, play cards or just walk as far as one was able before reaching a restricted area? Besides, the English food, cooked in huge quantities, was just barely acceptable to sustain life, nothing more.