Advancing again behind the speedy armor, the Battery swept through LeMans, a city of about 75,000 population famous for its auto races.
Cheering crowds lined the narrow streets, throwing flowers and fruit and blowing kisses to the GI's on the passing halftracks. At the same time, German snipers were still firing into the streets from buildings and treetops and the chatter of American machine guns answered back.
Outside LeMans, more snipers. The Battery sent out a small task force to check suspected positions, and gunner Vincent Smith was slightly injured when his 37mm gun blew up while firing at a house where snipers were still holding out.
From LeMans, we swung north along with the Long Tom artillery through Ballon and Bourg le Roi to Alencon on August 14. It was during this drive that we came face to face (or perhaps nose to nose) with General Patton. I was driving the Captain’s jeep and had just entered the oncoming traffic lane to pass some artillery guns when I spotted a jeep speeding toward us. It did not take more than a glance to know whose jeep it was! It was clean and gleaming, and bolted to its front bumper were three large red plaques bearing gold stars - the symbol of a three-star lieutenant general.
General Patton was in the passenger seat, waving vigorously for us to get the hell out of his way. I immediately drove into the ditch and we all saluted vigorously as he whizzed past.
It had been just two weeks since the breakout at Avranches and the allied forces now had almost the entire German Seventh Army surrounded in what came to be known as the Falaise Pocket. There was only a small gap between the Third Army on the south and the First Army on the north. The Germans were abandoning much of their equipment in the pocket and scurrying out on foot through the 15-mile gap that was still open. The 155mm Long Toms of the 731st Artillery went into action there bombarding the fleeing German columns up to 15 miles away.
Our halftracks were deployed a few hundred yards in front of the big guns and the noise was deafening, day and night. It was not just the “boom” of the big guns that bothered us but the whine of spinning brass safety rings that flew off the shells right after they left the muzzles of the guns. (The shells were disarmed by these rings for normal handling but were armed and ready to explode after the rings flew off.)
On August 13, Patton was directed not to let his troops advance further into the pocket but to wait for the British, Canadians and Polish troops to close the gap from the north. When the gap was finally closed on August 19, the German losses are said to have reached 240,000 killed or wounded, 210,000 taken prisoner, 3,500 guns, 1,500 tanks and a large number of vehicles of all types. It was a crushing defeat. However, by that time, we were long gone from the Falaise Pocket. We had been detached from the Long Toms and reassigned to the 961st Field Artillery Battalion. This unit was armed with 155mm howitzers, which were shorter range and much more mobile than the Long Toms, which was an advantage as we headed east.
We left the Falaise gap at dusk on a grueling all-night convoy (without lights) over dusty, almost impassable roads and stopped at dawn in a large wheat field northwest of Chartres. Most of us could hardly see because our eyes were streaming tears and caked with a thick layer of dust. Under combat conditions, no windshields are in place on the vehicles so the dust cloud kicked up by the vehicle ahead of you comes right back in your face.
While the medics were going down our column passing out ointments to treat our eyes, there was a sudden roar and a German ME-109 came over a line of trees to the east of us. He wasn’t strafing or dropping bombs - he was just taking off from an airport there. As the unsuspecting pilot roared toward us, a couple of gunners leaped into action and shot him down as he passed over our road. Later another ME-109 and an FW190 took off and were promptly shot down. One pilot was captured alive. It seems that because of our speedy overnight advance, the Germans had no idea where we were and were sending up reconnaissance planes to look for us. None of them had a chance to report back what they had seen
In the same area the next day the Battery was strafed at 0930 and 1700 without casualties and shot down another FW-190.
Showing posts with label basic training. Show all posts
Showing posts with label basic training. Show all posts
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
St. Hilairc ... LaChapelle Rainsouin
The afternoon of August 5 brought our first daylight air raid as the Battery escorted the 731st Field Artillery Battalion with their 155mm Long Tom cannons through St. Hilaire - about 16 miles east of Avranches. There was no warning but the sudden crackle of German machine guns as a flight of Messerschmitts (ME-109's) swooped low over the convoy with their guns blazing. Although Battery gunners were boxed in by buildings along the street, they filled the air with tracers and appeared to score some hits before a flight of American P-47 Thunderbolts roared by in pursuit of the Germans.
Steel slugs from the ME-109's had raked the street and left some holes in our equipment but we suffered no casualties.
Fortune was less favorable that night. The Luftwaffe on its evening patrol spotted the Battery's supply trucks still on the road at 2300 and plunged to the attack with bombs and bullets. Our cook, Staff Sgt. Oscar Nigle, was killed almost instantly, his kitchen truck damaged, and his kitchen crew severely shaken up by the bomb concussions.
An hour and a half later, bombers located the main groups of the Battery dispersed around the 155mm Long Toms a few miles away. Flares from the bombers, hanging by small parachutes, glowed like golden balls of fire, illuminating our positions with a pitiless glare. Above the glare we could hear the uneven throb of the bombers' engines as they circled overhead.
Then came the bombs! As I frantically tried to scoop out a foxhole with my folding shovel, two trucks carrying 155mm shells were hit and began to explode. The whine of hurtling fragments from the large shells added to the din and the danger of the falling bombs. Meanwhile, following strict orders not to fire at aircraft at night, the Battery's guns remained silent. Some men sought shelter in adjoining hedgerows, some in foxholes, some just hugged the ground, and others sat in their half-tracks cursing the falling bombs.
Almost miraculously, it seemed, our crews were unscathed although the artillery troops were not as fortunate and sustained several casualties.
On August 7, we advanced through Fougeres and Mayenne to La Chapelle Rainsouin, arriving there at dusk. It was soon discovered that there was no one between the artillery and the German infantry so the Battery's half-tracks were deployed for ground defense. About midnight, orders came to pull back three miles since a German tank-led counterattack was expected and our tanks would move in where we were. Later on, we could hear some of the ensuing battle before dawn, and when we moved forward the next morning we saw that our previous positions had been overrun by the Germans before they were intercepted and driven back by our armor and infantry.
Steel slugs from the ME-109's had raked the street and left some holes in our equipment but we suffered no casualties.
Fortune was less favorable that night. The Luftwaffe on its evening patrol spotted the Battery's supply trucks still on the road at 2300 and plunged to the attack with bombs and bullets. Our cook, Staff Sgt. Oscar Nigle, was killed almost instantly, his kitchen truck damaged, and his kitchen crew severely shaken up by the bomb concussions.
An hour and a half later, bombers located the main groups of the Battery dispersed around the 155mm Long Toms a few miles away. Flares from the bombers, hanging by small parachutes, glowed like golden balls of fire, illuminating our positions with a pitiless glare. Above the glare we could hear the uneven throb of the bombers' engines as they circled overhead.
Then came the bombs! As I frantically tried to scoop out a foxhole with my folding shovel, two trucks carrying 155mm shells were hit and began to explode. The whine of hurtling fragments from the large shells added to the din and the danger of the falling bombs. Meanwhile, following strict orders not to fire at aircraft at night, the Battery's guns remained silent. Some men sought shelter in adjoining hedgerows, some in foxholes, some just hugged the ground, and others sat in their half-tracks cursing the falling bombs.
Almost miraculously, it seemed, our crews were unscathed although the artillery troops were not as fortunate and sustained several casualties.
On August 7, we advanced through Fougeres and Mayenne to La Chapelle Rainsouin, arriving there at dusk. It was soon discovered that there was no one between the artillery and the German infantry so the Battery's half-tracks were deployed for ground defense. About midnight, orders came to pull back three miles since a German tank-led counterattack was expected and our tanks would move in where we were. Later on, we could hear some of the ensuing battle before dawn, and when we moved forward the next morning we saw that our previous positions had been overrun by the Germans before they were intercepted and driven back by our armor and infantry.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Periers ... Coutances ... Avranches
The night was uneventful, but on Sunday, July 30, the Battery's halftracks moved forward to take up their first firing positions, defending a field artillery bivouac area at Sortosville before moving on the next day to Periers. Periers turned out to be a fresh battlefield, filled with the stench of death. The fields were dotted with bloated dead cows, burned-out tanks, abandoned equipment and dead German soldiers. Most of the dead were temporarily covered with earth but here and there an arm or a leg could be seen protruding from the shallow graves.
Elements of what would soon become the Third Army were exploding into action under the direction of General Patton. Unlike his predecessors who believed that an attack should be led by infantrymen supported by tanks, Patton wanted his armor to lead the way, followed by the infantry. The results of this philosophy would soon be seen, surprising Hitler and the German high command.
The 4th and 6th Armored Divisions led the attack converging on the pivotal coastal city of Avranches. The fantastic speed of the attack and its constantly changing directions threw the Germans completely off base. The 4th Armored roared on through Avranches several miles south and captured intact the bridge over the Seune River at Pontebault. The breakout from Normandy had been achieved. Over this one bridge, Patton tunneled seven divisions in the next 72 hours!
Finally free from the choking hedgerows of the Normandy peninsula, the new Third Army could fan out both east and west. One column led by the 6th Armored headed west for the Atlantic coast while our Battalion headed east as part of Maj. Gen. Wade E. Haislip's XV Corps. The Germans were about to learn a lot about this major unit of Patton's army!
The night was black as ink as we moved through Coutances and down the road to the pivotal road junctions at Avranches. This area had been fiercely contested, and as we turned the corner to head east we could see piles of German dead, stacked almost like cordwood alongside the road.
We stopped a few kilometers down the road and paused while the tanks and infantry cleared away German resistance in front of us. While we were stopped, several Luftwaffe bombers made their appearance overhead as they sought to destroy bridges in our 10-mile wide supply corridor. At 0100 the Battery's guns went into action for the first time. A Junkers JU-88 bomber silhouetted against the moon was hit and sent plunging to the ground. Now the gunners were confident of their skills, any self-doubts and stomach butterflies were gone and the men of the Battery were really ready for action!
Elements of what would soon become the Third Army were exploding into action under the direction of General Patton. Unlike his predecessors who believed that an attack should be led by infantrymen supported by tanks, Patton wanted his armor to lead the way, followed by the infantry. The results of this philosophy would soon be seen, surprising Hitler and the German high command.
The 4th and 6th Armored Divisions led the attack converging on the pivotal coastal city of Avranches. The fantastic speed of the attack and its constantly changing directions threw the Germans completely off base. The 4th Armored roared on through Avranches several miles south and captured intact the bridge over the Seune River at Pontebault. The breakout from Normandy had been achieved. Over this one bridge, Patton tunneled seven divisions in the next 72 hours!
Finally free from the choking hedgerows of the Normandy peninsula, the new Third Army could fan out both east and west. One column led by the 6th Armored headed west for the Atlantic coast while our Battalion headed east as part of Maj. Gen. Wade E. Haislip's XV Corps. The Germans were about to learn a lot about this major unit of Patton's army!
The night was black as ink as we moved through Coutances and down the road to the pivotal road junctions at Avranches. This area had been fiercely contested, and as we turned the corner to head east we could see piles of German dead, stacked almost like cordwood alongside the road.
We stopped a few kilometers down the road and paused while the tanks and infantry cleared away German resistance in front of us. While we were stopped, several Luftwaffe bombers made their appearance overhead as they sought to destroy bridges in our 10-mile wide supply corridor. At 0100 the Battery's guns went into action for the first time. A Junkers JU-88 bomber silhouetted against the moon was hit and sent plunging to the ground. Now the gunners were confident of their skills, any self-doubts and stomach butterflies were gone and the men of the Battery were really ready for action!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Lucky Strike
As the sun came up, I faced an amazing sight. Right in front of me was a huge billboard, like the kind that advertised Lucky Strike cigarettes in the States. On the billboard in large letters was printed something like the following:
This is Third Army Area
That was the first inkling we had that General George S. Patton, Jr. was in France and was organizing a new army. Hitler and the German high command had been led to believe that he was still in London, preparing to lead another invasion across the Channel to the Pas de Calais area of France.
We had a breakfast of cold K rations and were just preparing to move out when suddenly there was a loud bang heard inside the headquarters half-track. It was a shot! A shot that resulted in Battery B's first casualty.
It turned out that the half-track driver was picking up his Thompson sub machine gun when the safety catch caught on a piece of canvas enough to release it at the same time that his hand accidentally hit the trigger. The resulting shot sent a .45 caliber slug into the chest of First Sergeant Pearce, who was sitting in the right front seat of the vehicle. The medics were on the scene quickly and took him by ambulance to a field hospital but the wound proved to be fatal. We had been in France less than twelve hours and already had our first fatality!
By 8:15 am, the Battery's vehicles were winding their way in a convoy over narrow, dust-choked roads ... through St. Mere Eglise, where we had seen some of the fighting in newsreels at home ... through Montebourg ... through the dust that once was Valognc ... to Briquebec where we settled down for the rest of the day and night. Here a few civilians showed up to greet us and offer our first taste of calvados, a powerful apple-based drink for which Normandy is well known.
Later, a wizened little old Frenchman beckoned to me to follow him to what appeared to be the ruins of his home. In what would have been the front room of the little farmhouse, he pointed to a white, writhing mound of something that looked vaguely familiar. Maggots! Thousands of huge white maggots were arrayed on the floor in the shape of a donkey, although you couldn't see any of the original remains of the animal.
Apparently, the farmer had brought the donkey into the house in an effort to shield it from bullets and shrapnel. An exploding shell had killed it where he found it on his return after the battle. Now he was appalled by this mass of maggots and wondered what to do. I searched through the remains of his barn and found a bag of lime, which we sprinkled over the pulsating mass. Within minutes the maggots were dead and the pile was shrinking. I decided that there was not much more I could do and returned to our halftrack. But the mental image of that donkey-sized mass of wriggling maggots would live with me forever.
This is Third Army Area
- Fine for not wearing helmet $25.00
- Fine for not carrying gas mask $25.00
- Fine for not saluting officer $40.00
That was the first inkling we had that General George S. Patton, Jr. was in France and was organizing a new army. Hitler and the German high command had been led to believe that he was still in London, preparing to lead another invasion across the Channel to the Pas de Calais area of France.
We had a breakfast of cold K rations and were just preparing to move out when suddenly there was a loud bang heard inside the headquarters half-track. It was a shot! A shot that resulted in Battery B's first casualty.
It turned out that the half-track driver was picking up his Thompson sub machine gun when the safety catch caught on a piece of canvas enough to release it at the same time that his hand accidentally hit the trigger. The resulting shot sent a .45 caliber slug into the chest of First Sergeant Pearce, who was sitting in the right front seat of the vehicle. The medics were on the scene quickly and took him by ambulance to a field hospital but the wound proved to be fatal. We had been in France less than twelve hours and already had our first fatality!
By 8:15 am, the Battery's vehicles were winding their way in a convoy over narrow, dust-choked roads ... through St. Mere Eglise, where we had seen some of the fighting in newsreels at home ... through Montebourg ... through the dust that once was Valognc ... to Briquebec where we settled down for the rest of the day and night. Here a few civilians showed up to greet us and offer our first taste of calvados, a powerful apple-based drink for which Normandy is well known.
Later, a wizened little old Frenchman beckoned to me to follow him to what appeared to be the ruins of his home. In what would have been the front room of the little farmhouse, he pointed to a white, writhing mound of something that looked vaguely familiar. Maggots! Thousands of huge white maggots were arrayed on the floor in the shape of a donkey, although you couldn't see any of the original remains of the animal.
Apparently, the farmer had brought the donkey into the house in an effort to shield it from bullets and shrapnel. An exploding shell had killed it where he found it on his return after the battle. Now he was appalled by this mass of maggots and wondered what to do. I searched through the remains of his barn and found a bag of lime, which we sprinkled over the pulsating mass. Within minutes the maggots were dead and the pile was shrinking. I decided that there was not much more I could do and returned to our halftrack. But the mental image of that donkey-sized mass of wriggling maggots would live with me forever.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Our Life in Combat Begins
Across the English channel in France, the Allies had captured the port of Cherbourg at the end of June but the main battle front was still only a few miles from the original landing beaches. And we still had no inkling of what our assignment was to be, even on July 27 when we got the word to proceed to Southampton to load onto a ship bound for France.
Our impression of England was very fleeting as we drove south in our own jeeps, trucks and half-tracks, detouring around London and on to the marshaling area at the port of Southampton. It soon became apparent that we were not going to be among the first to land at the docks in Cherbourg-our ship was an LST (Landing Ship-Tank) with huge doors in its prow that opened to drop a ramp in shallow water at a beach so that tanks and other vehicles could drive off under their own power.
By mid-afternoon, we were loaded onto LST 328 under the direction of a very competent U.S. Navy crew. After pulling away from the dock, we headed out into the English Channel for a rendezvous with several other LST's and navy ships which were there to protect us from submarines and airplanes. We had a blimp-like balloon attached by a cable to the bow of our ship. It floated several hundred feet in the air and was meant to discourage torpedo bombers and strafing aircraft from flying over our convoy at low altitude.
It was late evening when we began to head for shore. The sun glowed orange-red on our silvery barrage balloon as the LST threaded her way through a tangled breakwater of sunken ships and grounded her flat bottom on the sandy shores of St. Martin de Varreville, now known as Utah Beach.
German bombers were circling in the clouds overhead and we could hear a few not-too-distant explosions as the massive jaws of the LST opened wide and tanks and halftracks began driving onto the beach. It was 11 p.m., July 28th, 1944, and we were in France! I was riding as a radio operator in a jeep with our commanding officer, Captain William Kelly, Jr. that night with his driver, Frank Todesco. Captain Kelly in true military fashion decided not to leave the ship until all his troops were ashore, so we were to be one of the last vehicles off. Todesco and I viewed the situation with some trepidation for two reasons: the tide was coming in so the water was getting deeper at the end of the landing ramp, and the "karump, karump, karump" sound of exploding bombs seemed to be getting closer.
Sitting there in a jeep on the open deck of an LST and watching bright streams of anti-aircraft fire slashing the dark sky to ribbons, I was glad I was not in the Navy. There is no place to dig a foxhole on a ship! The Navy crew understood this very well and were getting anxious to back off the beach and get out of there. Finally it was our turn to exit. We drove down the gangway and the jeep promptly disappeared into the submerged hole dug by the tanks and half-tracks that had preceded us. Fortunately, the jeep was equipped with special exhaust equipment that permitted the motor to run under water.
Todesco floored the gas pedal and, with the four-wheel drive working, we rose up like Neptune emerging from the sea and churned across the sand to an exit marked by beckoning military police who were there to direct us. We drove on in the fading light past shattered pillboxes and rubbled houses to a large area designated as Assembly Area B. It was a large field with pre-dug foxholes, which we immediately dove into since the bombs were now falling close enough so we could hear them whistle. Not a good sign. So I slept in my foxhole until dawn.
Our impression of England was very fleeting as we drove south in our own jeeps, trucks and half-tracks, detouring around London and on to the marshaling area at the port of Southampton. It soon became apparent that we were not going to be among the first to land at the docks in Cherbourg-our ship was an LST (Landing Ship-Tank) with huge doors in its prow that opened to drop a ramp in shallow water at a beach so that tanks and other vehicles could drive off under their own power.
By mid-afternoon, we were loaded onto LST 328 under the direction of a very competent U.S. Navy crew. After pulling away from the dock, we headed out into the English Channel for a rendezvous with several other LST's and navy ships which were there to protect us from submarines and airplanes. We had a blimp-like balloon attached by a cable to the bow of our ship. It floated several hundred feet in the air and was meant to discourage torpedo bombers and strafing aircraft from flying over our convoy at low altitude.
It was late evening when we began to head for shore. The sun glowed orange-red on our silvery barrage balloon as the LST threaded her way through a tangled breakwater of sunken ships and grounded her flat bottom on the sandy shores of St. Martin de Varreville, now known as Utah Beach.
German bombers were circling in the clouds overhead and we could hear a few not-too-distant explosions as the massive jaws of the LST opened wide and tanks and halftracks began driving onto the beach. It was 11 p.m., July 28th, 1944, and we were in France! I was riding as a radio operator in a jeep with our commanding officer, Captain William Kelly, Jr. that night with his driver, Frank Todesco. Captain Kelly in true military fashion decided not to leave the ship until all his troops were ashore, so we were to be one of the last vehicles off. Todesco and I viewed the situation with some trepidation for two reasons: the tide was coming in so the water was getting deeper at the end of the landing ramp, and the "karump, karump, karump" sound of exploding bombs seemed to be getting closer.
Sitting there in a jeep on the open deck of an LST and watching bright streams of anti-aircraft fire slashing the dark sky to ribbons, I was glad I was not in the Navy. There is no place to dig a foxhole on a ship! The Navy crew understood this very well and were getting anxious to back off the beach and get out of there. Finally it was our turn to exit. We drove down the gangway and the jeep promptly disappeared into the submerged hole dug by the tanks and half-tracks that had preceded us. Fortunately, the jeep was equipped with special exhaust equipment that permitted the motor to run under water.
Todesco floored the gas pedal and, with the four-wheel drive working, we rose up like Neptune emerging from the sea and churned across the sand to an exit marked by beckoning military police who were there to direct us. We drove on in the fading light past shattered pillboxes and rubbled houses to a large area designated as Assembly Area B. It was a large field with pre-dug foxholes, which we immediately dove into since the bombs were now falling close enough so we could hear them whistle. Not a good sign. So I slept in my foxhole until dawn.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Leek on Blackshaw Moor
On the 29th of June the coast of Ireland came into view and we entered the Firth of Clyde, finally dropping anchor off Greenock, Scotland. This was a major port that served Edinburgh. It was obviously a popular place as we were surrounded by vessels of all types. The Queen Mary was there along with hospital ships, submarines, aircraft carriers, cruisers and destroyers. As it turned out, we could enjoy the sight all evening since it wasn't until the next morning that we were loaded onto a ferry and transported to shore where a British train was waiting for us.
The train was certainly different than anything we had experienced in the States. Each car was divided into several compartments; each with two facing seats, and the corridor was on the side of the car, not in the middle like in the U.S. Also, the windows were clean! We could watch the rolling Scottish countryside as the train zipped past miles of stone fences and little stone cottages with thatched roofs.
It was night when we reached our destination at a place called Leek on Blackshaw Moor. Trucks were standing by to whisk us, without lights, through the inky blackness to a barracks in Leek. The beds there offered us new experience. They were handmade wooden frames criss-crossed with steel strapping on which was a white tick filled with straw on which you could spread out your sleeping bag.
In the morning our equipment began arriving and everyone was busy with solvents and rags cleaning off the cosmoline that coated every piece of metal for weather protection during shipment.
On July 9, our jeeps, trucks and half-tracks were ready to roll and we convoyed south to a place called Blandford. Here we lived in tents for than two weeks as continued to receive and process supplies and equipment such as tools, gasoline, rations, ammunition, camouflage nets and paint.
The paint was for putting a distinctive name on each half-track such as Fighting Lady, Berlin or Bust or Kasserine Pass in memory of one of the Army's first battles in Africa.
In the evening we played softball until after midnight. Because of our northern location, double British summer time, and the longest days of the year, the sun did not go down until after midnight.
There was a military hospital near our location and several GI's from the 101st Airborne Division who had been wounded on D-Day came over to visit with us and recount some of their adventures. They didn't mind taking off their shirts to show us the bullet holes in their backs and chests. Thanks to sulfanilamide treatment they had healed well and the holes were now just half-inch pink circles on their white skin. The presence of the Purple Heart winners was a grim reminder of what we might face in the days and weeks ahead.
The train was certainly different than anything we had experienced in the States. Each car was divided into several compartments; each with two facing seats, and the corridor was on the side of the car, not in the middle like in the U.S. Also, the windows were clean! We could watch the rolling Scottish countryside as the train zipped past miles of stone fences and little stone cottages with thatched roofs.
It was night when we reached our destination at a place called Leek on Blackshaw Moor. Trucks were standing by to whisk us, without lights, through the inky blackness to a barracks in Leek. The beds there offered us new experience. They were handmade wooden frames criss-crossed with steel strapping on which was a white tick filled with straw on which you could spread out your sleeping bag.
In the morning our equipment began arriving and everyone was busy with solvents and rags cleaning off the cosmoline that coated every piece of metal for weather protection during shipment.
On July 9, our jeeps, trucks and half-tracks were ready to roll and we convoyed south to a place called Blandford. Here we lived in tents for than two weeks as continued to receive and process supplies and equipment such as tools, gasoline, rations, ammunition, camouflage nets and paint.
The paint was for putting a distinctive name on each half-track such as Fighting Lady, Berlin or Bust or Kasserine Pass in memory of one of the Army's first battles in Africa.
In the evening we played softball until after midnight. Because of our northern location, double British summer time, and the longest days of the year, the sun did not go down until after midnight.
There was a military hospital near our location and several GI's from the 101st Airborne Division who had been wounded on D-Day came over to visit with us and recount some of their adventures. They didn't mind taking off their shirts to show us the bullet holes in their backs and chests. Thanks to sulfanilamide treatment they had healed well and the holes were now just half-inch pink circles on their white skin. The presence of the Purple Heart winners was a grim reminder of what we might face in the days and weeks ahead.
Monday, June 8, 2009
On leave before leaving
Photo: The Aquitania waits for us in Boston Harbor, June 21, 1944.
The answer came the next morning when we were all given furloughs to go home and visit our folks. I went back to Elyria, Ohio, where Mom and Dad had just moved into a new house on Denison Avenue. Dad was working a lot of overtime driving trucks for the Beiter Line between Elyria and Cleveland. The flow of war supplies produced by local manufacturing companies was just tremendous, and I was impressed by the way the "home front" was supporting its fighting men. Dad took me over to the trucking company offices (resplendent in my Army uniform) to say hello to Mrs. Ann Beiter, who ran the outfit like a man -- or maybe better!
A few days later the newspapers and radio reported the momentous news that the D-Day invasion of France was taking place on June 6, 1944. It was going ahead without us! I guess most of us in the 398th Battalion had mixed feelings about this, but our folks were certainly glad that we were home and not charging up some beach in Normandy.
Upon returning to Camp Edwards we had another week of training exercises and target practice out near the tip of Cape Cod before we packed up and marched down the street to another waiting train. This time we headed north to camp Miles Standish just outside Boston. We went through the whole processing routine again and finally on June 21 we were trucked to Boston Harbor to rendezvous with our ship. This time there really was one!
It was the Aquitania -- a four-stacker that was the fifth largest ocean liner in the world at the time. She weighed 45,647 tons when she was launched in Clydebank, Scotland on April 21, 1913. The Aquitania and her sister ship the Mauritania were both luxury liners that had also served as troopships in World War I.
We applauded when we saw the huge liner sitting in the harbor because we knew the trip to England would take only a week. A smaller ship would have to travel in a convoy with other ships escorted by warships and would be on the ocean at least two weeks. So far, the German submarine packs had been unable to target any of the large ocean liners like the Queen Mary or the Aquitania because they were too speedy to be chased down by the subs.
Despite its large size, the ship did not provide much space on board for the individual GI's. After we struggled up the gangplank loaded down with a huge duffel bag, a field bag, cartridge belt and bayonet, canteen, gas mask and M-1 rifle, we looked for our "cabin." This turned out to be a huge open area filled with bunks stacked five high. There was less than two feet of open space from the bottom of my bunk to the bottom of the bunk above me, so it was not possible to sit up in bed. But the British crew told us we were lucky -- the ship was not double-loaded this time. When this happened, they said, there were two men assigned to every bunk so that one slept while the other was on deck and vice versa.
Anyway, we finally got things stowed away and took a nap so that we could be on deck when the Aquitania pulled away from the dock at 11 p.m. on June 21. After we cleared Boston harbor and hit the open sea, it soon looked like our helmsman was intoxicated. At least he didn't steer a straight line. Then someone in the crew explained that the course was changed every few minutes in order to zig-zag so that an enemy submarine could not lie in wait ahead of us because its captain would not be able to predict where we were headed.
The cuisine on the Aquitania will probably never be forgotten by anyone who sailed on her during wartime conditions. There seemed to be kidneys and mutton cooking in the galleys 24-hours a day so just the smell was enough to kill any desire for food. Fortunately, they only served two meals a day, although coffee was available at all hours. After tasting the coffee it became clear to us why the British drank tea. For my part, I really couldn't stand the kidney smell so I subsisted on U.S. Army K Rations during most of the voyage.
Editor's note: My dad till this day thinks he hates lamb though my mother has been able to sneak it on to his plate on occasion.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Hurry up and wait
April 10, 1944 had dawned clear and calm at Camp Edwards and the late afternoon sun shown brightly as we marched more or less smartly away from our barracks to the beat of a band playing "Dixie" and "There's No Place Like Home."
The streets were line with other GI's who expected to follow us someday and with the girls from the PX who were losing a good part of their customers until our replacements came in. Packs, rifles, gas masks and heavy overcoats weighted us down but we eventually made it to the railroad siding where our special train awaited.
In those days, the railroads on the East Coast were jammed with freight cars moving toward the ports so our progress was pretty slow. It wasn't until the following morning that our train arrived at our destination: a place called Camp Shanks.
The camp was located in a wooded area looking down on the west bank of the Hudson River near the village of Nyack, New York. The camp consisted mainly of many tar paper covered barracks that had been rather hastily assembled to shelter the troops while they awaited the call to board their ships in New York harbor about an hour's bus ride downstream.
Our first day was spent scrubbing the barracks, standing in endless chow lines, getting medical instructions and shots for various diseases. In our off time we eargerly read the walls of the latrines. In addition of the usual "Kilroy was here" signs, the walls were covered with the signatures of the troops who had preceded us overseas from Camp Shanks. Many had also noted the dates of their arrivals and departures so it was easy to figure out that their stay at Camp Shanks had ranged from three to ten days, with the average at about five.
For us, time plodded along as our processing continued with movies, lectures, boat drills, exercises and policing up the campgrounds. After five days we were eligible for twelve-hour passes from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. so practically everybody took off in the evening for New York or Nyack.
Nyack was pretty much unknown to most of us. It was a sleepy little town on the banks of the Hudson River and had been made famous by the lyrics of a popular song: Let's take a kayak to Quincy or Nyack -- let's get away from it all!
Although I admired the hills and valleys and pine forested scenery around Nyack, I could never have dreamed that 11 years later I would have a German wife and two children and we would be building our first house a few miles up the river from where Camp Shanks had stood. But for now, I preferred going into New York City.
The days went past and still there was no word as to when or where we were going or which ship was to take us. Rumor had it that we were headed for the First Army and would provide air defense for the invasion forces. But this was strictly rumor. Every day we welcomed new units arriving at Camp Shanks and waved goodbye to others departing for their ships. But nothing was happening to us.
We soon broke the ten day record for residence at the camp and then set the record for twenty days. It was getting embarrassing. Our main occupation now was moving piles of small rocks from one end of the parade ground area to the other during the day and going to New York or Nyack in the evening for "one last night" on the town.
Finally our orders came!
We read with disbelief that we were not to proceed to the harbor to board our ship. Instead, we were directed to gather our belongings and march to the railroad station for the train trip back to Camp Edwards ... of all places!
When we arrived back at Cape Cod there was no band to greet us; the PX girls were working; and a good many of the GI's who had lined the road for our original departure had themselves been shipped out to a port of embarkation. What now?
The streets were line with other GI's who expected to follow us someday and with the girls from the PX who were losing a good part of their customers until our replacements came in. Packs, rifles, gas masks and heavy overcoats weighted us down but we eventually made it to the railroad siding where our special train awaited.
In those days, the railroads on the East Coast were jammed with freight cars moving toward the ports so our progress was pretty slow. It wasn't until the following morning that our train arrived at our destination: a place called Camp Shanks.
The camp was located in a wooded area looking down on the west bank of the Hudson River near the village of Nyack, New York. The camp consisted mainly of many tar paper covered barracks that had been rather hastily assembled to shelter the troops while they awaited the call to board their ships in New York harbor about an hour's bus ride downstream.
Our first day was spent scrubbing the barracks, standing in endless chow lines, getting medical instructions and shots for various diseases. In our off time we eargerly read the walls of the latrines. In addition of the usual "Kilroy was here" signs, the walls were covered with the signatures of the troops who had preceded us overseas from Camp Shanks. Many had also noted the dates of their arrivals and departures so it was easy to figure out that their stay at Camp Shanks had ranged from three to ten days, with the average at about five.
For us, time plodded along as our processing continued with movies, lectures, boat drills, exercises and policing up the campgrounds. After five days we were eligible for twelve-hour passes from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. so practically everybody took off in the evening for New York or Nyack.
Nyack was pretty much unknown to most of us. It was a sleepy little town on the banks of the Hudson River and had been made famous by the lyrics of a popular song: Let's take a kayak to Quincy or Nyack -- let's get away from it all!
Although I admired the hills and valleys and pine forested scenery around Nyack, I could never have dreamed that 11 years later I would have a German wife and two children and we would be building our first house a few miles up the river from where Camp Shanks had stood. But for now, I preferred going into New York City.
The days went past and still there was no word as to when or where we were going or which ship was to take us. Rumor had it that we were headed for the First Army and would provide air defense for the invasion forces. But this was strictly rumor. Every day we welcomed new units arriving at Camp Shanks and waved goodbye to others departing for their ships. But nothing was happening to us.
We soon broke the ten day record for residence at the camp and then set the record for twenty days. It was getting embarrassing. Our main occupation now was moving piles of small rocks from one end of the parade ground area to the other during the day and going to New York or Nyack in the evening for "one last night" on the town.
Finally our orders came!
We read with disbelief that we were not to proceed to the harbor to board our ship. Instead, we were directed to gather our belongings and march to the railroad station for the train trip back to Camp Edwards ... of all places!
When we arrived back at Cape Cod there was no band to greet us; the PX girls were working; and a good many of the GI's who had lined the road for our original departure had themselves been shipped out to a port of embarkation. What now?
Prologue: The Basics
Photo: Commincations Section: 398th AAA AW Bn (SP)
Top row, left to right: Gaudette, Ross, Beck, Fingerhut.
Bottom row, left to right: Todesco, Euart, Funk, Tighe.
It was April of 1944, when the long awaited orders came for my U.S. Army unit to cease its training activities and to head for the Port of New York for embarkation. We were going to Europe!
It seemed clear that the anticipated "second front" to invade Hitler's fortress Europe would soon be opened, and we were needed!
By "we," I refer to the 150 men of Battery B, 398th AAA AW BN (SP). The alphabetical mishmash was our mailing address. More formally, were identified as the 398th Anti-Aircraft, Automatic Weapons Battalion (Self-Propelled). Our assignment would be to shoot down any low flying enemy planes that would attempt to bomb or strafe our armored or infantry columns, artillery positions, bridges or supply depots. For this purpose, we were armed with quadruple .50 caliber machine guns and rapid-fire 37mm cannons attached to revolving turrets. These electrically operated turrets were mounted on armored half-tracks -- that is, vehicles equipped with two rubber tired wheels in front and tank-type tracks in the rear. The units were quite fast, extremely mobile and offered tremendous fire power.
When the call to action came, we had been practicing with these half-tracks for about six months at Camp Edwards, a large military base on Cape Cod, south of Boston. Cape Cod is supposed to be a beautiful summer vacation area. Our experience had been that it was hellishly cold in winter with freezing winds that blew in snow and sleet from the frigid waters of Buzzards Bay on one side and the open Atlantic ocean on the other.
Fortunately, I had found it to be an interesting change from the climate where I had undergone the Army's basic training. That was at Fort Eustis, Virginia, near Williamsburg. That is also supposed to be a beautiful vacation area -- but not, of course, in midsummer when I was there taking 20 miles hikes and running obstacle courses in the sultry, steamy swamps of the Charles River.
Between these two extremes, I had spent a delightful three months at the Army's signal corps school at For Monmouth, near Red Bank, New Jersey. The instructors there were men from the RCA Corporation's nearby research laboratory where they were working on some newfangled electronic device called "television," which we had never seen.
We were taught the basics of AM and FM radio and how to use vacuum tubes, resistors and condensers in electrical circuits. After graduating from this course in basic radio operation and repair, we each had an interview with an instructor who offered us two options for further technical training. He told us that we could specialize in either FM radio repair or something that sounded to me like "Rate R." I decided to go with the RM radio training since it seemed to be a technology that could be valuable after the war.
Later, I found out that the instructor's pronunciaton was bad and that what I understood to be "Rate R" was really something called "Radar," a new technology being used by the British in the air battle over Britain. I also found out that if I had selected Radar I would have gone into the army air corps as a radar operator and would have spent the winter training in balmy Palm Beach, Florida, rather than being in an armored anti-aircraft outfit in icy Cape Cod.
But that was history. Now we were on our way to Europe.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
A letter to my sons
Dear Gary / Dear Kevin: Enclosed is your personal copy of "My War in Europe," which I've been meaning to write for the last 55 years. I actually started it in Munich in 1945 but just finished it last week (Nov. 14, 2000). Now that's procrastination!
I guess the impetus to get it done, finally, was my visit to the Allies' landing beached in Normandy this past September (2000). Unless you've been there, it is hard to envision the magnitude of the assault by a bunch of teen-age and college-age kids in 1944 that led to the end of World War II.
Being in the U.S. Army for more than two years, in combat against the German Army and Air force for 181 days, working for the army exchange service as a civilian for 18 months and meeting your future Mother in Munich certainly changed my life. That is why I have written this tale of my adventures so that I can become a written part of the Funk family history.
I hope that you will enjoy reading it, and perhaps it will remind you as to what our generation of Americans the way we are.
-- Dad
I guess the impetus to get it done, finally, was my visit to the Allies' landing beached in Normandy this past September (2000). Unless you've been there, it is hard to envision the magnitude of the assault by a bunch of teen-age and college-age kids in 1944 that led to the end of World War II.
Being in the U.S. Army for more than two years, in combat against the German Army and Air force for 181 days, working for the army exchange service as a civilian for 18 months and meeting your future Mother in Munich certainly changed my life. That is why I have written this tale of my adventures so that I can become a written part of the Funk family history.
I hope that you will enjoy reading it, and perhaps it will remind you as to what our generation of Americans the way we are.
-- Dad
About the author
My, dad, the author: Richard S. Funk was born on a farm in Ohio on January 20, 1922 about seven miles south of Lake Erie and 40 miles west of Cleveland near a town called Birmingham. During his formative years, the family worked on several farms (some without electricity or indoor plumbing) and ran a 5-cow dairy in Birmingham during the early depression years. In 1934, his father gave up farming for truck driving and moved the family to Elyria, Ohio, where Richard attended high school. It was there that a teacher interested him in journalism and helped him get a job on the local newspaper to earn funds for entering Ohio State University School of Journalism in 1941. There he became a news editor of the Ohio State Daily Lantern, president of the Arts College Council and a member of the Student Senate before being called to active duty as a U.S. Army volunteer in 1943.
After attending U.S. Army Signal Corps School to learn radio and electronic technology, he was assigned to an armored anti-aircraft unit that landed on Utah Beach in France in July, 1944 and became a part of General Patton's Third Army. The unit's biggest accomplishment was knocking down 12 enemy planes attacking the Third Army's first bridge across the river Seine north of Paris. After nine months of combat, the unit was in Bavaria when the war ended and he was transferred to Third Army Headquarters in Munich.
He received his Army discharge in Germany to accept civilian employment with the Army Exchange Service and later became manager of the Munich Photo Plant. One of the largest film processing plants of its day, it served the photo developing needs of soldiers stationed in Bavaria, Austria and Northern Italy. To help the GI's take better pictures, he also had a weekly radio show, Fun with Film, on the Armed Forces Network. During most of his two-year employment in Munich, his aide and interpreter was a young Munich native, Elizabeth Oeser, whom he married in 1948 shortly after his return to Ohio. They recently celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary.
They had two two sons, Gary and Kevin. Their youngest son Kevin died in Sept. 2004 at the age of 49. Gary works for The Fresno Bee newspaper in Central California.
To finish his interrupted journalism studies, he enrolled in night school at Cleveland College of Western Reserve University. During the day he and his new bride ran a photo shop and he published a news letter and did some selling for a northern Ohio beer and wine distributor. Following his graduation in 1951 he went to work as chief copy writer for SuperVision, Inc., a direct mail advertising agency in Cleveland. It was here that he applied for a job as editor of the Metal Lath News, a construction industry publication of the Metal Lath Manufacturers Association. He didn't get the job. Subsequently, the Metal Lath association forwarded his resume to the Perlite Institute in New York. The rest, as they say, is history. His 40-year experience in the perlite industry as an executive of the Perlite Institute, Great Lakes Carbon Corporation, Grefco, Inc., and General Refractories Company are recounted in his personal narrative entitled "Chasing the Bubbles."
After attending U.S. Army Signal Corps School to learn radio and electronic technology, he was assigned to an armored anti-aircraft unit that landed on Utah Beach in France in July, 1944 and became a part of General Patton's Third Army. The unit's biggest accomplishment was knocking down 12 enemy planes attacking the Third Army's first bridge across the river Seine north of Paris. After nine months of combat, the unit was in Bavaria when the war ended and he was transferred to Third Army Headquarters in Munich.
He received his Army discharge in Germany to accept civilian employment with the Army Exchange Service and later became manager of the Munich Photo Plant. One of the largest film processing plants of its day, it served the photo developing needs of soldiers stationed in Bavaria, Austria and Northern Italy. To help the GI's take better pictures, he also had a weekly radio show, Fun with Film, on the Armed Forces Network. During most of his two-year employment in Munich, his aide and interpreter was a young Munich native, Elizabeth Oeser, whom he married in 1948 shortly after his return to Ohio. They recently celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary.
They had two two sons, Gary and Kevin. Their youngest son Kevin died in Sept. 2004 at the age of 49. Gary works for The Fresno Bee newspaper in Central California.
To finish his interrupted journalism studies, he enrolled in night school at Cleveland College of Western Reserve University. During the day he and his new bride ran a photo shop and he published a news letter and did some selling for a northern Ohio beer and wine distributor. Following his graduation in 1951 he went to work as chief copy writer for SuperVision, Inc., a direct mail advertising agency in Cleveland. It was here that he applied for a job as editor of the Metal Lath News, a construction industry publication of the Metal Lath Manufacturers Association. He didn't get the job. Subsequently, the Metal Lath association forwarded his resume to the Perlite Institute in New York. The rest, as they say, is history. His 40-year experience in the perlite industry as an executive of the Perlite Institute, Great Lakes Carbon Corporation, Grefco, Inc., and General Refractories Company are recounted in his personal narrative entitled "Chasing the Bubbles."
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