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436th FA Battalion

Discussion in 'Honor, Service and Valor' started by Slipdigit, Jun 19, 2008.

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  1. Skipper

    Skipper Kommodore

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    oh I see, I'm dealing with a fine connaisseur :). My favourites are the Belgian Abbey beers. I remember one Abbey that would sell only beer from 5am to 6am, so we poor sinners had to repent before we got our reward :D

    Also it's amazing that you got into Southern Music decades before you moved there. In a way it attracted you there before you even thought about moving.
     
  2. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    OK, here's a story from back in Basic I want to slip in before I forget (the first part a bit redundant.)

    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    Our battalion was composed of 98% Southerners. They couldn’t march worth s**t. Didn’t know their right from their left foot. (You didn’t have to march growing up in the South – all you needed was to do your farm chores properly.)
    I on the other hand, from age 9 to 17 had been a Cub Scout and Boy Scout, learned to march at every opportunity, and was in the Drum and Bugle Corps every summer at scout camp.,,,, Late every afternoon each troop marched in formation into the parade grounds for the Call To Colors ritual. It required precision movements when maybe a 1000 bodies had to coordinate as we marched: forward, by-the-left-flank-march, by-the-right-flank-march, by-the-oblique-march, to-the-rear-march, mark time (march-in-place), double-time-march, half-step-march, and other such intracacies. So I appreciated good marching.

    It was a hot July day in Ft. Sill – 106 degrees before the sun had arisen. We had been out on maneuvers all morning. So we welcomed the ½ break after lunch, lying around on our bunks on the 2nd floor of the barracks ------ when at some point I heard a distant set of sounds – couldn’t recognize what it was. It came closer until finally I realized it was a bunch of men chanting in unison. I jumped out of my bunk and went to a window overlooking the adjoining street. There in the distance I saw this entire regiment, probably 8 to 12 men abreast, dressed in spiffy ceremonial uniforms, carrying "dress" rifles – marching down the street towards us in lockstep.

    They were all Black, led by a white Lieutenant. As they marched the Lt. was barking out "hut, two, three, four" at times interspersed with various other orders. With each of the orders they responded by stepping through the most intricately choreagraphed maneuvers I had ever seen (outside of a ballet recital). It included running the standard "Manual of Arms." This was basically a protocol for handling a rifle. It was commonly done while standing in formation. However, these Blacks were performing the Manual while marching in various formations (as ordered by the Lt). The maneuvers included: right-shoulder-arms, left-shoulder-arms, port-arms, present-arms, among others. In addition the soldiers were barking out some kind of repetitive sing-song pattern (similar to a highschool football cheer).

    All of this SIMULTANEOUSLY. Talk about coordination!

    I mused on this for some time, but didn’t realize the significance until later years I saw little Black kids dancing in the streets of the Brooklyn ghettos playing street games. Later I saw them dancing in the movies. Still later I discovered Black folk music from the South, and New Orleans Blues. I finally saw the connection: "White Men Can’t Jump" …. And Blacks have a high "body" IQ.
    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
     
  3. Skipper

    Skipper Kommodore

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    such a performance must have been very impressive. They must have highly trained soldiers too. Did these guys belong to the units that were sent to Normandy in 1944?
     
  4. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    SKIP

    Yeah, here's the skinny on that story:

    A pipe-smoking, quiet-speaking Englishman, Robin McCarthy, had the dorm room above me, during my last year of college in '48. So I was unable to avoid the constant blare of of what he called "New Orleans Jazz." I thought it was pretty crude and primitive, compared to my recent infatuation with "bebop" and progressive jazz. In pursuit of the latter I made many trips down to 52d Street in NYC to catch the likes of such greats as Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, and Charlie Parker – live.

    But Robin was an evangelist, constantly pursuading me to listen to this and that recording of Louis Armstrong, Johnny Dodds, King Oliver, Kid Ory, and others who had been in their prime in the 1910s and '20s. Well it finally worked. By the time graduation came around in June I had become a convert. All I would listen to was N.O. Jazz. Bought all the albums,books and magazines I could find. Became a connoisseur of the best that ever came out of N.O. But more important N.O. Jazz became a lifelong love, and it led to my interest in Black folk music (basically the Blues), and also the greatest folk musician that America ever produced, Huddie Ledbetter. (More on him in another story, right after the end of WW2.)

    Bill
     
  5. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    No, I rather think that that's all they did -- as a "display" outfit -- good PR for the military. I think the doughboys in Normandy were all business and no show.

    Bill
     
  6. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    OK, here we go with what I consider the most significant story of my entire tour of duty:

    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    This is easily the most significant story in my WWII experiences. I start out by mentioning that in 1942, my dad, who was in his late ‘40s, way past the draft age, enlisted in the U.S. Army Medical Corps, as a Captain. At the time we all thought it was the height of patriotism. (Actually in years later I realized it was a pattern lasting decades: anything to get away from family responsibility.) But there he was in uniform, doing doctor duties at Fort Knox, and then Camp Atterbury. However, by the time D-Day had rolled around it was obvious that he was not made for the regimentation of military organization. He was constantly in conflict with his senior officers. It became apparent when all the officers around him increased in rank, at least to Major. Dad remained a Captain till the end of the war.

    Then in June 1944, just after D-Day, the casualties began mounting. The Army was desperate for replacements. So even though I was in a Pre-Med program in college, and pre-meds were typically deferred from the draft, I was drafted and ended up in the Field Artillery at Fort Sill. Finished Basic in mid-November, and then sent to a line outfit, the 436th, in January 1945, at Gruber, preparing for activation to go overseas. That’s when things got interesting.

    First, in early Spring there was a visit from my dad, who had gotten a couple weeks leave from Atterbury. It was a great thing to have your dad, in uniform, visit you while in uniform yourself. However, it wasn’t but a day or so when the real motive for his visit became apparent. He kept saying over and over it was unfair of the military to cut off my chance to go to med school. (Crucial here was the mantra of every parent of every little Jewboy from NYC: to be able to proudly say, "My son, THE DOCTOR.")

    So shortly the other shoe dropped. Dad began tutoring me in how to fake a leg injury, calling on his expertise as an Army doc to be able to describe just what it would take to fool them into placing me in the ‘Class D’ category: disabled for combat duty. What made it easier for him was that I had 3d degree flat feet bilaterally. Also the fact that I had been plagued with left foot (arch) pain since I was an early teenager – and marching for miles was always a nightmare.

    Anyway, he talked me into it, and I began reporting regularly to Sick Call every morning complaining about left leg pain. Finally the Battalion medical officer had me hospitalized so they could examine me more carefully, but mainly so they could put me under 24-hour surveillance. There I was, in a ward mostly filled with "goldbricks" – guys trying to get out of the service, or at least out of combat.

    (BTW, most of these guys were Jewish or Italian NewYorkers. Of course, by contrast, the overwhelming majority of NYC Jews and Italians were 100% straight shooters. E.g., my favorite cousin Sally lost her husband, Carl, in Adak in '42; my close friend Lee Hammer was a navigator in the 8th on a B-17 -- went thru some pretty bad stuff.)

    Well, after several weeks of surveillance I was discharged from the hospital and placed on the "D list." I was transferred from a ‘line’ battery to Headquarters Battery, where all I did was type reports and shuffle and file paperwork.

    Now it just so happened that my immediate superior, Hart Nance, from Tyrell, TX, was a neat guy – a pre-law student in civilian life. We got to be pretty good friends. Then little by little he began working on me, with all kinds of reasonable arguments as to why in the long term my decision would not go well with me during the rest of my life. In particular I was impressed by his once saying, "You know, Bill, you never know what the future might hold for you – for example, you might someday want to go into politics. If you did your record would haunt you for whatever office you would seek. Somebody would dig that up and publicize it – and that would be the end of your campaign." That made sense to me.

    However, my biggest concern was the guilt that was building up inside me.

    Then in July ’45 our outfit was finally activated, and we prepared to go in on the Invasion Of Japan. We all knew it would be tantamount to a death sentence. We’d be battling an army on its home territory, with the subtle protection that would provide – the native support via language, custom, and knowledge of geography. To say nothing of fighting against someone whose back was up against the wall. By comparison It would have made the invasion of Normandy a Sunday picnic. There were various unofficial estimates of our expected casualty and/or death rate: somewhere around one million.

    I brooded.

    Then shortly after I went up to the First Seargent and told him to take me off the D list – I was going over with the outfit.

    I’ve since known several professional people: lawyers, engineers, doctors – who pulled off the medical discharge deal. All of them happened to be Jewish. And they got discharged while we were still fighting Hitler.

    That's something I chew on till this day.
    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
     
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  7. Skipper

    Skipper Kommodore

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    You did the right thing and I wouldn't be surprised if you told me this is the best decision you made in your life. Not only for yourself and your country , but also to build up your own personnality and independence as opposed to your dad's wish.

    Another detail I notice really arose my curiosity: could you tell more about your friend Lee Hammer? Was he shot down over Europe?
     
  8. Slipdigit

    Slipdigit Good Ol' Boy Staff Member WW2|ORG Editor

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    My Alabama grandmother was a big fan of the bands you mentions (and I am too). Did you ever get to see any of them?

    Are you still in the band and do you ever play outside of the Cullman area?

    I like Jazz from Nawlins. Do you ever get to hear the Preservation Hall Jazz Band?
     
  9. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    Here's the other big story from my tour:

    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    It was late summer 1945. The 436 had been alerted, finally, to go overseas (in the upcoming invasion of the Japan mainland), and we finally got our shipping orders in the early part of August.

    Our troop train was typical: '40and8' troop cars: no air conditioning, dark-painted (I think it was black paint, but it might have been dark olive drab -- can't remember), the only ventilation coming from the windows along the sides and the open doors between cars. Along with the outside air came heavy black soot, from the engine stacks. The daily ambient temperatures outdoors during the trip peaked somewhere around 100. It was suffocatingly hot inside all our cars.

    We were fed 3x a day, from giant soup buckets (2 feet or so in diameter & maybe 2 feet deep), placed on the inter-car platforms of the cars. We'd line up with our messkits and pass by the dispensing point. Often enough just as the cook or cook's helper would ladle out your portion of stew the car would take a sideways lurch and half your meal would miss and end on the platform or right past it to the tracks below.

    Our train made its slow trip from Gruber (near Muskogee, OK) to Union Station at Salt Lake City. Any passenger AND ANY FREIGHT train got priority over us, diverting us to a siding for maybe hours until the other train passed. Then at SLC, our train stood out in the freight yard for 3 days, in the hot sun, for some reason or other.

    The next leg was from SLC to Needles, AZ, (known as part of the 'southern route' in the railroad business) and then up through California to Pittsburgh, CA --- Camp Stoneman, POE (Port of Embarkation.)

    Then, one afternoon, on that second leg, the train stopped for some reason or other. While we were waiting for it start up again, a RUMOR RACED THROUGH FROM ONE CAR TO THE OTHER: WE HAD DROPPED SOME KIND OF HIGH-POWERED MYSTERY BOMB ON NAGASAKI, WIPING OUT THE ENTIRE CITY IN AN EYEBLINK! There must have been some officer with a radio in the headquarters car who picked up the report initially.

    When we heard the news we started cheering, as we immediately realized the import of this event: this would bring Hirohito to his knees -- he wouldn't risk having another of his major cities vaporized in a second, if we dropped another such bomb. We would never have to go in on the Invasion!

    Well, the troop train continued on its meandering way for another day or two -- and NO news of an imminent surrender. So once again we resigned ourselves to the dreaded invasion of Japan -- the casualty rate would make Omaha Beach in the Invasion of Normandy on D-day, June 6th, 1944 - seem like a Sunday picnic in comparison. For we would be invading the enemy's HOMELAND. (Invading France, on the other hand, was for the Germans merely one of their occupied foreign lands -- not their home territory.

    Then on the third day, [this 3-day lapse of time is signifcant -- I will be commenting on it in one of my "post-war" posts in this thread, in response to a critic of our dropping the bombs] another news report raced through the train! President Truman had ordered another similar bomb (and we heard that it was an ATOMIC bomb) on Hiroshima, wiping that city off the map!

    But STILL - 3 days later - no surrender from the Emperor's headquarters in Tokyo. We were despondent again, this time more so, because of dashed hopes twice.

    Our train finally made it to Camp Stoneman. By the next night half of our outfit had boarded the troop ship, and the rest of us the next afternoon at 1PM were lined up in the battalion square waiting to board, with our gangplank numbers painted in white on our helmets (mine was #91, or 191), new issue combat boots on our feet, jungle mosquito netting in our backpacks along with salt tablets as part of our rations. Finally our Battery Commander came out to give us our farewell pep talk.

    He shortly arrived, with an appropriately serious look on his face as he pulled out a piece of yellow paper from his shirt pocket. He said, "Let me read you this TWX (telegram) I just got from Washington a few minutes ago. Here's what it says..... 'Emporer Hirohito has offered to surrender .... the war is over .... everybody's got a 3-day pass to San Francisco' .... SEE YA LATER, GANG!!" -- and he was GONE!!

    00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

    A deafening silence. For maybe several seconds we stood there speechless .... we had spent several months processing all the necessary psychological operations on our minds to make it OK to go into battle, against an army fighting on its own land, a battle many of us would never survive (the estimates were 1 million of us dead) ----------------

    ----------- we had transmuted the Unavoidable Life Threat into Willing Participation -- because that maintained the integrity of our ego: by CHOOSING to climb the gangplank we maintained Control Over Our Destiny.

    And then somone knocked the pins right out from under our months of self-imposed Mind Control.

    Then we came back to earth .... with a roar and cheering we broke ranks, hugged each other, then hurried back to barracks to change into Class A uniforms, and boarded the waiting ferry boat that would carry us to the docks at San Francisco that afternoon.

    That ride in to the S.F. harbor was the most glorious ship passage any of us had ever been on (and any thereafter, in my life anyway.) When we got to the City, everyone in a military uniform was a hero to the local citizens. And that's the way it went for three days.

    By the way, our BC, Captain Unterzuber, with a wife and kids at home, went AWOL (Absent Without Leave -- a serious crime during wartime) for FIVE days. We later heard he came back stinking drunk, but his superiors appropriately looked the other way and he was never prosecuted.
    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
     
  10. Skipper

    Skipper Kommodore

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    Wow , you were pretty close from invading Japan , weren't you ? and your captain was lucky not to get court martialed for getting drunk and go astray fro 5 days, he has very understanding superiors.
     
  11. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    Yep, I do believe that was the most important decision I made in my entire life .... had I not I suspect I may have ended up committing suicide.

    Regarding Lee, he wasn't shot down ... but flying those sorties over Germany were nerve-wracking -- flak all over the place all the time -- I would have had a real tough time handling that kind of environment. However, Lee was always a cool cat.

    Bill
     
  12. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    SLIP

    Yeah, I was lucky -- got to see Harry James once, and Glenn Miller once .. in NYC.

    I devoted 4 years, June 2000 to June 2004, practicing, building my repertoire, gigging a couple times a week. I jammed with several groups, travelled around AL, TN, and GA to various Bluegrass events (but gave up on Bluegrass -- couldn't move my fingers fast enough :eek: .)

    Ended up with a solo act (Know why? Couldn't keep time well enough -- threw everybody else off. :eek: Some solace, tho, in knowing that Willie Nelson has the same trouble -- his band always has to change tempo to match his :D.)

    Then I quit cold turkey -- 'cause I needed to make some money -- my pension and Social Security weren't keeping up with inflation. So I started studying the Forex market, rather intensely -- 4 hours a day minimum. Been doing that ever since. Just started "turning the corner" a couple months ago. Think I'll eventually make enough to pay off the mortgage, car payments, and credit card debts. IF the currency markets don't explode in the meantime :eek: :eek:.

    Re Preservation Hall Jazz Band, you know I'd been trying to get to hear them live ever since 1948 -- never made it until 3 years ago -- went down to N'awlins on a tourist trip with friends. When I finally got to hear them .. Criminies -- it was the most disappointing shock of my musical life :mad::mad::(:( -- a bunch of old guys, all hacks every one of them, not a bit of spontaneity, no improvisation, just puttin' in their time. Talk about disillusionment. Now the original guys back in the '10s and '20s they had to be the real thing. Born too late, Slip.

    Bill
     
  13. Slipdigit

    Slipdigit Good Ol' Boy Staff Member WW2|ORG Editor

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    That was my general impression of them also. I had heard them maybe in 1987 or so and enjoyed them. Skip forward to 1999...disappointment reigned.
     
  14. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    OK, y'all, this will most likely close out the main body of this thread -- the history of the 436 during WW2. In the meantime I've accumulated some documentation/further stories -- that developed post-war, but shed light on some things that happened during the war itself. So I'll probably add a "post-war" section to the thread shortly. In the meantime here's a pic of the 436 right after getting activated to go in on the Invasion of Japan:

    Screwed up attachment ... see next post.

    Bill
     

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  15. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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  16. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    POST-WAR STORIES:

    September 1946 – Washington & Lee U., Lexington, VA

    PART ONE

    Here’s the second-most significant story in my WWII experiences. V-J Day had happened less than a month ago. Everybody was figuring out their "points," which would decide when they would get their "Separation" or discharge notice so they could get back home and enjoy good food, wimmin', and good times again. Then the strangest thing happened to a small group of us, maybe 100. It was the closest thing to a ‘time warp’ I’ve ever been in. Out of roughly 4 million military personnel, this select group was chosen, on what basis I still don't know.

    Among us were Generals, Admirals, WAVES, WACS, and then a handful of us just plain draftees, low-level non-coms at best. Furthermore there was this strict admonition: NOBODY is to wear their military headware, and NOBODY is to salute any one else. Incredible, unbelievable. I had to constantly grab my right arm from throwing up a salute to my classmates as we walked by each other. And most of us did not know how to act in the presence of females. Another challenge was to avoid mouthing obscenities, part of our everyday conversation for the past few years.

    Anyway, we were all brought to this absolutely stunning campus in early Fall, in the hills of western Virginia. The woods were rampant in fall colors. Life was serene. The food was great. It was like being sucked out of Hell and dropped into Heaven within the time it took the train ride from Camp Hood, Killeen, TX (where the 436 was sent after returning from Camp Stoneman POE), to Lexington, VA.

    Why were we here? Well, it turns out that a wiry, very eloquent little Jewboy Lt.Col in the DENTAL Corps was chosen (obviously by someone very high up in the military food chain) to lead us through the official syllabus for our month’s stay: "Why We Fought World War II."

    Now I being a wiry (but only quasi-eloquent) little Jewboy – found that kind of intellectual question was right up my alley. But how did they know that? Anyway I shortly made friends with a motley collection of non-coms in our dorm -- including a Black artist (who introduced me to Langston Hughes and the world of serious Art) – how the heck did he get chosen?

    And a Black law student – once again, this interracial stuff, inside the military, was like from MARS! (More about this law student later in this story.)

    So what happened during the month of lectures? I still am shocked from what I was hearing. The little DDS explained to us what had happened at Yalta, between Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin. How Stalin had made a sucker out of FDR, while Churchill sat helplessly by. Very unnerving. Then he described, documenting in detail, how our Generals were rolling through western Europe, on the way to Berlin, Prague, other eastern European capitols --- when they got orders from above to STOP DEAD IN THEIR TRACKS and wait for the Russkies to move into the Eastern occupation zones. REALLY unnerving.

    Now let me mention here, for example that I had been a co-founder in high school, of the local chapter of the Young Socialists. I had read all the liberal books touting the Paradise of the Proleteriat (the Soviet Union), and believed every bit of it, every jot and tittle. "Uncle Joe" Stalin was our comrade-in-arms and together we’d march on to Eternal Peace, the End of Poverty, and everything else in between.

    And the DDS was talking apparent blasphemy. What was going on?

    Well, I heard 30 days of that story, with all kinds of documentation, and occasional nodding of heads from the Admirals and Generals in our troupe, that gradually persuaded me that we had been taken in on the biggest con game of the 20th Century. And that there’d be hell to pay in the coming decades. (Only a few short years later I was a medical student in Switzerland – when all the European newspapers and radio stations were commenting on the likelihood of "The Red Menace" rolling across the continent – a piece of cake apparently, because the US had almost totally demobilized its military during that period – and Europe appeared a sitting duck. That turned out to be a big reason I came back to the States and started med school over again at NYU.)

    Anyway, all of us in that Washington & Lee University class were to go back to our respective units and, as "political oreintation officers" teach the troops "Why We Fought WWII." Needless to say, when we got back to our outfits and set up the program we got nothing but hoots and howls. "Where did you guys pick up all that garbage?" and "Besides, who gives a damn what’s happening in Europe? – we’re all going home, and no more bullets flying by us. Back off, buddy!"

    But here's what that 30 days did to my political orientation. Although I remained, otherwise, a stout left-wing liberal until 1976 (when I woke up to the fact that President Johnson's "War On Poverty" gained nothing on poverty -- except impoverishing us, the US taxpayers) ---- after what I had learned about Yalta I became a confirmed pro-military "hawk" -- thus I was a political freak: half liberal and half conservative.

    PART TWO

    A most interesting personal sideplay to that month on W&L campus concerns that Black law student friendship I made there. Can’t remember his name so let’s call him Louis. Turned out his home was in nearby Washington, DC., only a few hours Greyhound ride from W&L. So I said to him, "Hey, let’s go to DC together on the weekend break – so I can meet your family." He said, "Sure, no problem." However as the weekend approached he became less and less enthusiastic, until Louis finally realized I was dead serious about the visit (in my eternal naivite about relationship subtleties). Anyway came Friday and we boarded the late afternoon Greyhound to DC. But all through the trip I noticed he had become more and more withdrawn as we approached our destination. Finally, around 6 or so we arrived, not much before sunset.

    By that time I noticed he was overtly anxious, why I hadn’t a clue. Then he kept stalling around the bus terminal, while I was eager to move on and get to his house. Finally dusk set in. By that time I noticed beads of sweat on his brow. He then cautioned me to follow him closely and not talk too much. We proceeded rapidly along a bunch of city streets till finally we came to a well-kept but far from prosperous row of homes along a tree-lined street. At that point Louis said in a firm voice, "Now Bill, you wait right here, you hear? I don’t want you to cross the street to my house until I tell you to. I’m going across to the front door, I’ll go inside, and after a little while I’ll signal you to quickly run across and get inside the house without delay. Got it?"

    Not understanding at all why all this fuss, I said OK. Then he ran across to his front door and knocked on it in some kind of code. Forthwith a little peephole window popped open, a few hushed whispers were exchanged, the door opened, and my friend disappeared inside. A few minutes later, the door cracked open and I was motioned into his house.

    Well, by that time I figured out that for some reason the family didn’t want anybody in DC knowing that my friend had brought back a white man to their home – but I couldn’t understand why they made such a big deal about it. Anyway, his mother, father, and siblings were delightful people, very gracious, and set out a nice dinner for us. We talked about all kinds of things through the evening and then I retired to a clean guestroom.

    Early next morning, before dawn, I was awakened by Louis who told me breakfast was served and we’d better leave shortly thereafter to get back to the bus terminal. After warm goodbyes we were off to the bus – in the dark. And we ‘skulked’ back, hurriedly, in the same fashion as when we had arrived the night before. Finally dawn came just as we got to the station --and at last Louis relaxed, no sweat on his brow, and was his usual smiling self.

    It wasn’t until a half century later that I understood the full impact of what had happened on that visit. It was after I had moved down South to Alabama around the time of Y2K. When Y2K turned out to be a non-event, I went looking for something new to do with my life of retirement. I chose to get serious about singing, and did that fulltime for four years.

    One of the songs I learned and which became one of my favorites was Huddie Leadbelly’s "The Bourgeois Blues." He tells the story of what happened to him when he was touring the United States, and was taken by his sponsor, Miss Barnicle, a wealthy New York socialite, to Washingtion, DC. They found out they couldn’t get a room in the city overnight. This was 1945 – in the capitol of the country which had just defeated the Axis – Germany, Italy, and Japan. (And, coincidentally, it was just around the time I was there.) Let me quote three verses for you:

    Me an’ Marthy, we was standin’ upstairs
    I heard a white man say, "I don’t want no niggers up there."
    Lawd, he’s a bourgeois man.
    Hee, it’s a bourgeois town.
    I got the bourgeois blues, gonna spread the news all around.

    Home of the brave, land of the free
    I don’ wanna’ be mistreated by no bourgeoisie
    Lawd, in a bourgeois town, etc.

    Now here’s the key to Louis' actions:

    Me’n Miss Barnicle went all over town
    Ev’y where we go the colored people would turn us down
    Lawd, in a bourgeois town, etc.

    Now why would colored people turn down Leadbelly, by then a world famous troubador? Simple. They were in the company of a white lady. AND IF THEY HAD TAKEN HER IN, AND THE COMMUNITY FOUND OUT ABOUT IT – THEY COULD HAVE conceivably LYNCHED Leadbelly and the colored family. (!!!!)

    Bill
     
  17. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    THE FORTY MILES PER HOUR MIRACLE

    After WWII ended, in September 1945, our outfit was de-activated and we were dispersed to various camps throughout the States. I ended up in Camp Hood (later, Fort Hood), TX. Somehow I ended up as an NCO (non-commissioned officer) in the Political Orientation and Education Unit (or some such name) at the Camp. Our duties were to educate the troops on why we went to war, what it was all about, and what it meant to America. An admirable ambition, and which seemed made-to-order for my interest in politics, philosophy, and the 'meaning of life' in general.

    The only fly-in-the-ointment in the setup was the staff sergeant who was directly over me. He was an unbelievable stiff -- rigid, uncommunicative, a faceless automaton afraid of having an original thought, ever. His maddening attitude got to me one morning, and in a giant huff, I flew out the door, jumped into our unit's jeep and took off the for the hills which was part of the camp's reservation.

    I had passed my military driver's license some months in the past, but hadn't really driven that much since. Anyway, mad as blazes, I went buzzing out on to a turtleback gravel road with 3-foot drainage ditches on each side. I was driving a Ford jeep, not a Willys jeep. The main difference between the two was that the Ford, a copy of the original Willys, was designed with a giant amount of 'slop' or 'play' in the steering wheel.

    So I'm cruising along at 40 mph when the jeep drifted over to the right (because of the gravel-covered turtleback contour.) I attempted a corrective maneuver (steering to the left) -- but because of the steering wheel slop the vehicle did not immediately respond. So I gave it full left. Finally when I was almost at the right drainage ditch it started turning to the left.

    And then it overcorrected and started heading straight for the left drainage ditch. I flipped the steering wheel to the right, but again no response, so I went full right. Finally it responded, but by then I was heading straight into the right drainage ditch. As I hit it with my right front wheel, my body went flying out of the jeep to the left, taking the plastic/canvas door with me. All of this going approximately 40 mph.

    The next thing I knew I was flying through the air, and the next thing after that I HAD LANDED, STANDING ON MY FEET, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GRAVEL ROAD, SLIDING ALONG AT ABOUT 40 MPH, FACING SIDEWAYS TO THE RIGHT!!
    I continued sliding standing up. And facing to the right I could watch as my jeep went flying up in the air. I continued sliding and watching the jeep's trajectory. It finally landed I'm guessing maybe 50 feet away on the side of the road, and immediately folded up like an accordion.

    I continued sliding, standing up ... gradually slowing down ... and finally coming to a halt ... hot, burning shoe soles ... but standing up ... alive and basically unhurt (just a hole through my lower lip where a tooth had apparently met the steering wheel as I exited the vehicle.)

    And as I stood there, laughing hysterically I watched the spectacle of my jeep, collapsed on itself, with a wisp of white smoke arising from the remains. (Later I found out that some artillery observers had their field glasses on the wreck, had reported the accident to the medic detachment and told them not to bother sending out an ambulance -- just send the 'meat wagon,' or coroner's vehicle, so sure were they that there could be no survivor.)

    OK, what was the moral of this story for me, what was the message? Well, it was what the message was NOT -- that was significant here. Unbelievably, I never made the connection that I had just witnessed, at close quarters, a true miracle. Why did I miss it? Because I had been a militant atheist since the age of 14 (under the tutelage of my atheist dad, but being a very willing convert also.) And atheists just don't 'get it' when it comes to these kinds of phenomena. I had to wait till about 43 years later until I could look back and correctly deduce what had happened out on that artillery road in Camp Hood, TX:

    God had obviously decided I needed to stick around the planet a little longer, that I still had some more of life's lessons to learn.

    Bill
     
  18. Slipdigit

    Slipdigit Good Ol' Boy Staff Member WW2|ORG Editor

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    What was the defining moment for your turn to faith?
     
  19. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    OK, THESE STORIES ARE ABOUT WW2 (BUT NOT THE 436):

    I had just recently come back from WWII, in the Spring of ’46. I was living in an apartment on the ground floor, overlooking a large lawn. There was one other guy living on the same floor. We’ll call him "Charlie," to preserve anonymity. It happened that he had a 100% service-related disability, for what was called back then, "combat fatigue," for which he'd go visit his VA shrink once a week.

    We had something in common, since there weren’t any other veterans living in the building at that time. Also he was very bright and talented.

    Now right from the beginning something strange started happening. In the middle of one night I heard this blood-curdling scream out on the lawn in front of my room. Interspersed were all kinds of gutteral sounds, that I can best describe as from some wild animal. The whole thing lasted several minutes. Then I heard the lobby door open and then close and then Charlie’s door open and close. Didn’t say anything about it. Then it happened a few nights later. And a few after that. Maybe once or twice a week for a month.

    Finally I couldn’t ignore it any longer and one night while he was in one of those fits I just went out and wrestled Charlie down -- he looked and acted like a ferocious GORILLA! I finally calmed him down, and brought him back into his room. I didn’t say anything. Just sat there – and felt like I was suffering the same anguish he was. Felt I had to do it --- he was a fellow vet – and a friend. Finally he started talking.

    "Bill, it was in the Battle of the Bulge, in the forest. I was just coming back from a late night patrol, and as I pushed past a thicket I suddenly saw there, lying on the ground, with no weapon nearby, a youngster – A KID – COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN 15. He was wimpering, in broken English pleading with me not to shoot. I looked at him, raised my rifle – and shot him dead."

    Charlie sat still for a moment with those big brown eyes staring me in the face – and then he broke down. "Bill, I can’t stand myself! How could I have done such a thing? Like a mad animal!"

    Then he just went into an uncontrollable shaking fit for several minutes.

    I just sat there, silently.

    And that was the end of it. (He may have had one more episode – but basically that was the end of it.)

    So what’s the point of this whole story? If there were no more to tell – it would just be one among thousands of returning vets. It happens ALL THE TIME – IN ALL WARS.

    Well, what makes this special is how "Charlie" finally ended up in life. HE GOT OVER IT.

    Without going into details (which would reveal his identity): he became a world-famous highly creative figure in the entertainment industry -- for decades.

    Still is. When he passes on, if I’m still alive I’ll reveal his identity.

    Bill
     
  20. Billyjim

    Billyjim WWII Veteran

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    HANS, A STUDENT FROM GERMANY:

    When I went to Bern, Switzerland, in the Fall of 1950, for my first year of medical school, I decided to take a room in a "Pension" at Schanzenecke Strasse 17. No one spoke English there, so I had to get up to speed on my German real fast. Within a couple months I was handling the language OK.

    One of the fellow students at the Uni boarding there was matriculated in the Economics Department. A serious, quiet, polite fellow. He walked with a decided limp.

    We got along pretty well, swapping life stories. Turns out he had been a Lieutenant in a Panzer division. Unluckily for him .. on the EASTERN front, on the march towards Moscow in that deadly cold winter early on.

    He described the action there as utter catastrophe -- all the tanks and other vehicles froze up; fuel was in scant supply. The troops were dying not only from wounds but from exposure.

    Then he described, with amazement in his voice, how he and his men would come upon a burned out, blackened remains of a farm home -- nothing left but the foundation and a stairway leading to the basement. And down in the basement? Huddled together several old women, "babuschkas," holding a basket of frozen potatoes. They had been surviving this way for months.

    His limp was caused by his missing leg -- amputated during combat.

    Bill
     

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