The Tale of Two Ocean Voyages

ProetryPlace Blog 35, Soldiering Part 8

THE TALE of TWO OCEAN VOYAGES

    Dolly flew to Europe in the summer of 1954 during her vacation from teaching. I met her in Paris. All the wonders of art and entertainment that the city had shown me paled in comparison to seeing her. We were together in a small room in the Grand Hotel that looked out on the angels and the gargoyles of the Paris Opera House. By the time we had visited the pebbled beaches of Nice on the French Riviera, climbed the leaning tower in Pisa, waved to the small white dot in a distant window at the Vatican that was alleged to be Pope Pius XII and met her friend Lila under the clock tower in Bern, Switzerland, we were promised to each other.

    After Bern, the three of us, Lila, Dolly and I, traveled by rail through the countryside, chatting and looking out on the broad Swiss landscape. Light brown cattle and picturesque chalets spotted lush green valleys as our coach window rumbled past the scenic vistas. Distant craggy mountains framed the scene. I bought sausage, cheese and pastries for our noon repast from a vendor at one of the stations we passed through. Our bright small talk diminished into thoughtful silence as we approached our final destination in France where our joyful journey would end and we would say goodbye.

    That night I left Dolly in Le Havre where she boarded the Georgic, the Cunard ocean-liner that would take her home, thousands of miles away from me. I was alone again, desolate but very much in love.

    Our trip home was wonderful. We met the funniest English boys. Dolly’s first letter after returning home spoke of her wonderful ocean voyage and the two fun-loving English lads she and Lila had got to know so well, joking, dancing and drinking until all hours—and who knows what else, I thought.

    How could she have enjoyed herself so while I am suffering and miserable, missing her each moment, living in a tent, trying to save my money and eating army mess? Did she have no feelings? Did she love me at all, as I loved her?

    A few letters later, she wrote: Fr. Heupper, at Christ King Church in Wauwatosa, wants you to have instruction in the Catholic faith if he is to marry us in his church.

    I bristled, as I always do at seeming arbitrarily imposed authority, but buoyed by the knowledge that she was proceeding with our wedding plans. I went off in search of the French country priest who regularly visited the army post to serve the faithful.

    The black-robed cleric and I met on two or three occasions. His concept was simple instruction where my approach leaned more towards discussion. Both of us were hampered by the language barrier. The priest understood no English whatsoever and could not respond to my questions. My French was inadequate to deal with the esoteric precepts and rituals of the religion, and my mind was unwilling to accept dogma without establishing a rational basis. Moreover, having been reared Evangelical Lutheran, I had been taught to view this more ritualistic religion as somewhat distasteful.

    What to do? I could not allow religious differences to become a barrier to uniting with Dolly, but this approach was not working. I reluctantly and prematurely gave up the struggle to accommodate Heupper’s wishes and cancelled any further meetings with the priest. I was prepared, however, to exaggerate the extent of my knowledge of Catholicism for the good father’s gratification if necessary.

    In the US, record high temperatures plagued the Midwest and severe hurricanes battered the east coast, killing hundreds. The first children received Salk vaccine to prevent polio and plans progressed for the interstate highway system proposed by the newly elected President, Dwight D. Eisenhower.

    That fall Marty and I travelled to Holland. We saw the lowland dikes, working windmills and quaint cottages on the Isle of Marken. In Amsterdam, I bought souvenir blue and white Dutch china, a porcelain windmill for Grandma Spear and a magnificent .25 carat diamond engagement ring.

    Time crept forward into winter until my tour of duty in France ground slowly to an end. I received orders at my desk in Battalion Headquarters for myself and a handful of others to depart Sampigny Chemical Depot just when it seemed impossible for us to return home in time for the holidays. I crammed my duffel with a few personal items and the Government Issue clothing that would remain in my possession when I returned to civilian life—stowed unseen for decades in dark attics, like many memories they might evoke. I bid adieu to army buddies who had become true friends over the past months—Sgt. Rene LeClaire, Cpl. George Martin Bliss and others whose faces are clear after sixty years but whose names now defy recall.

    I departed Bremerhaven, Germany in December 1954 on a hulking, gray troop ship bound for the Port of New York.  Cold and dismal North Atlantic fog enclosed us day after day, keeping all spirits subdued in spite of hopeful and happy anticipation of our return home. Below, the diesels and propellers throbbed relentlessly, pushing through the rough and frigid waters. Each day ground by the same as the last: morning mess before dawn (no eggs), then a look above decks if the sea was not too rough. Back below to stretch out on the cramped bunks stacked four-high in the bowels of the transport, reading or writing or thinking about the past 18 months away from home or the new life that would open soon before me. Noon mess, dinner—the hours and days churned by like the agonizing progress of the laboring ship.

    One morning that promised still another day of impatient waiting, I ventured on deck in semi-darkness. The usual morning mist and fog surrounded me, but something was different. The sea was serene, and the churning propellers worked more easily. I strained my eyes, attempting to pierce the fog. Were those ships to starboard? No. Too many. Too tall. And more to port.

    I stood, puzzled and transfixed. Gradually, a dark skyline grew and became distinct as we moved up the Hudson River. I saw skyscraper windows sparkling through the fog like giant Christmas trees, in stark contrast to the unlighted, rural French towns to which I had become accustomed. The silent ship surged slowly forward and dawn brightened into day.

    Liberty appeared, small and insignificant at first, until I recognized her with torch held high, welcoming me home. What a magnificent sight she was! A patriotic thrill surged through me. The hair on the back of my neck tingled and bristled, my throat grew tight, my eyes misted.

    The USA, bright lights and Liberty!

    “Liberty!” I shouted and waved furiously. Home at last, home again at last.

    The big ship rested finally, uneasy, straining against the hawsers that held her to the pier, but barely moving on the swells caused by passing harbor traffic. Gangplanks were placed. Each returning soldier stood impatiently at his bunk, one hand resting on the heavy, olive-drab duffel-bag that held his army gear and a souvenir or two for the folks at home, waiting, waiting for the speakers to blare orders to disembark. Finally on shore, more hours of sorting and processing before being shuttled by bus to interim destinations, as if time was of no concern.

    Late on that winter afternoon, much like the one when I had left Milwaukee two  years earlier, I boarded the DC3 that carried me from Newark, New Jersey to home again just in time for Christmas, Mom’s special spaghetti and, of course, my bride-to-be.

Fin

ProetryPlace Blog 34, Christmas Day 2013

    The history of the evergreen tree as a symbol of life, hope and rebirth reaches far back into ancient times. The tree has been adopted and adapted by many cultures over time and has been an important and cherished Christian tradition since the 16th century.

    Our world and yours has changed in many ways for better and for worse in the 15 years since I wrote the following little memoir titled “The Tree,” but the spirit of the tree lives on year after year and continues to brighten our Christmases.

THE TREE

    In the dark of night, I dragged the old tree up the steep driveway from our front door to the roadside. The tree was brittle and fragile now, without much weight, not at all like when I had brought it into our house, heavy, green and pitchy, the night before Christmas. Branches snapped and needles scattered like frightened ants, but the tree still breathed life with the same strong, sweet scent of evergreen that had given us such pleasure for the past several weeks.

    “That tree sure does smell good,” we remarked to each other every time we passed it.

    “And look, it hasn’t lost a needle yet, not one.”

    Now, stripped of its ornaments and bright, colored lights, a few strands of silver tinsel drooping to the ground, it lay wounded on its side like an old soldier, no longer tall and full of life, but still proud. In the morning, the yard-waste crew would take it away and grind it into little chips, giving it new form and life as mulch or compost. I said, “Goodbye Tree,” almost expecting a reply, and walked back to the house alone.

    When Dolly and I were first married, we had little money for trees. Our ornaments were hand-me-downs or hand-made gifts. I shopped for our tree late on Christmas Eve, looking for a bargain, and I hoped for a bitter-cold, Wisconsin evening. Although the selection was sparse, the bargaining was quicker then, with seller and buyer eager to seek the comfort of home and family.

    “How much for this one?”

    “I'll take twenty.”

    “It’s a little crooked. How about five?”

    “Ten.”

    “I only have seven dollars.”

    “Sold. I'll help you tie it on the car.”

   When our children were grown a bit, I took the oldest to help me on the annual tree mission. I wanted my selection of the perfect tree confirmed by another family member, although the thrill of going out into the late afternoon cold and snow was sometimes lost on them. I appealed to their sense of duty: “The younger kids need our help.” Or fear: “Santa will pass us by if we don't have a tree.” Or simple greed: “I'll double your allowance to fifty cents this month.”

    After a few years of tree-duty, the older child invariably suggested the next brother or sister in line should have the honor and experience. Thus, all four of our children became educated in the ritual of the tree.

   The years passed and bargaining was not so critical to the family budget, but I continued the tradition just for fun and to make sure each child learned the process. It was important to know that one just did not pay the sticker price for a tree, even when it seemed to be the last one for sale in the city.  

    “Dad, you better take this one. We’ve been to three tree-lots already. Let's go home!”

    “Not yet, sunshine, we’ll find a good one somewhere for a better price.”

    And the game continued until we did.

    After we delivered the tree at home and the children were safely in bed, Santa Claus took over the late-night set-up and decorating job. Sometimes a branch might be missing, here or there. Some years, Santa had the tree listing a bit to port or starboard. Once he tied it to a hook in the wall behind, after all efforts to have it stand straight in the stand failed.  Yet, always on Christmas morning, sheltering the miniature manger and stacks of gifts beneath its wide branches, and proudly holding the shining star high on its tip at the ceiling, the tree twinkled and beckoned to us all.

    Now our kids have grown and moved away. This year I thought a small tree would do—one of those you pull out of a box, all lighted and decorated. All you have to do is straighten out the branches a little. I would not have to go out alone to search for the perfect specimen once again. But while I shopped in the gardening department, I saw it there, off to the side from all the rest. It was full and ceiling tall, and I knew that it was The Tree! I asked, “How much?” The reply did not really matter. I had already decided.

    No one thought we had Charlie Brown’s tree this year. Gathered together on Christmas Day, our children, their children, and we all agreed it was the best tree ever. Most of the ornaments and lights have changed over the years, but we still use a treasured few.

    “Look, there is one with a picture of Grandma. She looks so pretty!”

    “There is Daddy when he was just your little boy.”

And the lumpy clay stocking fashioned by small hands years ago with the sad little note still attached, “I guess this is a little small, but I can't help it now.”

    We will pack away our collection of ornaments and lights into the tattered and discolored corrugate box that has housed them for almost sixty years, and take them to rest in the attic until Santa calls them out again next Christmas. Then the familiar ornaments will adorn the newest Tannenbaum, to bring more smiles of recollection, or sometimes, a tear of regret.

    Each year the tree is fresh, grand and new, and being so renews us too

Richard Allen Anderson, Roswell, Georgia, circa 1998

Spaghetti, Spumante and Scemenza

ProetryPlace Blog 33: SOLDIERING Part 7

Spaghetti, Spumante and Scemenza

    The year 1953 saw momentous historic events unfold. An Englishman, Edmond Percival Hillary, and a Nepalese, Tenzing Norgay, were the first men to climb to the summit of Mount Everest. Watson, Crick and Franklin elaborated the double helix structure of the DNA molecule. And the Korean War ended in July. I wondered if the half of my training company assigned there had all survived while I fought Army paperwork in France and toured Europe.

     “How much leave time do you have coming?”

    I wondered what Marty had in mind. I said, “At least two weeks, I think, but I’m too broke to use it.”

    “I was thinking of a trip to Italy—Pisa, Rome, all that? We could save up and go in a month or two.”

    I liked the idea, a big adventure. “I want to see Pompeii, the ancient ruins and Vesuvius. Maybe we could rent a car and cover the whole west coast.”

    Weeks later, we boarded a train to Nice intending to spend a few days there and in Monaco, then rent a car and drive along the Mediterranean coast to see Pisa and Rome with a final destination of Naples and Pompeii far to the south before returning by undetermined route.

    The first day, we explored Monaco. I clicked away at the casino, the Rainier castle and the picturesque harbor with my newly acquired Leica 35 mm camera. At dinner we overheard a discussion in English at a nearby table and became acquainted with three American coeds in Europe on an exchange program. We told them our plans for Italy, and they told us they had just returned from there.

    “You have to try the Asti Spumonte. It’s great.”

    “Asti what?”

    “Spumante. Champagne from the vineyards in Asti. You have to try it. Are you coming back this way? You could bring us some.”

    They said they would be in Nice for the next month and asked if we would bring them four or five bottles when we returned.

    “No problem. We have plenty of room in the car. We’ll look you up when we get back.”

    We rented a “vintage” Peugeot convertible the next day and our journey began. The drive south through the Alps along the Cote d’Azur and the Italian coast was spectacular. We looked straight down hundreds of meters to the sea below from narrow, unguarded straightaways and hairpin turns. Now and then, small groups of white buildings with red terra-cotta slate roofs hugged the mountainside above the waters of the Mediterranean. The sun shone down upon us. The car ran well. Life was good.

    About 200 kilometers distant we arrived in Genoa, the seaport city where the boy, Christopher Columbus had played in the streets 500 years before.  It was around dinner time, and we decided to find a place to eat and spend the night there before proceeding through any additional mountainous terrain. Before departing in the morning, we purchased five bottles of Asti Spumante and stowed them in a large paper bag in the back seat. Then on to Pisa, the leaning tower and relatively flat roads.

    Construction of the bell tower for the cathedral of Pisa began in 1173, and almost from the start it began to lean. It took 199 years to complete, slowed by a series of city-state wars and obviously a number of different architects. We visited the leaning tower and climbed its lopsided staircase just a decade before it was closed pending possible collapse, almost 800 years after its inception.

    Leaving Pisa, Marty took the wheel and we sped along to our next destination—Rome. Some one hundred kilometers down the road, I warned,” Watch this turn.”

    A sharp dogleg moved the road over a railroad crossing. Marty steered sharply right. “Ease up a little.” The squeal of skidding tires and the screech of brakes drowned out my comment.

    “Slow . . . .” I never completed the sentence.

    We skidded at an angle to the tracks that were elevated slightly above the crossing grade. The tracks caught a tire and flipped us with the rag top resting in the middle of the crossing. Bottles of Asti rained down and broke on the pavement. We managed to crawl out of the overturned vehicle in time to see the bright light of a locomotive waggling with menace some distance down the tracks.

    With the help of a family of excited Italian farmers, the Peugeot was righted and moved from the tracks prior to the arrival of the afternoon freight. The car stood like a knock-kneed teenager with front wheels bent in opposite directions, clearly too out of alignment to be driven. The Italian family waved their hands and rattled off something that may have been suggestions or perhaps just berating the stupidity of the two young Americans who stood shrugging their shoulders helplessly before them.

    Situation hopeless, but the gods had not totally forsaken us. A resident of the nearby town of Fallonica who spoke English quite well happened by and arranged for the crippled vehicle to be towed to a garage for repairs. We loaded our bags and ourselves into his car and followed the tow truck into town where we took up temporary residence nearly 500 kilometers short of our planned destination. Our leave time and reserve cash ebbed away while we lunched and dined on spaghetti every day and idled away hour after hour, day after day, waiting for essential repairs on the car to be completed.

    At last we limped back to Nice in the badly aligned and abused little car. Frigid air blew in through the tattered top at the higher elevations, and the rear end had a tendency to want to move up front on the sharp mountain turns. At the rental agency we grudgingly accepted the loss of our rental deposit and were left with barely a lira or franc in our combined pockets.

    We found the Asti-loving American students. “Oh, hi! Where’s the Spumante?”

    “You did what?” The three exchanged glances, looking extremely skeptical when they heard our tale of woe and even more so when we asked to borrow the equivalent of $20 or $30 to get back to the base. They were devastated by the loss of their expected Asti but less than totally sympathetic about our automotive misadventure. After considerable discussion with our most sincere assurances, they finally came to the aid of their countrymen, and we managed to arrive back at Sampigny Chemical Depot two days later with minutes to spare before being AWOL.

    A postscript to Italy: Aside from the tale just told, there are three things I remember most about Italy —fresh pasta, that I could still eat daily

—Asti Spumonte, that my bride and I drank on our honeymoon in Chicago many months later and on many special occasions since, and

—the beautiful sound of the lyrical spoken tongue. Even the chatter of those fiery farmers was music to my ears.

(To be Concluded)

la France

Blog 32 SOLDIERING: Part 6,      la France: Sampigny (SamPeeNee) to Gay Paris (Paree)

    “Privates-first class Smith, Bliss and Anderson reporting for duty.”

     First-Sergeant Kellogg’s bleary eyes blinked with a haze of confusion, like someone taken unawares by the appearance of guests he forgot he had invited that day. He paused ceremoniously to blow his bulbous Mr. McGoo red nose and shuffled some papers on the desk before him. He glanced for help across the tent to the company clerk who attempted to hide his great amusement. “Sergeant LeClaire?”

    With LeClaire’s help, Sgt. Kellogg found the documentation confirming the orders we presented to him and found he had enough empty bunks for us to spend the night. “Pick up your bedding at Quartermaster, the tent next door and report back tomorrow after morning mess.” He sank back in this desk chair and added, “We’ll find something for you to do. You are free on the base until then.”

    After a week of sweeping dirt roads with Bliss and Smith, I happily accepted assignment managing personnel records for K-Company at Battalion Headquarters, the only permanent structure on base, a converted horse barn with stone walls and low ceilings. Somehow, shuffling Army paperwork in an abandoned horse stall seemed entirely appropriate to me.

    The names, ranks and origins on the records I managed here were far more diverse than those of the Midwesterners I had trained with at boot camp. Here the enlisted men included blacks and whites from New York to California. A small group of Puerto Ricans occupied their separate tent and spoke their own language. Many of the characters I came to know there live still in memory—perhaps another time.

    I discovered that the officer and non-com cadre was a more homogeneous lot in some ways.  Nearly all were nearing retirement or atoning for some blemish on their performance evaluations by serving in this inaccessible post—not what you would call a crack outfit, more like a military assisted living facility.

    Sampigny Chemical Depot was a munitions repository and testing site, a supply link for many US Army units deployed throughout Europe during the cold war with the USSR. It lay in a rural stretch of the peaceful Meuse valley of France, roughly equidistant from the towns of Verdun, Metz and Nancy. The remote base performed an essential function but was well off the beaten path for regular inspections from visiting brass. A less rigid military disciple had gradually crept in and taken hold. Just do your job and don’t make trouble—it worked for me. The absence of elitism fit my laid-back nature well, and I had no problem adjusting to the often-leisurely pace at this obscure hole in the French countryside.

    Movies were shown in the mess hall, a large wooden and canvas structure, once or twice each week. The Enlisted Men’s Club, run by Sergeant Sweeny, served cold, bottled beer and hosted a USO show at Christmas. Another tent was reserved as a recreation room with pool and ping pong tables. Otherwise, we were free every night to walk up Rue St Mihiel, the narrow, pitted road with scattered animal droppings that fronted the base, into Sampigny, the collection of low stone structures that hardly qualified to be called a town. For a few restless hours, we visited one of the three small bars for whom the army base was a goldmine, sampling the god-awful local beer, rejecting those occasional bottles with floating matter visible within the brew.

   Wine was another matter. The French know how to make wine. Even the most humble and raw local fermentations were far superior to anything I had drunk before in America, and here, in this un-deodorized armpit of France, I developed a life-long appreciation for reds and whites, roses and champagnes.

    I developed a friendship with Marty, George Martin Bliss, who had bounced into the base with me in the back of the deuce-and-a-half Army truck from Verdun. It was a friendship that carried over into our return to civilian life. He served as best man for my wedding in 1955 and a few years later, I for his. We remained close but distant friends until his early death from cancer 25 years later.

    Marty was often my companion of choice both on the base and on excursions that eventually reached throughout France and into other corners of Europe. Sgt. Rene LeClaire was a native of Salem, Massachusetts, spoke fluent French, married a local mademoiselle and lived off base in her house in Sampigny. Rene often invited Marty and me for an evening of wine drinking and talk. Most of the words his wife, Monique, spoke remained a mystery even after I learned a few essential words and phrases, like “comment allez-vous?” “qu’est que vous dites?” and “voulez-vous?” this or that.

    I learned to ask “combien?” before ordering a meal and wondering, “qu’est-ce que cest?” after it was served.  French cuisine is incredible, even in its simplest forms, and I forsook the Army mess in favor of it whenever I could afford the luxury of eating in town. A local merchant was allowed to bring his pushcart full of delicacies onto the base every Sunday morning.  A few francs bought my favorite Sunday breakfast of French bread, salami and beer with a custard-filled, flaky Napoleon to top it off.

    Unless I pulled guard duty or the entire base was restricted for an occasional special event like a dress parade, required baseball game or an athletic competition, weekend passes were available for the asking. Four or five of us with a few francs to spend took the unreliable bus five or ten kilometers into Lerouville or Commercy, towns with little more to offer than Sampigny, except for a change of scenery. The same bad beer was served in Lerouville, but the small dance hall offered hours of melancholy French concertina music and a chance to attempt conversation with some local mademoiselles.

    When 3-day passes could be had at the discretion of Sergeant Kellogg, Marty and I explored places a bit more distant—St Mihiel, Verdun, Metz, Nancy, or sections of the Maginot Line with its massive concrete bunkers, awesome sites where two World Wars had raged years earlier. We visited the humble, five-century-old birthplace of Joan d’Arc in Domremy. France dotes on its history. Rightly so.

    Even trips to Paris, 280 kilometers to the west by train, could be done on a 3-day pass and could be financed by the sale of American cigarettes in the bars of Place Pigalle under the blazing white byzantine domes of Sacre Coeur basilica on Montmartre. On my first trip to the famous French capital I emerged from the Metro, the Paris subway, to behold the Arc de Triomphe, towering 160 feet above the Champs-Elysees and brightly lighted against the night sky. More than the skyscrapers of New York City, it was an indescribable thrill, the entrance to a new world.

    I viewed the city from atop the Eiffel Tower. I rode the Metro throughout its underground maze on an eclectic exploration of French culture. Eyes a-poppin’, I saw statuesque nudes dance on stage at the folies Bergere and the Moulin Rouge. At the Louvre, my eyes drank in fabled masterpieces like da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and ancient Greek sculptures—the headless Winged Victory of Samothrace and the armless Venus de Milo, almost 20 centuries old and still awesomely beautiful.

    Adding a few days of leave, Marty and I visited Munich, Germany and marveled at how clean it was compared to the poor French towns around the Chemical Depot, even though many of its streets were still filled with rubble from a war that had ended almost a decade earlier. For a Milwaukee boy with German roots, the food was wonderful; a taste of home, the beer was a welcome far cry from the local French swill we had become accustomed to, but it was no Paris.

(Next: Odyssey Italia)

ProetryPlace Blog 32, Soldiering, a Memoir, Part 6: la France

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Soldiering, Part 5: Reporting for Duty

ProetryPlace Blog 31     Soldiering and Such

Part 5: Reporting for Duty

    Four weeks later, I reported at an obscure Army Chemical Depot in the French countryside and replaced the crossed rifles of my infantry lapel insignia with crossed retorts—douche bags in GI vernacular—of the US Chemical Corps.

    My journey to this place that would be home for the next year and a half started with a flight crowded with 20-some other passengers in a rumbling DC-3 from Billy Mitchell Field in Milwaukee into LaGuardia in New York City. Commercial jet flights and jumbo aircraft were still in the future, and my first flight experience on this model-T of air travel was a mixture of excitement and white-knuckle uncertainty as we seemed to bounce precariously on every slight atmospheric disturbance.

    In New York, the troop ship departure for Europe was delayed. I received a pass and orders to report back for boarding late the next day. After four months of boot-camp discipline, this unexpected freedom was almost too much to handle, and my Midwestern naiveté provided little guidance for explorations of the biggest city on the continent.

     I walked and gawked almost aimlessly through the canyons of Manhattan craning my neck skyward and dodging apparel carts. Near Times Square I was tempted by strip-joint hawkers but too impecunious to yield.  By chance, I found myself in Rockefeller Center, awed to meet Prometheus face to golden face. At the nearby Radio City Music Hall, the Rockettes lifted their perfectly shaped legs in a long line of perfectly coordinated kicks, as disciplined as any marching unit I had ever seen and a hell of a lot prettier.

    I scanned the city from the Empire State Building observation deck. I ate Nathan’s hotdogs washed down with Nehi orange soda. I wandered through Central Park decked out in spring green. Finally, as dusk began to settle, I realized that I needed a meal and a place to sleep that night. Hotels were out of the question, but my per-diem stipend allowed me to stay overnight at one of the city’s finer YMCAs.

     “How much?”

    “Seven dollars with your own bathroom.”

    The room was as tiny and sparse as a monk’s cloister. But the sheets were crisp and clean, covered with one thin blanket. The location was good, and the price was right-on. Moreover, the “Y” sponsored a USO dance with live music that night, local girls in attendance and, more importantly, free food.

    A small printed note on the small bed announced: Music, Dancing, Refreshments, 7 - 10 PM. It was already after 7. I did a quick wash up, took an extra minute to comb my hair and found my way to the hall where the festivities were already underway. Along one wall a group of young girls congregated, chatting amongst themselves and paying more attention to the guitar player in the small musical group than to the dozen or so GIs facing them from the opposite wall.

    “The girls don’t look very friendly,” I observed as one well-endowed, dark-haired beauty glanced across the room with eyes that seemed to challenge rather than invite.

    “Their mamas probably made them come,” one of the GIs responded, “but the mamas are nice and have some great sandwiches at that table down at the end.”

    I chose a fat ham sandwich and Pepsi with a chocolate-frosted donut for desert and smiled gratefully. “Where are you from?” one lady asked. When I replied, “Wisconsin,” she looked as blank as if I had said Tasmania or Liechtenstein. Few New Yorkers are aware of anything further west than Niagara Falls.

    I watched one or two couples venture onto the dance floor to jitterbug. Not my dance. I thought about college dances with Dolly. Then back to my monk’s bed for my last sleep in the USA for months.

    The weeklong Atlantic passage was not as unpleasant as it was boring. I met a few fellow recruits from Atterbury.  We whiled the time away with lengthy games of cards or chess and speculations on our future assignments. I took a semester of Spanish in college; are there army bases in Spain?

    Even a day of K-P in the ship’s immense galley was a welcome diversion. Cases of eggs lined one wall, to be cracked and deposited into huge cauldrons and stirred with large wooden paddles for scrambled eggs. I had never seen “fresh” eggs this old. The dates on many of the cases were nearly prehistoric. Now and then an undeveloped embryo or even a sparsely feathered chick found its way from a cracked egg into the heavy stainless steel pot, sinking out of reach before it could be retrieved.

    “Eggs?”  In the chow line the next morning the navy cook held out a loaded spoonful of the scrambled variety. Breakfast had been my favorite meal until then. “No thanks, toast and bacon will do for me today. Anything strange in the oatmeal?”

    We arrived at last at the port of Bremerhaven, Germany and hosteled overnight in magnificent two-story caserns with terrazzo floors, former German Army barracks. These people knew how to do things. How had they lost the war?

    We waited again while the army worked its mysterious ways of sorting out and dispersing the many hundreds of new arrivals to our European assignments.  At last it was determined that my two years of college chemistry made me a fine candidate for the Chemical Corp and assignment in France. There seemed to be some actual logic at work here. So far so good it seemed.

    After a bus ride to Verdun the winnowing continued. I found myself in the back of a two and a half ton army truck with two others—privates Bliss and Smith. We bounced through the beautiful French countryside on a narrow highway lined with stately poplar trees, though our mode of transportation offered little view except in hind sight.

    Private Bliss offered a hand. “Marty,” he said, “Brooklyn, New York.”

    Smith and I in turn offered similar brief introductions. Sporadic conversation emerged between private thoughts as we sized up each other, offered brief glimpses of our homes and families and mused quietly about what our destination might be like. Some 45 kilometers and 90 minutes later, we rumbled past a collection of old, white, stone buildings bordering the narrow road and arrived at the barred gates of Sampigny Chemical Depot.

    No stately caserns here. Inside the gates, we looked out on a dozen or more dark canvas, eight-man tents standing in rows along two unpaved roads. A light breeze stirred up a dust devil on the road as we reported in at the company headquarters tent for assignment.

    “Privates-first class Smith, Bliss and Anderson reporting for duty.”

(To be continued)

Richard Allen Anderson http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

WAR GAMES

ProetryPlace Blog 30     Soldiering and Such

Part 4: War Games

    For the remainder of the Midwestern winter of 1952 and through the early spring of 1953, while the “military action” in Korea went from bad to worse, I acquired the skills of the modern foot soldier at the Camp Atterbury, Indiana infantry training base.

    For 16 weeks of basic training that the army intended to transform ‘cruits into able fighting men, I learned to shoot and care for M-1 rifles and semiautomatic carbines, the BAR, light and heavy machine guns, recoilless rifle anti-tank guns, bazookas, 45 caliber automatic pistols and the 60 mm mortars that some infantry squads carried.

    I became solely responsible for my new best friend, the M-1 rifle that I carried and meticulously cleaned daily. Even a spot of lint on the lightly oiled mechanisms would earn a day of KP, and the weapon was lovingly disassembled, cleaned and reassembled daily, sometimes in the dark, ready to be slung or carried shoulder arms for the next day’s drill or march.

    I earned a sharp-shooter medal.  I drilled daily in ranks and marched with a 30-pound backpack to bivouac camping in a pup tent in snow. I dug foxholes in frozen earth. I learned to crawl on my belly through mud under barbed wire with live machine gun tracer rounds zinging overhead.

trench buddies, RAA on left

    I did endless push-ups and increased my endurance by running miles at a time. I lost 10 pounds from an already slender frame and developed muscles where none had existed before. And I learned to say “Yes, Sir,” and to follow orders no matter how reluctantly or what questions sprang to mind.

    It was a game, a young man’s game, a giant outdoor sport, until near the end of our training we were introduced to hand-to-hand combat and, even worse, bayonet drill.

    “Parry his weapon aside with yours. Now! Lunge for his chest or stomach! Plant that bayonet deep! If you have trouble getting it out, use your boot against his chest and yank hard. Parry, thrust. Parry! Thrust!”

    It was only a dummy with a blank face, but training for war had quickly taken a serious turn from fun and games to the horrible reality of kill or be killed. One day the dummy would have a real face.

    At the end of this period, I was promoted to PFC, Private First Class, a fully trained and qualified infantryman, but not eager to receive a red badge of courage. Before we left Atterbury for a weeklong furlough at home, the company commander posted our future assignments outside HQ.

    There were two lists. Half the company would go to Korea. The other half was going to Europe. My name appeared near the top of one alphabetical list:  Anderson, Richard. A., US 55355951 . . . Europe!

    I watched others quietly accepting their assigned fates. Did I deserve to feel elated? I shrugged off the guilt I felt almost as strongly as I did relief. In spite of my training, I was not a soldier. But neither were the others, boys from the farms, hamlets and cities of Minnesota, North Dakota and Wisconsin for the most part, young men I had shared a canteen with after a hard day in the field, or helped shoulder a BAR or other heavy load. I couldn’t feel good about them picking the straw that sent them into combat, but I couldn’t feel bad about landing on the other list.

    “Dolly, I will be home on Monday on furlough. I have orders to muster in New York City and ship overseas in a week. I want to see you every day, every night until I have to leave.”

    The week sped by, filled with kisses, talk and promises. Then it would be many months before we would meet again.

(To be continued)

Richard Allen Anderson http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com