Today, as we stop to celebrate our independence, honor those who have helped hold it all these years, and those that paid the ultimate price, I went back and revisited a diary I've been working on for quite a while. I have revised it, reread it, and put it back on the shelf repeatedly, because it never seemed like the right time to post it. I think now is the right time to consider just what it is we ask of our young men and women in uniform. More below.
I am an amature military history buff, specifically in WWII. I've been interviewing WWII veterans from my home town about their experiences. I have read, and studied about WWII since I started reading as a child back in the early '60's. I used to follow my Dad to American Legion events. (He was training as a B-29 mechanic in Texas when WWII ended, and he spent most of 1946 on Guam and Iwo Jima with the army of occupation, fighting boredom). I watched and listened to him and his peers. I heard lots of funny stories but only a few somber ones. Later, as the country argued and debated Viet Nam, I noticed that there were certain people who Dad listened to a little closer when they discussed issues of protests, and later draft amnesty. He mentioned one time that some guys had "seen a lot" in the war (WWII). He seemed to value what these guys said a little more. He also mentioned one time that it seemed that those who had seen the worst, talked about it the least.
Lately I have been reading several first-person memoirs from veterans of WWII. I have noticed something that either wasn't in the earlier books, or maybe I just didn't catch it before. You see, when I was growing up, we were always the good guys. The Germans, the Japanese, they executed prisoners, they tortured, they were evil. Our guys didn't do that (yea I know I was naive). Rape? looting? Didn't happen on our side. Perhaps I always knew that wasn't true, but I don't remember anyone ever saying it out loud. Rarely was the true obscenity of war revealed to us. In the movies I watched growing up, soldiers, wounded in a hail of machine gun bullets (with no signs of blood), died quiet deaths only after they had made "win one for the Gipper" speeches to their tearful comrades.
That perception faded a lot during my early teen years, as a result of the nightly news as the Viet Nam war ground on. As one author put it (apologies, I can't remember the author's name at this moment) "you learned people died in Technicolor". So I began to know better, but it still wasn't clear. Recently, due to a couple of authors in particular, it has become very clear to me just what some of these guys went through, not just in battle, but during the rest of their lives. Today, I'd like to share some thoughts with you by borrowing a few passages from a book entitled: Visions from a Foxhole: A rifleman in Patton's Ghost Corps. by William Foley Jr.
The author arrived in the front lines in late January of 1945 as a replacement, assigned to the 94th Infantry Division, who were given the job of assaulting the Siegfried line near Sieg. Within hours of arriving, the unit would be hurled into an attack, and would start a grinding existence the author would endure until the end of the war several months later.
What so struck me in this book was not so much expressed outright, as it was communicated subtly, through a series of events related by the author and his reaction to them. Whether what I gleamed from this series of stories is what the author meant to convey I do not know. I do know for probably the first time, I really felt like I understood the transformation they underwent. Of all the experiences that author relates, most of which will tug at your heart (and often your stomach), these several stood above the others in illustrating this transformation, this hardening of the soul, of the heart. If you get a chance, I encourage you to read the book. It is, in my opinion, one of the best written first-person books on WWII infantry experience I have come across. And the drawings he created while on the front line are absolutely amazing.
One other story from the book bears mentioning before I begin, because I have heard similar stories. Late if February 1945, the author was struck in the chest by a stray bullet while in the mess line. The bullet penetrates several layers of equipment and clothing, and a silver platter he lifted from a farmhouse, piercing his skin, and being stopped by his sternum. He is bandaged and loaded into the mess jeep to be evacuated to a hospital. Just as the jeep prepares to leave, he gets out and returns to his foxhole;
I knew the squad would hear of my close call, but in the dark only Dan was aware of my return. He silently let me slide into the muddy hole and helped me unroll blankets and the shelter half and settle in for the night. I guess Dan was speechless at my appearance. Finally, he managed, "A million-dollar wound and here you are." I thought about this but did not reply, because I did not know what to say. (p.148)
I include this passage in an attempt perhaps to impart some understanding of the connection these troops felt for each other. Many times when we question why someone would volunteer to go back (or stay) or they choose to stand with others, it's because of this bond they share. A bond most of us can never truly understand. I had one vet tell me it was stronger than what he felt for his family. You see when it comes right down to it, when the bullets are flying, they don't fight for freedom, they don't fight for democracy, the don't fight for you and I, they fight for each other.
The excerpts I share below all deal with the issue of executing prisoners. They strike frighteningly close to events that have been in the news lately, and for some will provide proof of the evils visited on others by combat troops. I chose these passages not because I want to make the troops out to be evil, nor to necessarily absolve them of any responsibility. The case is not that clear-cut to me. Right or wrong, during the heat of conflict, I believe these events will happen, even with the best trained soldiers, even with the most moral and ethical troops we can find, even with the best command structure we can create. In that environment, even the strongest find is hard to hold onto their souls. Combat forces the troops into impossible situations of rapid action and reaction. Ethics are muddied, fear prevails, and they run on an adrenalin fueled form of autopilot, only survival and the chain of command remain, and the second often fails. Anger and frustration cloud judgement. Only recently in my reading, and talking with vets, have I begun to hear stories like those below, the true stories of what happened. Why now? Maybe as they approach the end of their lives, they still struggle to reconcile their actions with their beliefs.
Immediately to our front, we heard several cries of "Kamerad!" Two storm troopers, in whites, materialized out of the snow with hands held high. Both appeared to be wounded, as they tentatively approached. But a BAR let go a burst that blew both men back into the snow. After a shocked silence, anguished cries were heard. Our squad leader, his voice laden with sarcasm, said, "You're an asshole, Moore. Get your tail out there and finish it!" Several men echoed his sentiments in various and colorful ways. Apparently, it was not so much that he had shot men who were trying to give up, but that he was sloppy and failed to do a clean job of it. Moore responded emphatically that he was not, absolutely not, leaving his hole.
Off and on, we heard the crying and moans of the wounded men. The voice of one of them suddenly rose to a shriek--anger or pain or both, I did not know. I did know that I had never heard so devastating a human sound as those high, guttural notes as they spun wailing down. It might have been the kind of response the last man on earth would give as he viewed the ashes of his world. I had never before then experienced hopelessness. The cry frightened me. The flash and bang of a potato masher (German hand grenade) in the deepening atmosphere was so absolutely a correct act that the logic of it terrified me even more.
[snip]
Of course, my reaction to what happened was a typical one for someone of my background. However, in the space of merely one more day, the objectivity--numbness we called it--would set in. Survival demanded it. By this time tomorrow I would not even bother to wonder about the person I had been the day before. And by the war's end, the person who left his family in October (as Thomas Wolfe learned in the '20s) would not come home again. From Normandy to the Elbe River, bits and pieces of discarded personality lie, unseen, among the cartridge casings and K-ration wrappers.(p.20)
His initial feelings of shock and dismay fade quickly as he noted. Later the author relates this story of a patrol across a hillside in an attempt to outflank a well entrenched German force.
We pulled pins [on the hand grenades] and leaned over. The moment I saw the German fifteen feet below, I let go of the handle. The pop of the cap starting the four-second fuse startled the man below. Then I tossed it and drew back. After the twin detonations, I checked below to see the man, a mass of blood and smoke with his arm outstretched and handless. He had caught the grenade as it went off. His face, or where it should have been, was red pulp and indescribable. I backed away from this sight.
Someone shouted "Grenade!" and a sizzling object bounced off a rock nearby with a loud bang and a buzz of fragments. Dan's BAR fired at something up the hill. I saw sparks from his bullets hitting stone and bouncing. But only grenades could get behind these rocks. We were in a scary place. I put my best effort in launching my second grenade to immediately behind the rocks Dan was spraying. But McKay also had heaved a grenade to the same area. After the explosions, a wounded German reared up shouting "Kamerad!" After a second or two, Salazar fired his Ml, and I saw the bullet's impact on the German's upper body drive him back and out of sight.
After the initial shock at Salazar's action, I realized he was in the right because of the situation we were in. Later, when I learned that a grenade fragment had cut Salazar's neck and removed his dog tags, I could even better understand his reaction. We hated snipers. I would lose my dog tags in a similar way several weeks later.(p.106)
Several weeks later, his unit faces a strong German counterattack. Forced from their trenchline, they retreat to a small town, where the fighting takes on a nightmarish fierceness as he describes combat consisting of soldiers leaning out windows, firing into the windows of the next room, occupied by Germans. As the situation deteriorates, the dead and wounded pile up, and the American forces dwindle to a few men. He continues...
The CP was a short distance away near the tiny church in the center of the town. Dawn was probing the fog as I bumped into a sergeant of the H Company 81mm mortars. I hurriedly requested fire on the slopes of 468 and then found the CO at the church. Many of the German townsfolk were under guard in the church cellar. I could hear hysterical crying from several women. Activity was frantic with our men running here and there, and with orders and reports being shouted back and forth. I explained to the CO that we were again under attack from Hill 468 and that the platoon sergeant wanted artillery. His head was heavily bandaged and he did not look at all well--he probably was in a lot of pain. Later, I understood he was half-blind. Our tough first sergeant grabbed me and ordered me to take the SS prisoners behind the church and shoot them and then get back to 2d Platoon. They were too much to guard at this crucial point in the battle. He looked at me and said, "Now!" Pulling myself together, I turned to the prisoners sitting on the floor and motioned them outside. They slowly shuffled to their feet. Both were in their middle or late twenties. I walked them out the door and to the left around the building where I lost no time in firing a round into the back of the man nearest me. Both men dropped instantly. I had the fleeting thought that the single round had gone through both troopers because we were moving in file. I could not tell, though, because it was too dark, so I quickly fired a round into the head of each one. As I prepared to jump to the cobblestones from the little church hill, I changed my mind and went through the pockets of the dead men. I came up with several tins of sardines, cheese, and hard biscuits that I stuffed into my pocket--then I jumped down and headed back to 2d Platoon.(p.193)
I think there is a long journey of the soul from the first of those three excerpts to the last.
The author also relates the tale of his journey home and talks of his life after the war. He talks of feeling out-ot-place among the celebrations of his first Fourth of July at home, and he retreats to the basement to find his father, a WWI veteran with a bottle of wine and two glasses, and they spend the time in quiet reflection, hardly speaking until the celebrations end.
And finally he relates the story of his daughter finding his portfolio of war art, and calling him, crying, to try and talk about what she had seen in these drawings of her father's war experiences. He decides the write the book. He finishes with these words.
For half a century, I was not a joiner. I wondered whether I would have joined the 94th Association years ago if I had known about it. I do not think so. The comradeship that existed in our ranks had to do with faces and personalities under steel helmets and their guts behind cartridge belts. I had no desire to see those men in seersucker suits and ties. Right or wrong, that was how I felt.
Fifty-one years later, I had come full circle as I whole-heartedly joined our 94th Association, attending the following reunion in Albuquerque. I can find no way to describe the healing warmth from the welcome given me by these men-- none of whom I recognized and none who recognized me. But we were family.
I had been asked to set up an exhibition of my war artwork for the reunion, and it went over extremely well with the hundreds of men who attended. Four men from G Company were there, one from each platoon; I alone represented our 2d Platoon. I discovered that Sergeant Siegel, Roberts, McKay, and many others had passed away. But someone had the CO's California phone number. With a feeling of anticipation and delight, I headed for the hotel phone, when the distressing news was passed around that Capt. Jim Griffin had, that exact morning, died at the wheel of his car in California.
But even with the news of the passing of so many of us, I discovered a new and unfamiliar lightness in myself while at the reunion. I finally recognized the weight of the emotional baggage I had been carrying all these years. I was so conditioned to its presence that I had not even suspected it was there. The baggage left me at dawn on my second day in Albuquerque. I strolled out of my motel room to stand on the empty road and watched the sun rising over the mountains. Finally, the essence of spirit must have taken over, as I found myself spontaneously raising my arms and shouting, "I feel great, really, really great!" while the tears cleansed away much of what had been hanging over me.(p. 302)
Seems like an awful heavy load to carry for such a long time.
This is not to imply that all particpated in these types of events. But other things they do and see will leave their mark. I have recently read and heard many comments about seeing the bodies (and parts) along the road, both human and animal, and of the constant smell. You can't expect people to live those experiences and not have an impact.
Of the troops that come home today, as in previous wars, some will tuck those memories away in a closet of their mind, like they do their uniforms in the back closet, and it may never see the light of day. Perhaps they are the lucky ones. Others will fight demons, so strong, that they finally surrender to what they cannot reconcile, and end their pain in violence or escape into the fog of alcohol and drugs. But I figure most will be in between. They may go years without thinking of what they have experienced. Then it will come to them in quick painful images and a peculiar look of sadness will cross their face. I've seen this look on the faces of some of the vets I have interviewed. But it will pass and they'll smile as they relate the story of that time this goofy kid in the unit did one time (as if they weren't all kids). They'll tuck it back away in the recesses of their mind and continue on.
But years from now, as the young men and women watch their own children and grandchildren playing, will the image of what they have experienced creep into their consciousness? Will the events they lived forever lie just below the surface, festering, waiting to come crashing back?
THIS is the burden we ask these young men and women to carry. It is important we understand exactly what it is we ask of these young people. When called they must go, they have little choice in the matter. It is up to US to make sure they are sent only rarely, when the need is evident and the objectives clear and realistic. It is up to us to demand that the cause be just, the objectives clear, and that we hold our leaders to the highest levels of honesty, integrity and accountability. That is OUR responsibility. And I fear, in this we have failed.