In the Name of Freedom: Veteran Recollections of World War Ii in Their Own Words Book One

By Lawrence G. Heatley

Since the 2001 posthumous transcription and release of his fathers World War II memoir, Breathes There A Soldier, L.G. Heatley has followed that work with In the Name of Freedom. The first volume in the series, comprising first person accounts of World War II, as told by veterans from all branches of service and theaters of operation, presents each chapter as a separate veterans wartime experience. From the frigid forests of France and Belgium to the bloody sands of Saipan and Peleliu In the Name of Freedom is a testament of the war from those who were there. Few books have been written which capture the detailed viewpoint of the fighting enlisted man of the era. There are no battle overviews or campaign summaries from combat strategists in this book. The reader will take a journey through the war with each veteran, to places of tragedy, triumph and turmoil, where human kindness overcame brutality, despite the odds.

They were the American enlisted servicemen of World War II. These are their experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 30, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410720313

Lawrence G. Heatley

L.G. Heatley is currently working on two projects: a novel about World War I and yet another volume for the In the Name of Freedom series. The author was recently invited to speak about his father’s World War II journals at his daughter’s high school history class. An hour was consumed in what seemed a moment with questions and answers about the history of World War II. He left enlightened in knowing that the millennial generation embraces history so willingly. He lives with his family in Michigan.

Book preview

In the Name of Freedom

Veteran Recollections of

World War II

In Their Own Words

BOOK ONE

Lawrence G. Heatley

© 2003 by Lawrence Heatley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4107-2031-3 (e-book) ISBN: 1-4107-2032-2 (Paperback)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2003090678

IstBooks-rev. 03/17/03

Contents

Introduction

I. The European Theater

1. Adam Bignotti

2. Ettore ‘Ed’ Bignotti

3. Orville Raymond Douglas

4. Garnet Smith

II. The Pacific Theater

5. Ralph Basore

6. Robert Dunbar

7. Eugene Dunn

8. James Edward Ellis

9. Wiley A. Smith

      10. Kenneth Woodfield

For the members and families of The World War II Generation and every American veteran

Introduction

With rare exception the recorded history of World War II precludes the perspective of the regular soldier, sailor, or airman. Their experiences in contributing to victory for America are no less vital components of the knowledge base of American heritage than any official history written of the events in which they played individual roles. The in-depth stories of the veterans featured in this book have been until now set aside with the passage of time. Their memories of risk and sacrifice could never be forgotten, but instead could be lost to time if not captured for generations to come. As the veterans of the bloodiest war humanity has ever known enter the winter of their lives, some have finally decided to share their stories in order to preserve them. Although, collectively, their detailed accounts are but a small cross-section of the complex canvas of World War II, each veteran profiled within these pages provides to the reader a unique glimpse into that extraordinary era, each expressing a never-before-told viewpoint of those perilous times.

In this, the first volume of the military memorial series, In the Name of Freedom, in their own words, ten veterans—all enlisted men—describe images and experiences of the war that will never fade away; experiences as seen through their own eyes. The sounds, colors and tastes of war are indelibly and forever imprinted in their minds, as are in some cases, resentment of the enemy—resentment not yet relegated to the past, sixty years on.

While conducting research for my father’s World War II memoir, Breathes There A Soldier, I made contact with some of the men, both Army and Marine who fought alongside my dad in the battle for Peleliu in 1944. The foundation of our relationship was already forged from our common affiliation with the ‘Family and Friends of Peleliu Veterans,’ primarily albeit inadvertently established by C.M. Hayes in assembling his brilliant Peleliu Tribute Web sites, among others, electronically linking together veterans and/or surviving families of Peleliu veterans. New friendships developed between these men and myself as we communicated with one another. With our friendship came my realization that they also had experiences to share. And other veterans, outside of the Peleliu bond, such as the Bignotti brothers, who I’d met through casual contact, wanted to share their World War II episodes as well. It is not surprising as I think back on it all that soon I found myself writing another book, one that has since taken on a life of its own.

A day of forever changes, December 7, 1941, a day in theme that links in daisy chain these accounts, was for these men the day that represents in their lives their transformation from boys to men. And after a lifetime of introspection about the war and how it had affected them, the veterans brought together on these pages agree that the harrowing times they faced and survived during World War II, were ironically, for better or worse, some of the most memorable of their lives.

L.G. Heatley

We are fortunate who read this, for we do not have to share the loneliness of those left behind never to forget the suddenness and violence with which they were forced to rest….

Willard Zitlin,

75th Infantry Division, 1946

I

The European Theater

1

Adam Bignotti

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U.S. Army, 75th Infantry Division, K Company, Reconnaissance

Throughout the early months of World War II, Adam Bignotti and his brother, Ed, worked in the war conversion industry in Detroit, producing engineered tooled parts primarily for Army Air Corps aircraft, keeping up with the War Department’s ever-increasing demand for the machines necessary to defeat America’s enemies. In essence, the Bignotti brothers were in the service of their country long before their country would officially accept them. Then, in urgent need to replace troops on both fronts, the U.S. Army drafted Ed, leaving Adam to continue working in aircraft production as a tooling specialist. For the first time in their lives, brothers, through thick and thin, were separated from one another.

Two years later, deep in the Ardennes Forest of Belgium during the Battle of the Bulge, in combat with what remained of the German Army, the Bignotti Brothers, each relieved to have located the other, were reunited in the midst of the shattering reality of war.

My brother and I were inseparable before the war and always had the same interests. We did mostly everything together. Prior to the United States becoming involved in World War II, together, although still learning the techniques of the tooling industry in Detroit, we rapidly became experts in the field of military aircraft production. Then the automotive industry converted its plants to war production during the weeks and months following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. When Ed told me the news of his being drafted into the Army, I hoped that we would eventually see one another somewhere in the war, which by then raged like wildfire all over the world.

As an industrial consultant, I soon found myself on loan from my company to Curtis-Wright Aircraft in Buffalo, New York, traveling back and forth between home and there. Upon arrival on a trip home to Detroit, I remember my boss saying to me, Don’t unpack, Bignotti. Tomorrow morning you’ll be headed for California to work on the B-29 program. I guess it was travel fatigue, and of course, my boisterous personality, but I told him that I was tired of having to live out of a suitcase. Well, Bignotti, he calmly responded, perhaps living out of a duffel bag would be more to your liking. Two weeks later, instead of driving between plants while tapping my toe to Harry James tunes on the car radio, I was in step to a different tune, marching in recruit formation on a parade ground at Fort Sheridan, Illinois.

All of the normal processing and fundamental testing occurred at Sheridan over the course of the next several weeks. There must have been military observers watching the temporary unit I had been assigned to while at Sheridan, because when I boarded a troop train destined for Camp Wheeler, Georgia, an officer announced to my immediate group that we would be trained for membership in a new special operations unit. At the time, few of the men, including me, understood what the officer meant, but we were about to find out.

During the following sixteen weeks, I experienced every imaginable conditioning exercise and maneuver. Officially, I trained as a rifleman in a company of infantrymen, though the training emphasis leaned towards handling and placing high-explosive charges, and I took part in precision-assault infantry tactics utilizing bazookas and machine guns. But the most difficult of tasks was to understand what to do under fire in order to stay alive.

Towards the end of basics at Camp Wheeler, my brother came to visit me. He noticed that my posture had changed and muscles bulged on my chest and arms like no other time in my life. Even with the PX located across the road from the barracks, where candy, ice cream and cigarettes beckoned to me, I ignored the temptation. Instead, I worked out for an hour every night before hitting the sack, without fail. I wanted to be physically fit and ready for the sharpest of fighters Hitler or Tojo may have had in their ranks.

By the time you get your furlough home, Ed told me as we made small talk one morning, no one will recognize you, being nothing but muscle.

At the conclusion of my last visit home during World War II, in mid-December 1944, I reported to New York City, where along with the rest of the new replacements of the 75th Infantry Division, I boarded ship. The troop carrier was one of many in a convoy that extended as far as the eye could see, which was about to embark on a convoluted and dangerous journey across the Atlantic Ocean. Even though the German code had been broken, the Navy knew that many enemy submarines still prowled the cold depths. So the convoy zigzagged its way through rough, white-capped seas in an effort to avoid potential enemy targeting. Every day I went on deck to taste the salt on my lips and feel the crisp mariner wind on my face as it whipped sea foam from the tips of huge breakers that cascaded away from the bow of the ship.

Before long, the misty shoreline of England ebbed on the horizon, its occasional coastal marker lights winking in and out of sheets of fog. The scene signified the beginning of our direct involvement with combat operations in World War II Europe, and from then on represented the permanent change that occurred within every one of us after looking upon it.

The U.S. Army, in haste to replace men lost on the many German fronts in Europe, processed raw recruits by the tens of thousands in a fraction of the time that men had been trained early on in the war. I had heard about some guys who had experienced as much as two years of training before shipping out for combat. Our outfit didn’t have that opportunity. The war had smashed away at the world for years, and by December 1944, it seemed as though the end of the nightmares that the battle with Hitler left in its wake might be in sight. That hope was dashed, however, by a new and unexpected enemy offensive into secured American territory. The 75th Infantry Division commanders, still having not yet engaged their newest recruits in combat, may not have suspected at the time that their leadership would contribute to victory over the Germans in one of the most decisive battles of World War II. And the men, both seasoned and wet behind the ears, played their respective roles as they moved headlong into history.

France

The sky was overcast on the night of December 13, when the convoy arrived in the English Channel. It was there where our group merged with the bulk of the 75th Infantry Division, which had been in training operations in England since October. Via rope ladders the troops disembarked from the ships into landing craft that were each then packed with GIs. Upon landing on the French beach, we charged out on to sand that had already been soaked with the lifeblood of Americans who had been there before us. In the cold darkness of the winter night, beyond the beachhead and above its cliffs, the division of men marched cautiously into the snow-covered countryside. We knew of some of the potential dangers that lay ahead, but the bloodbath that awaited us in the months afterward no one could have fathomed beforehand.

The last shades of night faded to dismal gray as a snow-drizzle fell from the cloud-shrouded sky. By the weak early morning daylight, the outfit found itself in a huge field covered with a blanket of pristine two-foot-deep snow, a scene resembling a Christmas card. After splitting into separate squads, the companies of the 75th Division set out into the quiet, frigid wilderness. The night before, we had been trudging through ankle-deep, then knee-deep snow. Now, by daylight, we could see that the waist-deep snow would make our trek all the more burdensome as we made our way further into the French countryside towards our eventual objective of the border with Belgium.

Many long, arduous miles separated us from the enemy front. It has been said that, no matter the firepower trundled into combat, the most important weapon of all to an infantryman, are his feet. It was our feet, always moving no matter the pain, that kept us from freezing to death. Keep moving and stand a chance of staying alive. Even though the horizon lacked the distinctive flashes and muffled rumble of enemy shellfire, we were nonetheless challenged by the bone-chilling cold of the northern French winter.

After a week of short-distance advances, without ever seeing an intact building, in the distance we spotted a damaged farmhouse. As the squad inched through the thickly wooded land along the edge of the open fields of the farm, we came upon a sad and sobering scene. We discovered there, stacked like cord wood in a pile six to eight feet high, the blue frozen bodies of American GIs who had fought the Germans when the area served as a battlefront. Four of the six men in our squad, including me, were fresh replacement troops, having never before experienced the sight of death. The morbid pile of human carnage served to remind us in no uncertain terms that war is hell. Each of us, with tears welling in our eyes, wore a grimace of silent sorrow as we made our way towards the nearby building, saying prayers in our minds in respect for our fallen brothers.

The house was severely damaged by the exchange of shellfire that it had been exposed to in the recent past. But the structure served as a resting spot for the squad. It was a place to build a fire and dry our sopping-wet boots and socks. We burned splintered timbers taken from the exterior walls of the house. For the first time in many days, we warmed our weary bones next to a roaring fire. There were several pieces of GI gear in the house—a B.A.R., machine gun and a few grenades—which were probably left there by some of the poor guys that we found out in the woods. Whoever left the B.A.R. would have been pleased to know that it came in handy for me during subsequent days, after jamming the loading mechanism on my grand. Once our gear was dry again, we left the house behind, knowing that eventually Army Graves Registration personnel would find and claim the bodies of our comrades.

Belgium

New Year’s Day, 1945, passed as did Christmas without fanfare. Our unit was somewhere close to the border with Belgium, but there were no discernable markers indicating such. Knowing that the Germans were not far ahead had some of our leadership and the troops acting without thinking. We had come upon another farm, the house completely destroyed, but the barn left relatively intact. A large haystack protruded from mounds of snow that drifted from the roof of the barn. Our platoon sergeant should have known better, but became upset with me when I told him that I would not climb atop the haystack with my bazooka to stand guard.

I should let you get court-martialed, Bignotti, he shouted angrily.

"Why don’t you get up there? I countered. Then, in case you have to use the bazooka, you will be the torch instead of me."

For a few seconds, he paused to think about what I had just told him. Quickly changing his tune and slightly embarrassed with himself, he then apologized out of

earshot of the rest of the men. The pressure was building, I thought, as we got closer to the action.

Following an uneventful night sleeping propped up against our backpacks we awoke to a morning that ushered in brittle-cold air and a crystal sky. The brilliant sun glared garishly from the surface of the undisturbed snow-pack ahead. Fortunately, in expectation of such conditions, all of us carried tinted goggles. After a few bites of rations, we again got underway.

On road patrol, we covered about eight miles of territory without incident, that is until we heard the slightly audible distant pounding of artillery. We hunkered into defensive posture as we continued down the road. This is it, I thought. The long-awaited time had come. We were about to clash with the enemy. But we found out fast that, although we couldn’t see them, they sure as hell could see us.

Mortar shells sliced through the air and slammed into snow-banks straddling the road. We took the shelling all the rest of the day after having moved into the slight protection of a wooded gorge adjacent to the road. By nightfall, the mortars had stopped, which gave our platoon leader a false sense of security. Again, he called a bad move. In dim moonlight, under his order, we set out on a night advance. The outfit somehow had successfully narrowed the gap with the enemy, relocating without being detected by the Germans. We were lucky though. At night was when the enemy best employed their battle tactics against Americans. We should have been bivouacked instead of precariously moving about in shadows.

By the second week of January, we had advanced into close combat with the desperate German army that came at us with incredible determination and strength, considering that their recent defensive stance to our pursuit was a failure. Because of the weak German posture of recent observations, top U.S. Army commanders, in control of troop movements like chess pieces on a board, viewed the German’s strong offensive push into the Ardennes to be a lost cause. To an average veteran foot soldier though, as he watched his buddies die around him, this stage of the bloody war was no different than the rest.

Our mission was to repel the Germans in the Liege Region. After deeply penetrating into the Ardennes Forest during what would be later known as the Battle of the Bulge, from one day to the next the conditions changed from fierce fighting to deceptive calm. There, our outfit joined ranks with a tank battalion in an effort to contain the enemy onslaught and defend our positions. We started the attack with five tanks leading the infantry into an open area approximately one square mile in size. Two of the tanks were hit by German artillery almost instantly. At that point, we went under withering German mortar and artillery fire, and from overhead an occasional dive-bomber zoomed over the field dropping bombs on our troop placements. We were completely unprepared for the level of resistance the Germans exhibited. Before I was able to get off a shot, we had to halt the attack.

The leaders of our amalgamated units then converged in a Belgian farmhouse for a meeting to plan the next phase of the assault, one that I hoped would be considerably more successful than the first. I accompanied our battalion captain and the tank commander as they disagreed on who would lead the attack from that point on. I admired both men for trying to protect their men. They called Battalion Headquarters to settle the issue. The decision was that the remaining three tanks would line up and provide support fire for an infantry assault. I knew our commander well; so well that he frequently never said a word to me when issuing an order. I could read the expressions on his face. The captain gave me that look—that silent signal to ready the men for the struggle to come.

As we ran past the two tanks that had been hit hours before, we confirmed that their destruction was total. Next to one tank, its turret blown off and still burning within, lay what remained of the bodies of two GIs, dissolved in phosphoric fire, bones and all. The men hurriedly got into position and prepared for the firefight. I waited for our captain to join us and give the order to move out. He never came back to issue the order. Instead, a new replacement captain showed up on the battlefield. Marching forward ahead of the men, ignoring the confused expression on my face as I sized him up, the new captain glanced at his watch, crouching motionless in anticipation of the moment to advance.

He looked somehow out of place, silhouetted against the grim backdrop of destruction ahead of us, his crisp trousers pressed, and wearing a flawless steel helmet, the paint still fresh, untouched by combat, like a movie star on a set in Hollywood. But it wasn’t a take for a scene that next took place. Let’s go! he bellowed, followed by a sharp blast from his whistle.

As we moved forward under enemy machine gun fire, I thought to myself that if we survived to tell the tale of this battle, the ‘Cowboy’ captain, a fresh replacement officer, still wet behind the ears and lacking an awareness of combat protocol, would be the main topic of conversation.

Survive it, we did, but not without cost. A runner came up to tell us that we had lost our heavy machine gunner. I looked at the new captain for approval as I volunteered myself to replace the lost man.

You’re staying here, soldier, he barked.

We spent the better part of the next two days pushing the enemy back from their advance. After the fighting subsided, I realized that the men and I had gained a sense of respect for the new captain. He wasn’t wet behind the ears after all, just different in his approach to managing combat operations. We quickly became accustomed to Captain Monte. As things turned out, I later became his right-hand-man, confidant and personal adviser. I had been too rash in judging him at first blush.

One thing that could be said of infantry tactics of the times was that they left much room for improvement. With as many patrols as I had led, ordered to risk our lives to