Two of Us Ain't Goin'

By Dempsey Allphin

My duties in World War II in the European Theater of Operations as Administrative Assistant to Major General Mark Clark, Major General Lloyd Fredendall. Lieutant General George S. Patton, Lieutenant General Omar N. Bradley, Lieutenant General Courtney H. Hodges, and Major General William B. Kean.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 30, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469787657

Dempsey Allphin

Born September 28, 1920. Spent two years in the University of Texas. Worked 3 years as an accountant and then went into the insurance industry where I worked for 30 Years. Spent my final days as a major stock holder and CEO in an Insurance Company which I founded.

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TWO OF US AIN’T GOIN’

Dempsey Allphin

Writers Club Press

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Two of Us Ain’t Goin’

All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Dempsey Allphin

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse.com, Inc. 5220 S 16th, Ste. 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-18205-4

ISBN: 978-1-4697-8765-7 (ebook)

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

About the Author

To all our Nieces, Nephews, Grand Nieces and Grand Nephews, this book is dedicated with the hope that they will read it and it will instill in them the desire to learn more about World War II, and make them want to prevent such an event ever happening again during their life times

I

ENLISTMENT

Having been born in North Zulch, Texas, on September 28,1920, my mother never got around to telling me to never accept rides from strangers.

On February 21, l940, this lack of warning launched me on a trip that turned out to be one of the major events that shaped the rest of my life. These major events have always come about with no fanfare and, at the time, seemed to have no particular significance. However, as each occurred, instinct, the Good Lord, or something seemed to have caused me to make the right choice without a lot of agonizing. Here seems to be a good place to list these Major Events:

1. February 21,1940, when the stranger in the car stopped.

2. Sometime later in 1940 when my feet hurt.

3. l941 when I decided to mail a letter to Washington DC.

4. June l942 in a hallway in Army Ground Force Headquarters.

5. October 1943, Bristol, England.

Back to the stranger in the car. He was a recruiting sergeant with the U.S. Army, stationed in Hearne, Texas, and came looking for me in response to a letter I had written inquiring about enlisting in the air corps. Robert Johnson, brother of my buddy, Jim Ed Johnson, was a regular in the air corps and while on furlough had told us of the many opportunities it offered. Charles Chick Gustine and I decided to look into the possibilities since at this time in our world there was absolutely nothing in the way of employment to be had.

This sergeant found me in Madisonville where we were living at the time. We then went to North Zulch looking for Chick but he had something he needed to tend to at the time and said he would look into joining at a later date. He did, but this resulted in his being sent to a different unit and a different part of the country. We did stay in touch by letters throughout our military service, which Chick spent with the 2nd Infantry Division.

Our next stop was the telephone office in Zulch where I told a friend where I was headed. Then on to Hearne where the sergeant explained the situation to me. According to him, there was no vacancy in the air corps at the moment but what I could do was sign up with the army now and then later request a transfer and I would be eligible for the first vacancy that occurred. We proceeded with the application of which I remember only one detail. There was a question as to whether I had ever been convicted of a felony.

Wanting to be totally honest, I told the good sergeant about the time on a Saturday afternoon when I was about fifteen that Dub Cantey came by where I was sitting on the sidewalk and wanted to borrow some money to get in a crap game that was going on across the railroad tracks in the woods.

Loving a good crap game myself I went with him. Altogether, there were fourteen of us in the game. Evidently, so many of us walking across the tracks aroused our good constable’s, Dodd Adams, suspicions. We heard a car over on the road about fifty yards away and sent Robert Henry Vaught to check. Robert Henry spotted Dodd and his deputy, George Rascoe, and took off. I had the dice and was shooting for a nickel. There was other money on the ground. I do not remember what my point was—maybe a six—but it was never made. I heard someone yell don’t run, followed by a pistol shot. I looked up and Dodd was standing right over me with a ‘45 about two feet over my head. I didn’t run, but all the other twelve did, one leaving his shirt on a bush. George Rascoe had circled the place and everyone ran head-on into him. He also yelled don’t run with the same results. They all turned and headed back over the spot where the game had been and Shorty Whitmire grabbed his shirt off the bush as he went by. George Rascoe tripped on a vine and his gun went off with the bullet going right by one of the fellow’s ears. He came to a screeching halt. That made two of us who didn’t get away.

Dodd told me to meet him back in town at George Ellis’ grocery store. I asked if I could ride back with him and was told that I had walked over there and could walk back. My mother ran the phone exchange so I went by the phone office to tell her because I knew I was in trouble. Sure enough she broke down and cried.

I headed on down to Ellis’.

Dodd picked up a bank draft from the counter, that was used in those days if you didn’t have your own with you, and started explaining things to me. I was too young to be associating with that crowd and if I continued it was certainly going to lead to no good. Since I was so young, this one time he was going to give me another chance. All I had to do was give him the names of all the others and he in return would not file on me. At the time I did not know a lot about turning states evidence or anything else along those lines but for some reason it just didn’t seem right to me. Never to this day being a diplomat, all I could think of to say was go to hell. With that, Dodd flipped that bank draft over and started by writing my name at the top…spelled correctly…and then all twelve of the others, missing only Robert Henry Vaught who had run away. I have never had a chance to remind Robert Henry that he owes me.

Anyway, Dodd turned our case over to Frank Sanders, the JP at the time, who came up with this verdict: The total fine, plus court cost, would be $13. However, due to the large number involved two of us could split one fine making it $6.50 each, or lay it out in jail at a dollar a day. I borrowed the money from Uncle Ben Parker and paid the fine, thereby passing up the only opportunity I have ever had of going to jail. After some deliberation the sergeant decided that it would probably be best that we not put this on the application. I don’t think the sergeant, either, was aware that this was not a felony. He just thought it too minor to mention, or to be more correct, he figured it might complicate his sale.

With the completion of the application and my signature, the sergeant issued me two meal tickets, went with me to the depot where we obtained a ticket to Houston, along with authorization for a night’s lodging at—I think—the Texas Hotel, saw me on the train at around six, and sent me on my way.

Often as Joan and I pack for a four-day trip to Vegas, or something similar, with two suitcases, two hanging bags, and two carry-on cases—a make-up kit and a utility bag with our coffee pot—I recall what I left Hearne with for my six-year trip. The clothes I had on which were a sport shirt of some kind, a pair of slacks, socks, Thom McAnn shoes, a leather belt, a pair of boxer type shorts (I still wear the same type, if I can find them), no undershirt (I still don’t wear one), a pocket comb, a billfold which held only a driver’s license, and twenty-five cents in cash.

Upon arrival in Houston after dark, I checked in at the hotel and went immediately to my room. It had a connecting bath with the adjoining room and after taking a shower, I had enough sense to lock the bathroom door on my side of the room. Later, after I had gone to bed, two slightly inebriated fellows came into the adjoining room, tried the bathroom door to my room and went into a long discussion as to who might be in the next room and whether they should break in and find out. Two days later at the Federal Building I met these two characters from Louisiana and spent the next two years with them. The following day, February 22, being Washington’s Birthday in those days and celebrated on that date, the army recruiting service took a holiday and told us to report in for our physical on the 23rd. There were four of us who showed up. The two fellows from Louisiana, a slightly retarded fellow Texan and me.

The physical consisted of a doctor looking in our ears, having us cough, and asking us to jump up and kick our seat with both heels. The retarded guy was also uncoordinated, physically, and could not hit his seat with his heels—so they waived that requirement for him. Very shortly, all four of us held up our right hands and were the newest members of the US Army and placed on a train for Salinas, California, to join the 15th Infantry on maneuvers at, then, Camp Ord, California..

We were now traveling all-expenses paid, or so I thought. We had meal tickets for the diner, Pullman reservations, and seats facing either front or back. Very early in the trip the porter came to our seat and carefully explained the custom of tipping and exactly how much was expected on a trip like we were making. I do not remember the amount. I would suspect something in the neighborhood of $2 per day. Anyhow, it far exceeded the twenty-five cents I still had with me. I had a smoking habit that cost me from five to ten cents each week for Bull Durham and I wasn’t about to run out of funds. We explained this to him and got very little service from the porter for the rest of the trip.

The train arrived at the Salinas, California, depot well before daylight. Despite all the jokes you see about how the army fouls up, there was a truck waiting for us with a driver and a sergeant to take us to the camp which was maybe 15 miles from Salinas, ‘way up in, to me, the mountains. We arrived at the mess tent of Company F, l5th Infantry, just before reveille. We stood around in the early daylight for a few minutes and then the bugle went off and that tent city came to life. I have never in my entire life, before or since, seen such big men coming out of those squad tent doors, bent over to clear the top and no shirts on, headed for the combination latrine-shower tent at the end of the company street. If I was ever going to panic in my life, that would have been the time. I held on until they all stood Reveille" and came on to the kitchen tent where we joined them for breakfast.

Breakfast was my first introduction to SOS…chipped beef on toast to civilians. To any soldier, Shit on a Shingle. How the soldiers gripped about it. They put it, Spam, and powdered eggs in the same category of foods never to be eaten after they got out of the army.

That morning was when I first suspected that I was different and that me and the army were going to get along…I loved SOS. I went back for thirds and thereby became known by the mess sergeant and one of the cooks. I had weighed in at the recruiting station at 127 pounds. Of course, this was totally nude. Three months later I wore the same 29 inch trousers but weighed 165.

I was still in the same clothes that I left home in several days ago, but I was now in the army. We spent the day drawing uniforms, equipment, PX Stamps, and bedding. We were lined up at the barber’s tent and given a very conservative haircut, as I remember; taken to the PX tent and told to buy two razors, two tooth brushes, two tubes of toothpaste and two sticks of shaving soap. One was to be used and the other kept immaculate for inspections. Also on the list was a kapok sleeping bag. We had to buy our own and I have never spent five dollars for a more useful item. Then one pack of Lucky Strikes at 10 cents (no tax) and I have never smoked Bull Durham again except as a joke to show that I can still roll and light one on the forward deck of a ship at sea.

I had begun to live! At $21 a month plus board and keep, for the first time in my life, I had money!

II

BASIC TRAINING

The four of us who enlisted in Houston were all assigned to the same company in the 15th Infantry but not the same squad or platoon. I do not recall how many recruits were assigned to the company. maybe twenty or thirty. These were among the first recruits into a regiment made up of seasoned soldiers.

The Fifteenth had spent about l5 years in China and a majority of the present soldiers and non coms had spent time in China. In F Company the youngest non-commissioned officer was a corporal with l3 years’ service. He was promoted shortly before my time but I was told that two older PFC’s went AWOL when he was promoted over them. The 15th was commanded by Colonel Jessie L. Ladd.

Company F Commander was a West Point Captain by the name of Wilson.

Our first sergeant was Sergeant White. Our regimental emblem was a shield with a dragon and under it the regimental motto which was CAN DO. Our marching song was The Beer Barrel Polka played in march time.

The emblem drew lots of attention and I have furnished many of them to civilians around the country and now find that I do not have one myself. Must make an attempt to acquire one. According to my informants, the CAN DO Motto was adopted in China from a Pig English native expression and it is my belief that this was its initial introduction. I have heard numerous claims since but anyway it was my first encounter with the motto which I use on my boat and no one is impressed.

I later worked for Colonel Jessie L. Ladd and had a lot of respect for him. He was one of the unfortunate ones who was a little too young when WWI occurred and just a little too old for WWII. They retired him as CO of the 15th shortly before WWII and, I think, sent him to Alaska to command a base there.

Colonel Ladd detested motorcycles. I recall, on maneuvers, watching a driver on a Harley Davidson with a sidecar stopping on a mountain road near our CP and offering the colonel a ride. We were too far away to hear but by the hand waving and the way the driver took off we could pretty well tell what was going on.

Later, back in our regular regimental headquarters we received one of our first West Point 2nd lieutenants and he presented himself shaved, polished, and upright to Colonel Ladd.

Our regimental headquarters office was quite impressive with a very thick oriental rug brought back from China and all the colors displayed. The lieutenant did a great job and was really impressive except at the very end of the interview when he, like a lot of people, did not know when to stop talking. As he snapped to attention, popped his heels and started to do an about face he paused and said to Colonel Ladd Colonel, I can tell, you and I are going to get along just fine.

With that Colonel Ladd literally froze the man with a glare and in a voice trained for thirty years to issue commands he said Lieutenant, you can bet on it and…Son, you are going to do all the ‘Getting’."

The other interview involved me asking permission to request a transfer to Army General Headquarters. The colonel had me take a seat and in a very fatherly manner told me all that glitters is not gold.

Captain Wilson, whose first name I cannot remember, very carefully, and expertly, changed a group of us from boys into Infantry Soldiers. He only let his feelings show in front of us when he thought of Mary

Martin. He had seen her in a Broadway show and heard her sing My Heart Belongs to Daddy and he was really hooked.

He, like a number of the West Pointers I have known, had a bad knee from playing football at the Point, but he could still out-walk, out-run, and out-last the best of us.

Early in my career as a recruit he taught me that I could compete. We fell out a little slow one morning for Reveille and caught him in a bad mood. Someone said his laundry had gotten mixed up the day before. Anyway, he suddenly called us to attention, gave us a command to fix bayonets, Right Shoulder Arms, Right Face, Close Step, Double Time March, all in about ten seconds. The non coms knew what was about to happen and how dangerous it was going to be and they hit front, back and sides running and really made us snap to. Up a mountain we went, down the other side, back around and up again.

The second time up they started falling out. We went around three times before he yelled halt, fall out, and the next time I say fall in….fall in."

There were only about a fourth of us left at the end but I was one of them and still had both eyes.

It was also Captain Wilson who, on a cold wet day in December, out in the woods on the Ft. Lewis Military Reservation on a twenty-mile hike, drove home to me once and for always the one rule in the army that you never violate—never volunteer for anything. We had been marching for hours through rain and mud and was taking ten for that good old Lucky when the good ‘Captain’ wanted to know if anyone had thought to bring along an extra pair of socks. Not thinking, I replied that I had. He said let me have them, mine are wet. I wore wet socks the rest of the march. But the lesson may have been worth the wet feet.

Next in line of importance to the CO in an infantry company, is the First Sergeant. Ours was Sergeant White who had spent years in the Army in the Panama Canal Zone. Sergeant White was about five feet six or seven and weighed maybe 140. He was completely white-headed and I suppose about forty-five years old.

The word was that he had been bantam-weight boxing champion of Panama. He was one heck-of-a nice fellow and a real good sergeant. He may have been older than forty-five because I believe he was retired soon after I joined the ‘15th.

My most pleasant memory of Sergeant White involved one of my tent buddies at Ord who had several months more service than me. However, we were the two youngsters in the tent and had to take lots of gaff off the ‘Old Timers’ especially when they were drinking.

This buddy and I were getting ready for one of our first trips into Salinas on the weekend and he was the owner of a pair of civilian shoes. Our six-foot sergeant had a liking for booze on his off-duty hours and was hitting the bottle as we were getting ready to leave. He suddenly decided he wanted to go into town and wanted to borrow my buddy’s shoes. And nothing we said would change his mind. We weren’t about to make an enemy of our tent sergeant and was about to give in when Sergeant White stuck his head in our tent door and asked the sergeant what was going on.

The sarge gave him some lip and I still don’t know how it happened exactly, but suddenly the sarge was going backwards through the tent door and landed on his back in the street outside. Sergeant White told him very gently, to never again pick on one of the recruits in his company.

The Third Infantry Division of which the l5th was a part was on maneuvers at Camp Ord for the summer. This put us recruits in a dual role. Our basic training was started but when we hit the field on maneuvers we became soldiers along with the rest of them. In other words, we grew up in a hurry!

But first came the basics: Saluting, calisthenics, marching, handling firearms, etc., etc.

The saluting I caught on to in a hurry. About the first week of ‘basic’ a dumb buddy and I were going back to the training area after lunch, on our own. A snappy second lieutenant marching at about 120 to the minute passed us. He glanced back as he passed and I threw him a highball. My good buddy kept walking. He either did not know the rule that applied when an officer passed you, or he just didn’t feel the urge to salute. Anyway, the lieutenant kept looking back, then turned around and started marching backwards. Still no response from my buddy.

By this time we were to the assembly area. The lieutenant lined us up, pulled the culprit out of the lineup and had him salute him one hundred times. Try it sometimes, that’s a lot of saluting. He then explained to him the rules for saluting your superior officer. I learned the lesson good. So did my buddy.

Early on we were issued our firearms. Mine was a rifle.

My memory tells me that we were the first soldiers in the field to be issued the new M-1 Garand Rifle. The rest of our unit still had the Old Springfield bolt-action rifles and they felt sure that they were the best rifles made and that the new semi-automatics would not be as accurate nor would it stand up under normal conditions in the field. For me with the M-1 a new love affair began and continues to this day.

We were issued a totally new gun, still loaded with cosmoline. Our first job was to thoroughly clean every speck of grease from the barrel and gun. We then started learning how to take care of it. Take it down, put it together until we could do it blindfolded. Carry it with you everywhere you went and later in the field, sleep with it.

After learning how to care for the rifle we started learning how to use it. Two weeks of dry firing. Merely, learning how to use the sights and marking the target with a pencil until you had it down in your sleep. Then having one man hit the bolt handle to cock the gun and you pulling the trigger and not flinching.

After two weeks, to the firing range and live ammunition. Here I was taught how they get the live ammunition from the supply room to the rifle range. An infantryman, me, carries it on his shoulders. A case of .30 caliber ammunition has to weigh at least 100 pounds and has sharp edges.

We started out on the 1,000-inch range. That figures out to something in the neighborhood of 27 yards. One shell at a time in the rifle, sighting it in and counting and remembering forever the clicks up and right or left windage.

Everything later on the 100, 200 and 500-yard ranges was counted from that setting.

After that, day after day after day, of carrying cases of ammunition, firing off-hand slow-fire on the 100; sitting position on the 200; prone-position on the 500; and prone on all rapid fire…after starting prone behind the firing line. You run about 25 yards, trip yourself, break your fall with your rifle butt and start firing.

When we fired for record I had to score 190 out of a possible 210 to be rated Expert. I fell two points short and went through my army days wearing a Sharpshooter medal. One of the disappointments of my army career.

As soon as we finished our rifle training we competed with the old timers with their ‘Springfields" and answered forever the argument about which was the better rifle. It was no contest between the M-1 and the old Springfield in any category, rifle range or field. The M-1 won hands down.

To me Camp Ord, Salinas and Monterey were very different from the East Texas where I was raised. Nice warm days, mountains, valleys, and crisp, cool nights that always required a coat.

That, plus the regular hours, work and eating and I was man-sized in a hurry. The Salinas valley grew all kind of strange things such as sugar beets, lettuce—in the field…and all other types of vegetables.

Also there were sizable mountains and to a flat lander like me, they were there to be climbed.

A couple of fleeting memories of that summer in Camp Ord.

I gave up forever the idea of becoming a boxer. The little Louisiana Frenchman who enlisted with me in Houston kept baiting me. He and I would spar in the street and get a little practice before going in for the big time.

Finally, I let him talk me into getting a pair of gloves and we squared off in the company street for just a sparring match. We slapped at each other a few times and suddenly I saw a left coming like a streak of lighting. I managed to get a glove up in time to keep from getting my head taken off. I backed up and asked if we were just sparring? He assured me that we were. The next time I saw it coming but too late.

For a number of years I could open my mouth wide and my jaw would pop. I ate soup for several days and hung up my gloves forever.

I later found out that he had never lost a fight in his life, either in a ring or a beer joint.

My other memory was of Frenchy, the first queer I had ever knowingly met. Frenchy was in our company and we came to an understanding about my sexual preferences in a hurry.

Sometime toward the end of summer we loaded on army trucks and began the trek through Northern California, Oregon, and to our permanent home—Fort Lewis, Washington—just outside of Tacoma, thirty or forty miles from Seattle, and about the same distance from Mt. Rainier.

Talk about something different for this Texan, including the language. I could attract a crowd just by saying scuse me.

The barracks were two-story brick and only recently built. Kitchens and baths were stainless steel and polished like a mirror and I soon found out who