Combat Artist, a Journal of Love and War

By Alexander Russo

The book is a straight forward account of Alexander Russos adventurous journey in the Naval Reserve, serving with Naval Intelligence and as combat artist during WWII. He was the fi rst and youngest of Naval personnel to volunteer and engage in the landings in Sicily and Normandy, the graphic results of which
form part of the Navys Historical Records of World War II.

The book also continues with the development and challenges of the artist in post-war years, which provides valuable insights for anyone pursuing a career in the fi ne arts. The book also continues with the development and challenges of the artist in post-war years, which provides valuable insights for anyone pursuing a career in the fine arts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491809433

Book preview

COMBAT ARTIST

A JOURNAL

OF LOVE AND WAR

Alexander Russo

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AuthorHouse™ LLC

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: [phone]

© 2013 by Alexander Russo. All rights reserved.

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

Published by AuthorHouse 10/23/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0941-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0942-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0943-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915007

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

First Taste of War

On Leave

War Torn London

The Normandy Invasion

Washington and the Pacific

Last Days in the Service

Back To College

Off On A Guggenheim

Abroad in Italy

Back in New York

The Corcoran School of Art

Hood College

Junket to India

The Good Life

Many thanks to The Naval Historical Center

of the Navy Department for the use of my

World War II drawings and paintings

&

with deep gratitude and appreciation

for all of us who fought the great battle

and continue with its memories…

and its hopes

Preface

R eliving the horrendous days of two major invasions in World War II brought back memories I tried desperately to forget when I was a young man in my twenties returning to civilian life after four long years in the Navy. Indeed, I had to become that young man again and relive his life, its uncertainties, its unexpected adventures, some of which were brought about by a sense of desperation, rather than bravery. I must confess I am no worrier type, accustomed in early youth to a protected life in an art environment provided by my father and later at art school.

When I enlisted in the Navy it was with the hopeful expectation that I would be able to contribute to the war effort by doing publicity art for a Navy printing plant in White Plaines, New York. I never suspected that I would wind up with a Naval Intelligence Unit and be drawn into the European and Pacific Theaters during critical war years when history was being made—and I was part of it—not only part of it, but recording it with drawings and paintings which were destined to be included in the Navy’s Historical Record of World War II, Archives of American Art, housed in the Navy Combat Art Gallery in Washington, D.C.

I found that when I completed developing small studies into larger works I felt it necessary to write descriptive passages concerning the work: the way bloody Omaha Beach looked in words as well as in paint; a gutted German gun emplacement turned into a first-aid station; the dead being buried in shallow graves on roads leading to Vierville-sur-Mer; the desperate, desolate look of German prisoners being corralled into temporary camps along the beach—and much more.

I also wrote essays and poems, many of which became a soggy mess, doomed to a watery grave in my sea bag, stored in the flooded basement of my apartment building in Washington. I managed to salvage some of that material, and with the help of other references and vivid recollections, reconstructed my war experiences.

Historically, I became one of the seven, and the youngest, of the original group of Navy combat artists who recorded the war. Yet, I often wonder what a person thinks of the term combat artist. Perhaps it is a misnomer if one thinks that an artist is trained to make combat art. He isn’t. There are no schools in the service that prepare you for such activity, no training as there is for soldiers who learn the art of killing. As I mention later in the text, it is only those who are already skilled artists before they get involved in a war—and inspired by the human drama—who may become war, or combat artists, given the opportunity.

Many years after the war when I was an art consultant for a publishing company in Frederick, Maryland, I was asked to write my war recollections, but declined to do so. I was struggling to keep my head above the water of other commitments: chairing a college art department, teaching, trying to keep up with my painting, various free-lance projects. I didn’t have the time nor inclination. But things have changed since then. Now professor emeritus, I have both the time and the inclination.

But what really simulated me to get to work on the book in earnest was meeting Spalding Gray at a benefit in Sag Harbor, Long Island. I had seen him perform his captivating monologues on TV, but had never met him until now. We chatted briefly before his program Interviewing The Audience began. Someone had evidently told him I was a former Navy combat artist. He said he might call me up to the stage as a participant. But he wasn’t sure. I shrugged. That’s OK. Let the chips fall where they may. And they fell in my direction. I was the last of three persons he interviewed.

It was as if we were sitting in his living room, having a friendly chat. Spalding had the uncanny ability to unlock my mind, draw out the war experiences I had buried—and wanted to forget, He didn’t say much, mostly listened as I went on and on, reliving the horrors I had seen. At one point I said, I hope this isn’t too long, too boring. He smiled and said, I’ll let you know. I kept going—it must have been fifteen or twenty minutes longer.

That experience made me reflect that if my story could hold Spalding Gray’s attention—and the audience as well—it might be of interest to others. I was determined to get back to work and finish my book.

But when the war is over, what does the artist do? That part of the story cannot be ignored. I was still in my early twenties, trying to find some anchor in life. My religious beliefs had been washed away, like the life in those bodies lying in the red tides of Normandy. Rehabilitation did not come easy. Inner scars don’t show, they simply color one’s vision, make you see life differently. Life as I knew it before could never be the same. You don’t go back to the place you came from; you transform it, see it with different colored lenses.

In a sense, the war continued: my personal war with the art world. Again the need for affirmation—floundering in the sea of indifference, the need to swim to the shore of recognition, a constant up-stream battle. Winning scholarships and fellowships were like life rafts tossed to me just in time. Teaching appointments added greater stability in the many years that followed. In fact, post-war years were just as challenging as those war years I barely survived. And some were equally adventurous… the challenges, sorrows and joys continue.

Alexander Russo

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Loading an LSD for Invasion of Normandy

First Taste of War

J une 11, 1943 was a day that still burns in my memory; my twenty-first birthday, and I was aboard the cruiser Spelvin, flagship for Task Force 122, part of the Sixth Amphibious Force under the command of Admiral Alan G. Kirk. We were lumbering through rough seas, spray streaming from the bow blowing over my face as we headed for a war zone in the Mediterranean. Hell of a way to spend a birthday, one of life’s unpredictable tricks, especially when you’re an enlisted man in the Navy and your country is at war.

Perhaps it might have been otherwise had I been drafted instead of enlisting in the Naval Reserve. But I couldn’t face the prospect of trudging through muddy fields with a pack on my back, a rifle in my hands, searching out the enemy. I had never killed anything, if I could help it. I wasn’t gung ho, had never fired a gun—except for a cap pistol when I was a kid. My father gave me a cowboy outfit when I was recovering from a tonsil operation. It was complete with wide-brimmed hat, sunbelt and cap pistol. He knew how much I liked Western movies, fantasized being a cowboy. I suppose he thought the present would take my mind off the pain of the operation. However, after I outgrew that stage, I even gave up surf fishing in Atlantic City, my home town, because I couldn’t stand the sight of a fish furiously wiggling to escape to freedom, that freedom we prize so highly we go to war to maintain.

But after Pearl Harbor, I, like many others who were inclined to be pacifists, had a change of heart. We had to get involved. There was no choice. You have to pay for freedom, and the price can be high… and perhaps even your life. These thoughts ran through my mind as I watched the sun breaking through an overcast sky, showering golden rays on our ship, loaded with fifteen hundred soldiers and sailors, zigzagging across the Atlantic, spearheading a line of cruisers and destroyers, trailed by oilers, amphibious supply ships, a sea-going tug, and a dozen or so troopships.

We had left port five days ago. The roll of the ship was nauseating. I was still struggling to regain my sea legs, hadn’t been on the ocean since I was sixteen when I first sailed my home built kayak off the shores of Atlantic City.

How well I remember that small boat I built from my own plans, based on a photograph of one I would have liked to have bought, but didn’t have the money; the small allowance my father gave me wouldn’t stretch that far. But I had enough saved to buy wood for a 14-foot mast, stringers for the hull, rope for the rigging, canvas and paint. I used wooden crates for cross members. I also made outriggers, one for each side of the craft, and a rudder. Looking back, I can’t believe I used simple tools: small handsaws, a drill, hammer, and screwdrivers. I must have been a good carpenter since the craft looked pretty decent when I finally finished it and was ready to give it the crucial test.

When my brother Peter and I took her out for a shakedown cruise I wondered if she would sink, or sail. My speculations and workmanship must have been right on target: she glided beautifully over low breakers as we hauled sail and headed out to ocean swells. She was lightweight, steady, zipped right along—and thank God, she wasn’t leaking or falling apart.

What do you think, Peter? He grinned and shouted back, It’s great… really great…

We decided to skirt waters just beyond the breakers, tacked back and forth, getting the feel of it. My first boat. It was like my first painting—only better. I didn’t have to correct anything: my first, flawless masterpiece.

The next day Peter helped me tow the boat to the beach, and I went out by myself. I’ll be back in an hour or so, I called as I got underway.

The surf was calm. A brisk wind was blowing seaward. I moved quickly over small breakers into blue-green swells. I was so preoccupied with how the boat handled that I didn’t realize how fast I was going until about ten minutes later I was already about a mile or so from shore. I looked back, with apprehension. It seemed a matter of minutes until I was farther out, could barely make out the shoreline. I must have been traveling faster than I thought because the shoreline disappeared altogether. Giant whitecaps were forming—like those I could now see from the Spelvin. I felt like I was on a roller-coaster, losing control. It became increasingly difficult to keep on an even course—though I didn’t have one mapped out. I was just gusting along with the wind and became increasingly apprehensive as I watched schools of fish beneath me, fins knifing the water—perhaps some were sharks. I became frightened… what if…

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a Coast Guard patrol boat appeared, siren screaming. It made a beeline toward me. A voice over the loudspeaker bellowed, You’re too far out… we’re towing you in. A sailor threw me a line, which I tied to the bow: instant reprieve, what a relief! I was towed close to shore, nosed into a breaking wave and rode it all the way in.

The crazy things kids do, I thought. Little did I know how crazy you could get—until later on, like right now, being on a war ship. But when I was sixteen, it didn’t seem so crazy; just an adventure, and I had been spared from a watery grave.

Of course, I never told my father about that event… not that evening when we were having dinner, because I knew how angry he would have been. He knew I was going to sail my boat in the ocean and popped the question: How did it go? I lied, Great… it was lots of fun.

Had I told him the truth, he would have most likely said, I told you so… just wasting your time… almost got killed, didn’t you? You should concentrate on your art, instead of such foolishness.

My father had always wanted to be an artist, ever since his youthful days when his uncle, a portrait painter in Italy, told him he had a good eye, invited him to his studio to look at a new portrait nearing completion. I don’t know if my father ever tried to paint. Perhaps he had only a good eye, but lacked talent. He became a musician, instead, studied violin and composition at Juilliard, then played professionally with small orchestras, finally winding up in Atlantic City to direct a hotel orchestra for a leading beachfront hotel. But there’s more to that kayak story. Later, some of my father’s friends told me how he bragged: My son made a fine boat… sailed it in the ocean.

Despite the kayak saga, my love for the sea didn’t diminish. I spent much of my free time on the beach, swimming, sunning, girl watching, taking long walks, gazing at the ocean like a sailor awaiting his ship.

And now I had gotten my ship and a Second Class Petty Officer rating. But the romance of it was wearing thin. I was wondering when this hellish war would end. I desperately wanted to become a civilian again and resume my art career, which I felt had been nipped in the bud after two years of study at Pratt Institute.

How well I recalled working on class assignments until well after midnight, when my roommates, Victor and Joe Canzani were snoring away, thinking I must be nuts to devote so much time to my work—they could do it so much quicker. However, I felt a commitment—perhaps even an obsession—to do my very best. But I did take breaks every so often, went out with them for a beer and usually dinner, which we had at an inexpensive restaurant close by.

I also played some basketball with Vic in the college gym; one day broke the little finger of my left hand—my violin hand. I didn’t play the violin until some months later, when my finger healed. Since I never had the dexterity I once had, I finally stopped playing altogether.

Those Pratt days, though only a few years in the past, seemed like another lifetime. Hard to believe now, as I spent tedious days aboard ship engaged in the dull routine of working on maps of Sicily. The monotony was broken by Sunday Mass, an occasional movie, systematic lifeboat drills—or a submarine alert, like the one that happened later in the day.

I was shooting the bull with Gary, a short, shy kind of guy with the rank of Army Corporal. We were both in the same map and model unit. He, too, had been an art student and wanted to get back to finish his studies. We always had a lot to bitch about, using those well-known four letter words like old-time salty sailors. He was soft spoken, except when he got excited. Then his eyes would pop and he would come out with the most unbelievable language, as he did when we heard the Spelvin’s horn blast an alert.

Christ almighty, he bellowed. Son-of-a-bitch! What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into now? The alert was followed by several muffled explosions. We raced from the fantail over to the starboard side; huge fountains of water were gushing skyward, like fire hydrants gone berserk—no doubt the result of depth charges a destroyer had dropped; another destroyer swung around close in front of us, dropped a few more, creating another series of muffled booms and gushing fountains.

The first thought I had was to look for a torpedo headed our way. I scanned the heaving seas, yelled, Don’t see any tin fish, do you?

In true form, Gary responded, No! But you never know when those goddam things might hit us… fuck’n German subs. I hope we blast the shit out of em.

We soon got the news that contact had been made about 500 yards away. Officers were scurrying to the signal bridge. Ships behind us were flashing signals back and forth like a tennis match. The Spelvin made a swift 45-degree turn. Crews manned the 5-inch guns and scanned the waters. Everyone was gawking and yakking away. I tried to stay calm, though I was flooded with fear. Then to bolster my courage, I looked behind us at the zigzagging convoy, thinking that with all the firepower of our destroyers and cruisers, we would surely spot a sub and sink it before it could do any harm.

We also knew that our armada had the advantage of air power, which made it possible to get a bird’s-eye view of any sub in the area. A cruiser behind us launched two scout planes. Apparently they didn’t find a sub in the immediate vicinity, and after awhile one of them returned and circled above us before heading for the stern of its mother ship, where it settled unsteadily, churning water, reminding me of my kayak bobbing in relentless swells. Then as we watched it taxi toward the cruiser to be hauled aboard, its engine conked out; it began to drift helplessly away.

Gary yelled, Christ, what a time for engine failure… poor bastard… he’s screwing things up. Sure enough, the plane was being tossed like a chip of wood directly into the path of ships in the convoy. After another breathless moment—and series of flashing signals—a destroyer broke out of formation and steamed to the rescue. Soon both destroyer and plane were so far behind they were hardly visible.

A boatsman quipped, sarcastically: That’s all we need… a broken convoy… good hunting for subs… took a drag on his cigarette and tossed it over the side.

You could feel the tension in the air as the second plane returned. I held my breath as it sputtered toward the crane of the mother ship and made contact. It was hoisted aboard without mishap. The cruiser then headed back in the direction of the destroyer and disabled plane, later returned with both plane and pilots safely aboard. Fortunately, I had a sketchpad with me and made a few quick drawings of the event, hoping to develop them into a larger statement later on.

Although the convoy was in formation again, tension mounted as we continued our zigzag course. It was too soon to relax. Officers on the signal bridge were still scanning the waters. How could you know when it might happen? How could you predict when a tinfish would strike?

But as the hours drifted by without any further commotion, we felt relieved—that is, until around midnight, when the alert sounded again. The lookout crew had spotted a distant light on the far horizon. It couldn’t be anything on land; we were too far out. Yet any ship—ally or enemy—surely wouldn’t want to give away its position by being lit up. What could it be way out there in the baffling darkness? Perhaps it was an enemy ploy of some kind to divert our attention while a sub made quick work of us. I rubbed my eyes, pulled on fatigues and went on deck for a look.

The word spread that a destroyer had been sent out to reconnoiter. After awhile the load speaker blasted the startling news that what we had seen was indeed a ship, but not a war ship. It was a hospital ship, decks flooded with lights, illuminating her Red Cross markings. She wasn’t one of ours, but a British one, I believe. We were relieved, but as a precautionary measure, our destroyers soon enveloped the convoy in a dense smoke screen. Early next morning another destroyer trailing us barked a few shrill shrieks of its horn, alerting us to another possible submarine attack. It dropped its depth charges and scouted around us like a hound after a fox. The Spelvin made another emergency turn, but fortunately, all we felt were some vibrations, nothing more, and continued to plow steadily ahead.

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We kept a steady course, covering several hundred sea miles a day, the water getting bluer as we gradually entered the Gulf Stream. A phosphorous glow lit the sea at night, making it a fit subject for an abstract painting. I toyed with the idea, wishing I were back in my studio, experimenting with an exciting new approach—mounds of paint piled high with texture, covered with blue-green iridescent colors, giving the canvas a mysterious glow—the entire canvas an abstract, pulsating portrait of the sea!

But I wasn’t in my peaceful studio. I was heading for action that I wanted to record with the demands of good academic drawing and realistic colors, disciplines I had studied at Pratt: a real challenge for someone with no experience at depicting war subjects. Could I do it? Time would tell, I mumbled to myself as I studied the vast expanse of sea.

Going back to the fantail after dinner when evening was setting in, I reflected on how beautiful the silvery wake looked against the dark blue sea, leaving a dim trail that vanished somewhere behind us in the darkness, like the darkness you often experience in a wartime situation; you never know what is happening, not really. You simply get news of it, unless you are immediately involved, and it’s happening to you—and the chilling thought that you might not even know what hit you when the lights go out.

Here we were in hostile waters, wondering how the rest of the war was progressing.

We longed for information, but for security purposes, no one was permitted to have a radio; we had to rely solely on daily broadcasts given to us over the ship’s loudspeaker system. Can you imagine how we looked forward to every bit of news we could get?

Just think how elated we felt when a few days before we entered the Mediterranean we received an uplifting message. Now hear this. The island of Pantelleria has surrendered after eighteen days of horrendous bombardment. This was followed by the ironical statement, It happened on the third anniversary of Italy’s involvement in the war. The United States Bomber Command has increased its heavy bombers to 300… . R.A.F. fighter bombers are hitting Sicily and parts of the mainland…

And then the next day, more cheers at the good news that Lampedusa, another small island eight miles from Pantelleria, had surrendered after twenty-four hours of naval and air bombardment. Our spirits soared again the following day when we heard that Linpsa, a neighboring island, had surrendered. The way things are going, we’ll soon win the war, I shouted to Gary, as we worked on shoreline drawings to use in assault activities. We were to disseminate these to landing craft when we reached our rendezvous off the coast of North Africa.

The usual monotony continued until a strange thing happened one day. All of a sudden the entire convey slowed down, a dangerous thing to do, since we would make better targets for enemy subs. I took a break and went up to the deck. Everyone was watching a transport and a destroyer maneuver close to each other, maintaining the same slow speed. The scuttlebutt spread that one of the crew on the destroyer was suffering from an appendicitis attack. All eyes were glued to a man being hauled by a Stokes Stretcher to the transport via a thin line; a lifeboat was in readiness below in case of a mishap.

We were spellbound for about twenty minutes, watching this maneuver take place. We knew that the ailing man would receive careful medical treatment—perhaps a much needed operation, and the Navy boasted some of the best doctors. The thought crossed my mind that if we were in combat it might have been a different story. But saving a man’s life at this time was a spectacular event.

Later, we heard that the man was a Ship’s Cook Third Class—not an impressive rank for such impressive treatment. You’ve got to give the Navy credit. This single event did much to sustain the morale of many enlisted men aboard ship.

Not much happened for a while, though we were constantly apprehensive as we plowed along. We got used to the news that every so often a destroyer would break away from the convoy to scout for submarines. Then one day we heard that an observation plane in search of a suspected submarine had not returned. It was presumed lost. Several destroyers and another plane went out to search for it, but were not successful. The plane was spotted ten days later; the pilots were alive and well. Fortunately, they had enough food and water to last three more days—had that been necessary.

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The days continued to drag by until we finally entered the Straits of Gibraltar. I marveled at that majestic rock poised above the sea like a monstrous beached whale. Everything seemed peaceful. Friendly planes circled above us, battleships dotted the distant harbor where cranes were busy at work. I could barely make out the rooftops of buildings in what seemed to be such an inhabitable place.

The next day the distant mountains of North Africa emerged in the mist as we headed for the port of Mers-el-Kiber. Across a jetty, white pueblo buildings were etched against the brown, mountainous terrain. The harbor was crammed with American ships. Trucks and jeeps were everywhere, loading troops and supplies, or waiting to be fueled.

After we docked we were given notice that we could go to the port on liberty. What a relief. I had never been on foreign soil before, and the thought of making sketches of the local scene was fascinating. I grabbed my sketchpad and went ashore.

What a wealth of material to draw: patches of tropical vegetation sprouting on dusty hills; white thatched buildings stained gray by the elements and pollution; dirty streets teaming with dogs, cattle, Arabs selling trinkets; homeless waifs wandering around. And everywhere a mixture of Dutch, French, British and American troops, jeeps, staff cars weaving through camels and horse-drawn carts.

After wandering around the town making notes and filling several pages of my sketchbook, I was tired and thirsty, decided to stop at a café. The place was filled with service men and locals—dusty dark bearded men in robes, a few bedraggled native women wearing colorful costumes, a blind man and his dog.

After gulping down a glass of water, I ordered a cup of coffee. It was so thick you could float a quarter on it. I added some sugar and took a sip, never finished it. I decided to switch to brandy, ordered one and washed it down with water: just what I needed. It perked me up, and I was in a better mood to draw. I lost no time in making quick studies of some of the more colorful characters.

When I left the cafe I saw an Arab boy standing outside, dressed in tattered old clothes too big for him. He put out his hand, looked at me with an expectant expression. What a great subject to draw. I gave him some change, motioned him to stand still, pointed to my sketchbook. He seemed to understand and took a pose; his face lit up with a broad smile. I spent only a few minutes on the drawing, but captured his likeness, showed it to him. I thought it would be a good idea to have him sign it, and made appropriate gestures. He grabbed the pencil and signed Muhammad in a rambling scrawl. Then to my surprise, he wanted to keep the drawing, but I pulled it away. To appease him I made another drawing, signed it and gave it to him. He ran off laughing, looked back at me, waving the drawing. That was the extent of my liberty. I was eager to get back to the Spelvin, relax and get the latest news.

The allies had bombed railroad yards in San Giovanni and southern Italy. Flying Fortresses were on the go day and night, raiding strategic objectives. The word spread that Messerschmitts were in the area and that in the event of an attack we should eliminate the web chin strap from our helmets and use the leather strap instead to prevent a bomb blast from breaking our necks. Pleasant thought—you never know. Fortunately, we were spared—at least for the time being!

During the last few days in Africa our ship was sealed. No one was allowed ashore. However, it was a different story for the small team of technicians, of which I was a member. We were given latest intelligence data, assigned to go aboard landing craft and transports to mark gun emplacements, new strategic military targets on maps and plaster models to be used in the impending assault. I remember how we had slaved over making those plaster models back at our base in Norfolk, where some of the most talented art students and professors, now in the military, were stationed.

As I went from ship to ship, I had difficulty keeping my balance on slippery decks—not to mention keeping my hand steady as I made the necessary notations. So many ships! So many faces! As I finished my work, everything became a blur, like a film running fast-forward. I was glad to get back to the Spelvin.

Soon we were heading out to sea again, knowing our destination was the island of Sicily. I wondered how many of the sailors and troops aboard ship were of Italian origin, how many might have relatives on the island we were about to bomb and invade. In my case, I knew Russo was a common name in Southern Italy—perhaps even in Sicily. Imagine slaughtering some distant relative! The thought of it made me shudder. But when you’re in uniform you have to dismiss such thoughts. Suppose it were the other way around? Suppose we were the enemy, not the ally? I soon realized this train of thought was useless and frustrating. More importantly, we had our own survival to consider. We had to do our best to win the war, no matter what!

On the brighter side, I was glad to get to know Lieutenant John Mason Brown, the Spelvin’s Public Relations Officer. He had made an impressive name for himself as drama critic for Theatre Arts Magazine and the New York Post. Now his job was to write about the greatest show of all time—the invasion of Italy—and later the Normandy invasion. He was also assigned—in keeping with Admiral Kirk’s democratic concerns—to give everyone aboard ship daily reports of approaching activities: everyone from the lowly sailor to the uppermost gold braid.

As we lumbered along toward Sicily, Lieutenant Brown, in his impeccable diction, told us that we were only part of the forces involved in the attack. To the west of us were other American forces; to the east, British forces. A large force of Allied aircraft would be overhead. Parachute troops would land to the west of us. Transport troops under the command of Commodore Phillips and Commodore Loomis would land troops on beaches west of the small town of Scoglitti. Commander Bailey’s ships would use beaches east of the town. All in all, the Allied armada of 2500 ships would converge on Sicily. This promised to be an unforgettable spectacle! And I would be right there in the midst of it. A chill ran up my spine as I imagined trying to make drawings of whatever I could witness.

But we weren’t told when D-Day was scheduled. Only the higher-ups knew that; or perhaps that date was still pending. We all thought it must be soon as the tension mounted and everyone became intoxicated with anticipation; it was contagious. Contrary to my nature, I began to feel like the troops around me: a wolf hungry for the kill.

Then when I heard that the Spelvin would stay offshore and not discharge its troops on the initial landing, I did a crazy thing. I requested to be transferred to a troop ship that would hit the beaches of Scoglitti on D-Day. When I told Gary about this, he smacked his head and yelled, You asshole… you’ll get your balls shot off… why the hell do you want to do that? I mumbled something… can’t remember my exact words, but I let him know that I was just a crazy artist wanting to get in on the action. Gotta do it, were my last words, as my request was granted and I was assigned temporary duty aboard the troop ship, the Susan B. Anthony—how it got that name I’ll never know.

The convoy was making record time. On the morning of July 9th we passed Malta, by afternoon, Gozo. The next island would be Sicily. A private nudged me: Hay, sailor, what’s that you’re carrying? When I told him it was a sketchpad, he laughed: Gonna make some drawings? Where the hell’s your gun? I just smiled and said I didn’t have one. He gave me a strange look, mumbled something and walked away. Little did he know what was going on in my mind. I was apprehensive, to put it mildly. But I was an artist and had to chance it. I thought that since I wasn’t toting a gun, I wouldn’t be considered an enemy target. Little did I know.

On the same day the gray skies became filled with British Spitfires and by late twilight some enemy aircraft were reported to be only a matter of miles from us. I could hear the booming of big guns in the distance; flares and fires punctuated the dark horizon toward which we were headed.

The night got blacker and blacker, except for flashes of light that blossomed closer and closer. It wouldn’t be long, now, I thought, as I felt a 30-knot wind tear at me on the upper deck. Earlier in the day I had noticed the same unrelenting wind create monstrous waves that made destroyers and cruisers dip and plunge like sea serpents. How could small landing craft operate in such waters? Would we be able to land troops in such weather? Then we received some consoling news: the wind would subside by midnight, making the seas less treacherous.

I heard the roaring of aircraft overhead and wondered why we weren’t firing our antiaircraft guns. I was relieved when someone yelled, Hey, they’re our transport planes… probably carrying paratroopers… Thank God for that, I thought, and I thanked God again as we drew closer and closer until we were only a few miles from Sicily—still without mishap. Wanting more news, I dashed to the communications room, heard the Northwest African Air Force was on the offensive throughout the entire Mediterranean area, thus compelling the German Air Force to withdraw from fighter range of beaches in Sicily. In addition, Sicilian airfields were under constant bombardment, a softening-up operation, making it almost impossible for local enemy aircraft