Remembering War: A Personal Memoir of WWII

By Robert C. Young

This first-person account shares the everyday and not-so-everyday details of an 18-year-old Army private from suburban New York City as he served in the 62nd Armored Artillery Battalion in North Africa and Europe from July 1942 to October 1945. The author’s accounts of lucky escapes and his keen observations of people and evocative descriptions of local terrain, flora and fauna and culture in eleven countries and are set against the backdrop of major events in the greatest military conflict in the history of humankind. These are deftly interwoven with his engagement in two D-Day landings and seven major military campaigns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BrattonDesigns
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005567729

Book preview

Chapter 1

You’re in the Army Now

Within days of graduating from Great Neck High School in June 1941, I found myself working in a downtown New York office as a file clerk. It wasn’t what I wanted for myself—I had pictured myself in some kind of outdoor job of a more adventurous nature—but the depression was still lingering. I had seen my older brother struggle to find work. So, when my high school, where I had left notice that I was looking for work, called with a job prospect in the city, I went in for an interview and started work right away.

Being a file clerk for National Carloading wasn’t difficult work, the hardest part being commuting, and the people I worked with were pleasant. But I still wanted to do something more adventurous, so after six months I went up to Maine to work in a lumber camp for Great Northern Pulp and Paper Co. I had considered a program that would have led to my becoming an able-bodied seaman in the Merchant Marine, but the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. Now we were fully engaged in the war, and my mother convinced me that I should go to Maine to work instead off to sea. I was eighteen at the time and not yet subject to the draft.

I went up to Maine to work in a logging camp right after New Year’s and came back home in April after the seasonal operation closed down, and I worked for six weeks or so at a ship yard out at Oyster Bay on Long Island where they were making a mine sweeper. I didn’t have a car or even a driver’s license yet, but a friend who was working there had told me about the job and provided the transportation.

By then the war was beginning to dominate our lives and I was thinking about going into the service even though at my age I wasn’t even registered for the draft. The Navy didn’t especially appeal to me, so I thought I’d try to get in the Air Force. That involved a trip to Governor’s Island out in New York Harbor where I took a written test with a bunch of other would-be airmen. The test wasn’t particularly hard, and I was the first to finish and go outside—as instructed—to wait for the results. In a while, when the test period was over, a non-com came out and read off those who had passed. My name was called off, and I was given the time and place to report for a physical.

The physical was an all-day affair covering every aspect of the human body and including an interview with a psychiatrist. I passed everything with flying colors until my blood pressure was taken and the technician informed me that my pressure was over the limit. He was a nice guy and told me to relax for a little while and that he would take it again. This time it was lower but still not good enough, but he was encouraged and said he would take it once more. If I got it down to a certain range, he would give me the rest. I didn’t make it, and when I got to the end of the line and gave my papers to the hard-nosed officer (I remember him as a colonel) who would approve or not approve me, he barked What’s wrong with your blood pressure? Is it a little high? I asked innocently. A little high? he responded, It’s ridiculously high. You should be under the care of a doctor. He then accused me of getting this condition by too much dissipation. I had to consult the dictionary when I got home to find that never in my whole tender life had I dissipated, even though it sounded like fun.

So, I tried the Marines. That idea was cut short as soon as I walked into the recruiting office in Manhattan and was brusquely waved off by the recruiting sergeant who informed me that I was too tall for the Marines. I blustered that I thought they were looking for men, and he softened a little bit and told me that the Marines were a relatively small organization and couldn’t outfit extremes in size (me being 6’ 4").

The Army was happy to get me. After presenting myself with the necessary documents, including a parent’s signature because I was still a minor, I had only a few days before swearing in to get ready and let my friends know that I was on my way. One girl from church came by and burst into tears on the front doorstep, saying, I wish you didn’t have to go. It sobered me a little, shaking off my cavalier attitude. On July 1, 1942 I raised my right hand along with a group of other young men at Whitehall at the tip of Manhattan, swore to defend my country, etc., for the duration of the war plus six months and was told to report at a particular platform of the Long Island Railroad at seven o’clock the next morning.

My mother cooked a roast beef for dinner that night—I am still looking for a piece of meat that tastes as good as that did. When I bathed before going to bed, I looked at my legs, which I thought were pretty good-looking, and swore that I would come back with both of them or not come back at all. The next morning, I got up at four o’clock so I would be sure to be at the rendezvous in time. There was nothing dramatic or very emotional about my departure—I kissed and hugged my mother, and my father and I shook hands and punched each other’s shoulders with our free hands as American men did in those days. My father gave me a bit of advice that I assumed was a leftover from WWI— Keep your eyes, ears and bowels open, and don’t volunteer, he said. I assured him that I would and started on my way, where to and for how long, I had no idea.

At the designated platform of The Long Island Railroad I found a group of young men with light baggage standing around, most of them chatting in small groups. I checked in with the non-com, who was the only one in uniform, and joined the group. It was obvious that we would be going to Camp Upton, about three-quarters of the way to the end of the Island. Camp Upton was located at Yaphank, in the largely undeveloped Pine Barrens, and was the reception center for the New York region. The general area was very sandy and subject to periodic wildfires, so the aspect was one of extensive flat terrain covered by a tangle of scrub oak and pitch pine—a perfect location for an army camp. Our family route from Great Neck out to our summer bungalow in Cutchogue on the North Fork took us through the general area, so it was not novel to me.

I had commuted on the Long Island Railroad, but that was the Port Washington Line that served the communities along the North Shore as far as Port Washington. The line that took me to Yaphank was new to me, and I sat quietly at the window, watching the villages and small cities pass by and the landscape become more and more rural as I wondered where I would end up for my basic training.

The trip couldn’t have been more than an hour or two before we reached Camp Upton and unloaded from the train. As soon as we formed up on the platform and had the role taken, we were ordered to drop our pants, skin back our penises, and milk it down for the medics whom were performing the odious short arm inspection to make sure that no one was harboring a venereal disease. It also let us know that we wouldn’t have much personal dignity in the Army. I don’t remember the exact sequence, but we were issued uniforms, marched—sort of—to our new barracks, got a physical and a round of shots, marched to the mess hall and, at about nine o’clock at night, were given the army classification test. I had never thought that I was going to be able to do my best, having gotten up at four in the morning, traveled to the camp, been kept on the go all day in a strange environment and situation and been introduced to the test dog-tired and keyed-up. Nevertheless, I did OK on the classification test. With a score of 123, I was told that I was eligible for Officers’ Training School.

I stayed a week at Upton. During that time, we were introduced to the basic rudiments of military behavior, learning Army rank and its insignia, how and when to salute, etc. We were probably read certain provisions from the Articles of War, to which we were now subject. Reading the Articles to the troops was required periodically, presumably so that we wouldn’t forget that the Army had absolute power over us as spelled out. There was a saying, Give your soul to Jesus, because your ass belongs to the U.S. Army. We were given the first of required periodic lectures on sexual behavior. This was a procedure which involved a talk by a medical officer whom described the horrible effects of venereal diseases and how to avoid them, and we were issued condoms and told we had to show that we were carrying them to go on pass. A line officer said, in effect, to behave ourselves because getting VD was a crime against Army property. A chaplain urged us to abstain, because to do otherwise was a sin against God.

I drew my KP (kitchen police or patrol) duty while at Upton. And I learned my first lesson of life out in the world. It was hot work, and I hung my fatigue jacket on a hook and worked in my T-shirt. Unfortunately, I forgot to remove my wallet, and when I retrieved the jacket the wallet was gone. I had a few addresses and $7.00 in it but nothing else of value, but the loss of the money meant that I would be penniless until payday, which was a long way off.

The mess hall was the same one where Irving Berlin had staged his musical show. I was intrigued by the history, but it didn’t make my work any more interesting.

I wasn’t in the Army more than a day or two before I got my first dressing down. I was sauntering along with a new friend, engaged in conversation and not paying much attention to our surroundings, when we were brought up short by a second lieutenant who was indignant that we had passed him without showing due respect by saluting. We were guilty of course, and we made no excuses, which would have riled him even more. I thought his lecture was a little overwrought and long for the enormity of our crime. It wouldn’t be the last time I thought that way.

We were kept pretty busy during the day, but we usually had the evening off, and we could roam around the camp and see what there was in the way of amusement. I had made friends with a couple of guys, and we hung out together. One night there was a dance attended by local girls from Patchogue, Moriches and other nearby communities.

It was outdoors, and we just happened upon it. Those who had partners danced inside a roped-off area. After a set, the guys who were dancing exited the dance area, and a new contingent was let in to seek out partners. On my first turn, I found a very attractive young girl, tall and blonde. I learned that she was from East Moriches and had just graduated from high school. Although I had never acquired more than the very rudiments of dance, she didn’t seem to mind. When the set was over and I had to exit the dance floor, I hurried to get near the front of the line to get another turn, and when my turn came up again, I had no trouble locating her. As the evening drew on, the crowd of men began to thin out, and I was even able to claim consecutive dances with her. So, by the end of the night we had become relatively well acquainted, and I left with her address.

After about a week at Upton, we were ready to ship out, each to our own destination. As a volunteer rather than a draftee, I was permitted to choose what branch of the Army I was to be assigned to, and I chose the Armored Corps, not that I knew much about it, but the idea of fighting from inside a tank and shooting off those big guns sounded pretty exciting and glamorous to me. So we sat tight, ready to move on short notice.

After only five or six days at the reception center, I was all set to be moved onto basic training at another location, and I loaded up on a train with a large contingent of brand-new GIs headed for an unknown destination. The passenger cars on our troop train had seats that converted to bunks—not very luxurious, but, hey, we were soldiers and could do without luxurious accommodations. We backtracked to Manhattan before crossing the Hudson to New Jersey and down into Pennsylvania. I enjoyed being on the way to somewhere else and was content to gaze out the window and watch the landscape slide by. I was particularly impressed by The Horseshoe Curve, made familiar by promotional posters of the Penn RR as it wound up along the eastern front of the Alleghenies. We were all amused to see the locomotive pulling the front end of our train in the opposite direction as we went around the tight curve.

When a non-com came through our carriage looking for volunteers to help serve a meal, I volunteered, figuring it would be a diversion and I would be close to food. I reported to what I suppose was a baggage car where I was put to work serving pats of butter out of a bowl of ice water—not a very hard job. After the meal was through, I sat with some other guys in the open door of the car with our feet hanging out, like hoboes in an open boxcar. We were traveling through Pennsylvania, and I was impressed with the distance between towns and the forested hills and mountains that separated them. I was now seeing towns whose names I had heard, like Altoona, but I had no idea what they were like. As our troop train rattled through town and countryside, we waved back at the people who stopped to wave at us as we went by. Already I was getting the feeling that I was part of something much, much bigger than myself—that I was no longer in control of my own life but would be moved wherever the Army wanted to move me without consultation or explanation. But, then, I had volunteered, and I intended to make the best of it without complaint.

By the time we reached Fort Knox, which was to be our home for at least the next thirteen weeks, we were in the Deep South, and I was intrigued with being in a different part of the country than what I was used to. We were quartered in the standard two-story, wooden Army barracks, which consisted of a sleeping room upstairs and a sleeping room downstairs plus a latrine at the rear of the building and a squad room at the front where the NCO in charge lived. Our cots were lined up against the wall on each side of the room. A locker was provided against the wall for each bed and a footlocker on the floor at the front of each bed. We slept alternately head to the wall and feet to the wall. I ended up with my feet to the wall and my head to the common space, which I didn’t like because it made me feel vulnerable with my head exposed to the open area.

Privacy in these circumstances was nonexistent. In the latrine, there were no separate shower stalls—just one big gang shower, and, worst of all, there were no stalls for the toilets, which were in a row, completely out in the open. We changed clothes, shat and showered, all in full view of our buddies. The Army, obviously, had no place for modesty.

Fort Knox was a huge camp, not far from Louisville, with movie theaters, PXes (Post Exchanges) and other stores, restaurants, movie theaters and its own bus system. Our company area comprised several barracks, a mess hall, headquarters building and a recreation hall with ping pong tables, telephones, lounge area and tables to write on or play cards or other games. As the barracks had nothing whatsoever in the way of tables or chairs, the rec. hall was a favorite hangout. Our area was at the edge of the developed portion of the camp, and beyond us were square miles of firing ranges, bivouac areas and other areas that provided the space for those uses that needed a lot of room.

We were classified and assigned to various platoons. I was put into a gunnery platoon and coincidentally told that I was eligible for officers’ training. The platoon was the smallest training unit and consisted of the guys in a single barrack. Several platoons constituted a company. My platoon included guys from all over the map and walks of life, just as writers and movie producers have long shown. In a letter home, I listed California, Maine, Pennsylvania, New York, Oregon, Wyoming and Washington. One of the fellows was a genuine cowboy. There were two Indians in the outfit, one an older fellow who never seemed to speak or be with anyone else and the other a young and slightly built guy by the name of Moses Little Thunder. One guy was only fifteen and had lied about his age. He was outed after a while and sent packing, while Little Thunder was diagnosed with tuberculosis and discharged.

During the classification process, the non-com interviewing me wanted me to go to radio school. I would stay with the platoon but get special training. I saw myself as a warrior and didn’t want to be a radio operator, so I objected. He wrote, wants no school on my record. I think it was probably a big mistake, and it wouldn’t be my last.

The names of all the men who scored above 110 on the general Army classification test were posted on the outdoor bulletin board. With a score of 123, (not a genius score but respectable) I was fourth from the top. The top gun, who scored in the 140s, was Bob Baerst, a fellow about my age from East Hampton, Long Island, who was a genius. The second, who was older and more worldly than most of us, was from the Midwest and was well established as a sales representative. Third was Rudy, a Jewish guy from Flushing, Queens, who was a jeweler in his family business and had been partly raised in Israel where he had earned a wound stripe in the service of the British Army.

Those of us who had made the list were interviewed by the battalion colonel who, we

heard, had been a football coach at West Point. I suppose I came over as an immature eighteen-year-old teenager. But I felt that I made some points when he asked why I joined the Army and I answered simply, Sir, my country is at war. However, when he asked if I had played football in high school and I told him no, that my sport was track, which in itself was a stretch as I was cut from the team before competition started, I could feel that he lost interest and hurried through the interview.

Later I was given a mechanical aptitude test and scored 136, which was really quite high, but nothing came of it. Even later I was given a clerical aptitude test and got my highest score—143. As a result, I was offered a chance to go to clerical school, which would result in a rating upon graduation, but I told them that I didn’t join the Army to sit behind a typewriter whereon the interviewer told me that they could put me behind a typewriter against my wishes just the same as they could put somebody behind a machine gun who didn’t want that assignment. I responded that I was aware of that, but they would have to order me to do it because I wasn’t going to volunteer. They didn’t order me. Other fellows were sent to cooks and bakers or mechanics schools. But I wasn’t.

I was given another chance sometime later when another fellow and I were called in to test for supply sergeants’ school. I qualified and was offered the opportunity. This was a real good opportunity as a supply sergeant is in a key position, but again I turned it down. What I hoped for was a chance to go to gunnery school, next get appointed to cadre in the training company and then, perhaps, having gotten a little older and having an Army record of experience, be in a position to get appointed to Officer Candidate School.

At the beginning, we had to learn the movements involved in close order drill. My father had taught us this drill when we were small kids, and in our Boy Scout troop meetings we always did a little drilling. So I had no trouble with learning to march.

We were issued training books, which described the hierarchy of ranks and the insignia that distinguished them, and the protocols of military courtesy—such as jumping to attention whenever an officer entered a room or approached directly.

Army routine kept us busy all through the day. We were rudely awakened in the morning by a non-com who came through the barrack blowing a whistle and yelling at us to get moving. The morning activities consisted of reveille where we formed up and had roll call, showering and shaving, having breakfast, raising the flag and performing calisthenics. After that the real day would start.

Often, we would spend some time policing the area, which consisted of forming a broad line, moving through the area and picking up any offending bit of refuse. We had been taught how to field strip our cigarette butts by opening the paper up, shaking out the tobacco and then rolling up the remaining paper into a tiny ball which could then be discarded. However, if the tiny ball was visible when we were policing it would catch the sharp eye of the non-com in charge who would nastily point it out to whoever he could blame on missing it. I felt that such a practice was demeaning, but I suppose it was meant to be. In this and other ways, we were taught our status in the military.

The local soil in Kentucky was heavy clay. When it was wet it clung to our shoes, but when it was dry our marching raised clouds that coated us and nearby brush with yellow powder. When we had