Memories of an Interesting Life

By Col. John H. Roush Jr and Col. John H. Roush

This volume presents a dramatic collection of significant combat experiences of 79 men in WWII, as told from one combat veteran to another. In the 86 chapters are stories involving all the various branches of combat service and all of the various theaters of war. Within reminiscences, veterans of dangerous encounters are much more apt to open up with details in discussions with men who have also experienced combat. Many find it emotionally distressing to talk of the war with the general public or to recall the horrors of warfare.
This is not a history book nor any attempt to tell the big picture of grand campaigns. Instead it is a collection of personal involvements in one-at-a-time incidents of conflict. Many ask what was it like in WWII, for our conflicts in recent years have been vastly different.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 23, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469106656

Col. John H. Roush Jr

• This volume presents a dramatic collection of significant combat experiences of 79 men in WWII, as told from one combat veteran to another. In the 86 chapters are stories involving all the various branches of combat service and all of the various theaters of war. Within reminiscences, veterans of dangerous encounters are much more apt to open up with details in discussions with men who have also experienced combat. Many find it emotionally distressing to talk of the war with the general public or to recall the horrors of warfare. • This is not a history book nor any attempt to tell the big picture of grand campaigns. Instead it is a collection of personal involvements in one-at-a-time incidents of conflict. Many ask what was it like in WWII, for our conflicts in recent years have been vastly different. • Colonel Roush is particularly qualified to edit the accounts, for he himself was in combat in WWII and served in various branches of the Army. he also held assignments with close contact with the other branches of the Armed Services. He is a professional writer, author of a dozen volumes and many magazine articles. • Col. Roush is a graduate of the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College and the Army War College, the Industrial College of the Armed Forces and the Foreign Service institute of the U. S. Department of State.

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Copyright © 2009 by Col. John H. Roush Jr.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2007908517

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4257-9779-9

   Softcover    978-1-4257-9775-1

ISBN:   ebook   978-1-4691-0665-6

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Col. John H. Roush, Jr.

‘600 Deer Valley Road, Suite 2 E,

San Rafael, CA 94904-5517

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

WHY WRITE?

1

Earliest Memories

2

California Junior Game Patrol

3

Basic Training

4

Crack-Up!

5

The Painting on the Wall

6

Surrender!

7

The House on the Hill

8

Buzz Bombs

9

The General Wants to See You

10

Displaced Persons

11

I’ll Have Your Bars!

12

Black Market

13

The Missing Jeep

14

I Lived in a Castle

15

Parades

16

Bravery

17

Memories of London in Wartime

18

Where Do I Know You From?

19

Steelhead Camp

20

Ninety-First Division During Korean War

21

Father-in-Law

22

Brown Derby

23

Pinewood Derby

24

Seashells

25

Scouting

26

Shad

27

Secret Mission?

28

Army War College

29

My Greatest Catch

30

Standing-Tall, Giraffes

31

Bears

32

Leopards

33

Danger

34

Terminations of the Continents

35

Great Fish We Have Tangled With

36

Generals

37

Watch Your Step

38

Writing Creative Nonfiction

39

Saving Private Ryan

40

The Best Officer I Ever Served With

41

Presidio of San Francisco

42

Octogenarian

43

Baseball

44

Lucky

45

New Zealand

46

Harvey Coverley

47

Stones

48

Snakes

49

My Paternal Grandparents

50

Hunting Talk

51

History Book Errors

52

Canoeing

53

Birds

54

Mountain Lions

55

Sharks

56

Trials of Travel in Africa

57

Sheriff

58

Hard to Explain / Sangomas

59

Why Did President Truman

Drop the Bombs?

60

Hunting Dangerous?

61

U.S. Intelligence

62

Skin Cancers

63

First Morning’s Light

64

Undue Pride

65

Vital National Interests

66

Fly-Fishing

67

Lake Tahoe

68

Shared Experiences

69

George Washington High School

70

Horses

71

Life’s Work

72

Tide Pools

73

Raptors

74

Twin daggers—Most Exciting Moment

75

Boston Naval Yard

76

Outdoor Writing

77

Books Written

78

Organizations

79

Recognition

80

Thoughts While Hiking

81

Extra Sensory Perception

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Virginia. My best memories of the

past fifty-eight years are of our happy days together.

INTRODUCTION

It has been a popular pastime among the members of our writer’s group in our Smith Ranch retirement complex to reach back to our earlier days for memories of remarkable incidents. Meeting twice monthly, we read and critiqued our papers. Thus, I got started with this collection that has become a book for family and friends that they may have some memories of Virginia and me. The requirement to come up with another segment twice monthly has forced some structure into the endeavor. It is indeed remarkable how long-forgotten incidents can be resurrected from latent memory.

Many of us wish that we knew more about grandparents and their earlier ancestors. We find it regrettable that their stories were not written down. Certainly each of them had fascinating stories to tell. Through our meetings in the writers’ group, the impetus was given to us to write up memorable incidents of our lives. The demand was not great: two papers a month each of perhaps several pages. Once started, I did more, and over a period of five years, I accumulated nearly three hundred pages of anecdotes.

One naturally generates a lot of memories during a lifetime of eighty-plus years. Some are etched deeply into one’s mind. The details of some incidents become vague with the passing years, and many more are nearly forgotten. However, with appropriate impetus, memories can emerge to one’s surprise. Sometimes, during the night, incidents are recalled, in part, at least. Some of my recollections came back with vivid imagery. Some others I would like very much to forget, but cannot. The vivid recollections of seeing hundreds of dead men are indelible but not subjects for this collection. I have avoided gory details of the World War II years. You can read of that in more than a hundred books. Some of it is included in my book World War II Reminiscences 1996, as amended and expanded in 2001.

Through the stimulation of the writers group, I have recalled some incidents thought forgotten. These chapters have a tapestry of events that were interesting to me and possibly to you, the reader.

Various stories may not much interest the younger generation, yet they may be enlightened by some chapters as to what took place in what they might consider the ancient past. The history books used by the current generations of students were written by professors who were not then living during the WWII and Korean conflicts. Their accounts are not always accurate as I note in some of these chapters.

Some denigrators might say that some of these stories are outdated anecdotes of the over-the-hill crowd. I hope not. However, one can learn from what happened in the past. Those of us who have lived through perilous times are better qualified to write of it than the ultraliberal professors who might be more articulate but are wedded to their own unyielding political agenda.

I don’t think any of us octogenarians tortured ourselves into a misty remembrance of things past. The basic stories are true—as true as we can recall them. Things are definitely not the same now as they were when we were young. In sixty or more years, the world has turned around far more than in previous centuries. We are a much more mobile society than at the time of my grandparents or during the time of our youth. Events seem to happen faster in the present age and with more portent.

Some of the younger generation may wonder from time to time what we did of consequence in our earlier years. These tales may be a bit enlightening, and some may be amusing. They certainly touch upon the times in a living history.

Our writers’ group had a straightforward premise that each of us had stories to tell that should be preserved. I think these chapters open a few windows into an understanding of our lives. Some lessons might be learned from them.

Some pundits say the decades of the ’30s through the ’90s were a remarkable era within the history of the United States, particularly the period from 1939 through 1953. I think so, but others may suggest a different period. The challenges we faced to our way of life during that time period were remarkable. Monumental indeed were the sacrifices made by many. The dedication of so many to the preservation of our freedoms during that era is noteworthy. Never before has our freedom been was so critically challenged.

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The following two paragraphs were written by Carroll Beckett of our group, who graciously allowed me to include them (I think the thoughts are most appropriate):

Will my descendents want to know anything about me or will I remain just a name on the family tree? Do I have anything to say that will be of interest to future readers? These are the questions in my mind as I prepare to gather my life’s stories and knit them together into some sort of a cohesive whole. Hopefully, they will reflect (upon) who I am, the historic events I have experienced (and been involved in), the environments in which I have lived and perhaps a peek into my psyche, for whatever that is worth."

In the process of putting this (collection) together, it has been fun and fascinating to rummage around in the attic of my brain and transfer the memories I have found there to the written page. A memory once retrieved sometimes expands with the concentrated effort of remembering (and writing it down). Whatever the outcome of my efforts, it has been a challenging and rewarding process.

Others of the group have been supportive and helpful in an editorial fashion.

Like so many combat veterans, my experiences in the army greatly changed my outlook and entire future. Recall that while young, we saw the unfolding of epic events. The impact of those experiences has been profound to each of us.

Even more omniscient, some of the chapters include stories of miracles which simply cannot be forgotten. Some men of the cloth are far better qualified than I to discern explanation of remarkable events that cannot be explained as the workings of mere chance. Some of these remarkable incidents certainly have strengthened my belief in God’s mercy and concern for us.

My most cherished memories are of our marriage of fifty-seven years and of family. This collection of brief stories recounts incidents on the peripheral of those private remembrances. I hope that these recollections are of some interest to younger family members, our descendants and friends as well.

Virginia has a wonderful series of interesting stories of her illustrious family, extending far back to times preceding the founding of our country. I hope that she will write it up.

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1

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A DAY IN THE LIFE

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call today his own,

He who, secure within, can say

Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Come fair or foul or rain or shine,

The joys I have possessed in spite of fate are mine;

Not Heav’n itself over the past hath power,

What hath been hath been

And I have had my hour.

—Dryden

Translation of Horace Odes Book III xxix

WHY WRITE?

Writing memoirs is a daunting and dangerous task. When you become engaged in working with words, you have apprehensions that you may be exposing yourself or others to ridicule. Sometimes we resist opening up. How will others view what you have said? Are we guilty of bragging, self-aggrandizement? Confessions? Or will others think so? One wonders about that. Perhaps we develop too much reserve? Having the compulsion to write, needing to put thoughts down, opens one up to someone else who might criticize.

Sometimes the memory develops as you write, branches out and leads one on in tangential thoughts. But you pause, question, Do I want to get into that? Maybe our internal voice wants to do a bit of censorship. The inner rule cautions, Don’t say bad things about others, certainly not about yourself. Don’t gossip. Is what you are about to write of any value to anyone else?

How much courage is there exercised in opening our memories, exposing ourselves to the scrutiny of others? Will the readers judge us as a fool? A bumbler? Or a ne’er-do-well? In the possibility of saying something worth recording that might be valuable in the viewpoint of others, we take a chance. Sometimes in the writing, I believe one thinks more about the matter while typing the material than in dictating to a secretary. You sometimes pause, do a double-take, resist, and amend the words.

I believe we all see things through a different set of filters. My wife says I have prejudices. My reply is that I have reserves. Men with beards cause me to exercise caution in dealing with them. I do not readily open up to them, recalling many negative experiences—in particular, the college professors who showed hatred and gave me a bad time when they recognized me as a military man. I recall vividly others who flaunt their negativeness to fundamental values that those in the military esteem highly. Soldiers have repeatedly risked their lives to protect those standards of freedom.

Having been to some writing classes, I was turned off by cliches. Some glib critics delight in finding fault, in ridiculing, particularly in the fields of fiction. One thing I have learned for certain is that by writing, editing yourself, putting it down and taking it up again a month later, and with a paradigm of editorial help from others, you do improve your writing skills.

People say to me, I wish I could write. The response is that anyone can if they try and persevere. Like anyone else, I have struggled with putting into words difficult passages conveying some trying experiences. To put energy in the telling and extend meaning through the story by showing rather than a bald telling is a challenge. Does the reader have to think a bit to grasp the deeper meaning of what you have said? If you can do that, you deserve a complement.

John Roush

1

Earliest Memories

I was born in Portland, Oregon, in February of 1923 at Multnomah hospital. We moved to San Francisco in 1930, where I grew up. Few memories stick with me of that early period; one is most indelible.

My maternal grandmother, Mary Anna Reuter Schuster (1855-1930), was an exceptionally kindly, lovable person. Her personality contrasted with that of my maternal grandfather, John Peter Schuster (1859-1943), who was quiet, autocratic, solemn, and had little time for the youngsters. They had been married in 1888. With three cousins approximating the ages of my brother and me, it was often a house full of youngsters too active for Grandfather’s taste. Both grandparents had emigrated from Wipperfurth, Germany, at an early age, I believe in the 1870s.

That family was in contrast to my father’s farming family in the east, residing largely in Indiana, who had been in this country since 1720. My brother and I never met our paternal grandparents. There was not much travel across country in those days in the early years of the Great Depression. Our grandparents in Indiana had many grandchildren to visit within a few miles of their home. A younger cousin Becky Whitely, daughter of my aunt Mildred Clemens, wrote to me all during the four years I was involved in World War II, and that was most appreciated. I thought of her as a wonderful person. She and her husband, Don, passed away in the 1990s.

When my maternal grandmother died, whom I loved very much, neither my brother nor I were allowed to go to the funeral mass. They said that we were too young. After the family came back from the ceremonies, they assembled in the kitchen. For some reason, I went through the swinging door into the living room and sighted Grandma rocking in her favorite chair in the opposite corner of the room, smiling at me with a loving expression she often displayed to the children. I ran back to the kitchen and announced, Grandma is back! as loud as I could to break up the conversation. All ran back in, but, of course, she was gone. I still remember well that vision after all these many years. All that I can remember about her nearly eight decades later was that she was a jolly, overweight, older woman who displayed enormous kindness and loving consideration to us four young boys.

My older cousin Maurice claimed to have seen her in church that Sunday. The elders talked to the parish priest, who explained that was her way of conveying her love to us and indicating all was well and that she was going to heaven. Her loving face is etched in my earliest memories.

I remember playing in the large grassy parks with my cousins, for Portland is a much greener place than San Francisco. My grandfather had a wonderful tall cherry tree, of the Royal Ann variety, that reached at least forty feet high. In the summers, during visits to Portland, I would delight in climbing the tree and eating those wonderful juicy cherries to my fill. I would be up there for several hours at a time.

I recall my father teaching me fly-fishing on the upper Willamette River in Central Oregon. With not much skill, I cast a fly to the center of a pool. I remember that first cast very well even though it took place about seventy-seven years ago. Astonishingly, a dozen twelve-inch trout charged the fly from all directions. That is something almost never seen in the modern age.

It wasn’t long after coming to San Francisco when I developed serious mastoids with infections to the bone of the side of the head under the ear. I had three operations at an age of seven and wasn’t expected to live. They started me in stamp collecting—something to do while bedbound. I learned a lot of geography and history from that, but once over the trouble, I became more interested in outdoor activities and gave little time to the stamp collection. Even from an early age, I had some sort of part-time work to develop spending money which didn’t leave much time for participation in sports programs. At one time, I played basketball on the team only because I was tall, for I was not a good player.

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2

California Junior Game Patrol

Some of my early pleasant memories as a teenager were the four or five years during which I was a member of the California Junior Game Patrol organized in 1936 by the California Department of Fish and Game. We were led by Warden Manny Joy—a fine man who became our counselor, friend, and teacher. He took us on many outings, camping, and organized endeavors wherein we were helpful in conservation projects and the like. He also encouraged us, with his guidance, to organize our own projects where we might become useful while learning. We developed skills in rifle shooting, trapping of predators that threatened the resurgence of populations of threatened game species, fishing of various types. We also had tournaments with other groups within the statewide program. We learned a great deal about wildlife and sportsmanship. We also had a troop leader, Fred Reme, who had previously spent many years as a volunteer Boy Scout leader and had a great store of wisdom about outdoor activities and wildlife that he kindly shared with us.

Outdoor California in those days was much less populated, uncrowded, with more open space. Wildlife was much more abundant. We learned much about birds and animals in the field.

Many of the boys who were members developed into lifelong friends. Pierre Salinger (who was press secretary for President John F. Kennedy) and his brother Herb were members for a time. Within the group of boys, one of the most likeable was Paul Henneberry, a transplant from Montana, who had a wealth of knowledge about the outdoors and was the finest rifle shot. He was an early enlistee in the air force following Pearl Harbor and became a rear gunner on a bombing mission to the Ploesti Oil Fields. That was considered the most dangerous flying mission of all, for the bombing run had to pass between parallel ridges of land on which the Nazis had mounted multiple batteries of antiaircraft artillery. Paul was the gunner on one of the many bombers that went down.

Another good friend was Rob Provo, with whom I spent many, many trips afield. Regretfully, his life ended shortly after the end of WWII. Leo Grover and I were friends for six decades and took part in many outdoor activities. Memories of those early friends come back often when I take part in activities similar to those we once shared. Regretfully, all of those I knew well have passed away.

I recall one tournament where the boys from throughout California were entered in casting contests. In the surf-casting event, I won first prize. They totalled the length of three or four casts. With good scores in the previous casts, I really wound up for a tremendous cast on the last try. But, to my chagrin, the reel backlashed, and the sinker dropped short with a resultant poor score. Nevertheless, my aggregate won the cup. In a later event, I recall that my cast was over six hundred feet but disqualified since the line broke.

They had another contest for bait casting with lighter tackle at hoops spaced at various distances. My recollection is that I won a prize, but not first place.

Our group took part for several years in maintaining a small zoo of local animals. We learned a lot about them in the course of that duty. While we did some hunting, we developed a love of animals. We had many enjoyable camping trips that included some fishing. The love of the outdoors and of wildlife was instilled in us for a lifetime. We were taught ethics and good sportsmanship.

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Twenty pound silver salmon caught in Tomales Bay,

Marin County, by John Roush.

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3

Basic Training

What does one vaguely recall of army basic training sixty-four years ago? Fortunate to be assigned to Camp Roberts in Monterey County, I was included in an Infantry Heavy Weapons Company. We trained with heavy machine guns and 81 mm mortars, taking part as well in the normal infantry regimen. The days were vigorous and long. I still remember the green hills of spring and how I sneezed from hay fever created by the lush grass pollen as we covered miles each day across the hills.

Volunteering to carry the guidon, the little company flag, was a smart choice. The other men were obliged to alternate in carrying the heavy weapons wherever we went. Those broke down into weighty components. The base plate of the mortar was the worst to carry. It hung from a cord placed around one’s neck, was an awkward heavy load, cumbersome, and most uncomfortable. Carrying the guidon was a joy, for I was out in front, not eating the dust of the column. Previous experience had qualified me for the task since I had ROTC in high school and was a sergeant in the State Guard formed following the federalization of the National Guard.

We all had taken IQ tests in the army initial processing. One hundred ten was required to be eligible for OCS. Mine was 135, yet the man I shared bunks with had the phenomenal maximum score of 165. That caused the officers much question. No one had ever scored that high. I was called in and asked to learn something about him. They wondered, he being an Italian citizen, if he might be a sleeper agent. In those days, early in the war, there was a lot of paranoia.

I got to know him fairly well, a decent sort of fellow, a genius clearly. However, he was entirely incompetent when dealing with simple tasks such as cleaning his rifle or making up his bed for inspection. I had to help him.

We learned to eat things that had never been served at home, like fried liver and other specialties of the army mess that came up regularly, such as SOS (ground meat in gravy served on toast). You were too hungry, with all the vigorous exercise, to quibble about what was served to your mess kit.

Emphasis was given to shooting the heavy water-cooled .30-caliber machine gun. This became a two-man detail, for it broke down into components.