Vivid Memories of an Interesting Life

By Col. John H. Roush Jr.

This volume presents a dramatic collection of significant combat experiences of seventy-nine men in World War II, as told from one combat veteran to another. In the eighty-six 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 it was like in World War II, for our conflicts in recent years have been vastly different.

It has been said that war has become and continues to be an intractable social phenomenon. While some say its elimination is necessary to the survival of mankind, we do not seem to have approached closer to that elimination in the sixty-seven years since World War II ended. Encounters of warfare remain a stark reality within the present era. That being so, perhaps we should read of what happened as recalled in the most vivid memories of men involved in the most overpowering conflict of modern warfare.

Sincerely, John Roush

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524540470

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 © 2017 by Col. John H. Roush, Jr.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016914596

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-4049-4

                Softcover        978-1-5245-4048-7

                eBook             978-1-5245-4047-0

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Rev. date: 02/20/2017

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Introduction

1 My 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 London in Wartime

18 Where Do I Know You From?

19 Blizzards

20 Steelhead Camp

21 Ninety-First Division during Korean War

22 Father-in-Law

23 A Remarkable Person

24 Brown Derby

25 Pinewood Derby

26 The Remarkable Sloop Gjoa

27 Seashells

28 Scouting

29 Shad

30 Secret Mission?

31 Army War College

32 My Greatest Catch (Miracles)

33 Standing-Tall Giraffes

34 Bears

35 Leopards

36 Danger: Lions

37 The Seas

38 The Sea Wolf

39 Great Fish We Have Tangled With

40 Tide Pools: Cabezone

41 Generals

42 Watch Your Step

43 Writing Creative Nonfiction

44 Saving Private Ryan

45 The Best Officer I EverServed With

46 Memorable Soldiers

47 Presidio of San Francisco

48 Octogenarian

49 Baseball

50 Lucky

51 New Zealand

52 Harvey Coverley

53 Stones

54 Snakes

55 My Paternal Grandparents

56 Talk Given about Hunting

57 History Book Errors

58 Canoeing

59 Birds

60 Raptors

61 Ospreys

62 The Pine Tree

63 Mountain Lions

64 Sharks

65 Trials of Traveling in Africa

66 Sheriff

67 Hard to Explain/Sangomas

68 The Alsos Mission and Operation Paperclip

69 Why Did President Truman Drop the Bombs?

70 Now We Know!

71 Hunting Dangerous?

72 Alta Mira Bison

73 A Deadly Encounter

74 Skin Cancers

75 First Morning’s Light

76 Ahwahnee Hotel

77 Apostle Spoons

78 My Most Exciting Moment

79 Clem Maloney’s Tiger

80 Undue Pride

81 Fly-Fishing

82 Lake Tahoe

83 Shared Experiences

84 George Washington High School

85 Kiribati Islands

86 Horses

87 Life’s Work

88 Fireweed Lodge

89 Christmas 2015

90 A Sea Voyage

91 Boston Naval Yard

92 Outdoor Writing

93 Point Arena

94 Morro Bay

95 Books Written

96 Organizations

97 Extrasensory Perceptions

98 Recognition

99 The Night before Christmas

100 Nicasio Evening

101 Virginia

102 Recollections

103 Thoughts while Hiking

104 Poland

DEDICATION

To Virginia—my best memories are those of our sixty-five years of marriage.

INTRODUCTION

V ivid memories are those that have a profound effect upon your life, and I have had many. Some of those have had a profound affect upon the lives of other men and women as well. One naturally generates a lot of memories during a lifetime of ninety-three years. Some are etched deeply into one’s mind. The details of some other incidents did become vague with the passing years, and many more occurrences were nearly forgotten. To recover some in retrospection became difficult; however, surprisingly, many are retrieved. With appropriate impetus, memories can emerge to one’s delight . 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 pictures of having seen hundreds of men dead as result of war 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 and again in greater detail in 2013.

I have enjoyed being a part of the writers group at Smith Ranch Retirement Complex, where we have met bimonthly for the past fourteen years. In the span of my membership within the group, quite an extensive collection of my stories has been accumulated. They have been developed further in this manuscript. Some are greatly expanded for the subject matter had to be researched and thought out to considerably greater detail.

While I have been a professional writer, a member of state and national outdoor writers professional associations for several decades, I have gained from my association with this group of elderly people who enjoy writing and critiquing one another’s work. I respect them all, and they have encouraged me to continue writing in my advanced years. Our group had a straightforward premise that each of us had stories to tell that should be preserved. I think those chapters opened windows into an understanding of our lives. Some lessons might be learned from them. I think there are recorded herein a tapestry of events that were interesting to me and hopefully to you also, the reader.

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 criticism. Having the compulsion to write, needing to put thoughts down, opens one up to someone else who might criticize. Kirkus Reviews, the leading reviewer of books, in writing about the first edition of this book eight years ago, complained that I had not gone into greater detail of some of the poignant chapters. That deficiency has been taken care of in this expanded edition.

How much courage is there exercised in opening our memories, exporting ourselves to the scrutiny of others? How will the readers judge us? In the possibility of saying something worth recording that might be valuable in the viewpoint of others, we take a chance. I believe we all see things through a different set of filters. With broad experience over many fields of endeavor, it is natural to have sturdy opinions. In retirement, there is more time to think and write. Things are definitely not the same as they were when we were young. In sixty-five or more years since WWII, 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 are enlightening. Some may be helpful. They certainly touch upon the times in a living history. Many of the chapters touch upon fundamental values that those who have served in the military esteem highly; they have repeatedly risked their lives to protect freedom in which fundamental values are cherished.

It is true that 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 biased agenda. The history books used by the current generation of students have been 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.

They say old soldiers never die—those that write up their memories. Putting these recollections together was an enormous effort over the past few years. Hopefully, my memoir will survive me. 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 was profound to each of us.

Some pundits say the decades of the 1930s through the 1990s were a remarkable era within the history of the United States, particularly the period from 1939 through 1953. I think so, for the challenges we faced to our way of life in that time period were remarkable. Monumental indeed were the sacrifices made by many and the dedication of so many more to the preservation of our freedoms, which never before was so critically challenged.

Even more omniscient, some of the stories that are included, which are of miracles, simply cannot be forgotten. Some men of the clergy are far better qualified than I to explain remarkable events that cannot be attributed to the workings of mere chance. However, I have recited my understanding of the phenomena as I have seen it. Some of these remarkable incidents within several chapters certainly have strengthened my belief in God’s mercy and concern for us. We have much to be thankful for.

My most cherished memories are of Virginia, of our marriage of sixty-five 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 the general public. If you have comments, you may write to me at [e-mail].

*    *    *

1

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

1

My Earliest Memories

I was born in Portland, Oregon, in February of 1923 at Multnomah Hospital, while 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 kind, lovable person. Her personality contrasted 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 Wipperfürth, 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. While I met them at family reunions, she and her husband, Don, passed away in the 1990s.

When my maternal grandmother died, whom we all loved very much, neither my brother nor I nor my two cousins were allowed to go to the funeral mass. The adults said that we were all 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 was delighted to see 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 can still remember well that vision after all these many years. All that I can remember about her after more than 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 Grandma in church that Sunday. The elders talked to the parish priest, who explained that what happened was her way of conveying her love to us, also 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 thirty 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 often 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, and the help of my father, I cast a fly to the center of a pool. I remember that first cast very well even though it took place nearly ninety years ago. It is my oldest memory. Astonishingly, a dozen beautiful twelve-inch rainbow trout charged the fly from all directions. That is something almost never seen in the modern age, short of visits to remote wilderness locations.

It wasn’t long after coming to San Francisco that I developed serious mastoids with infections to the bone of the side of the head under the ear. I had three operations at the age of seven, and the doctors expressed an opinion that I 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 for the stamp collection. Even from an early age, I had some sort of part-time work to develop spending money. That didn’t leave much time for participation in sports programs. At one time, I played basketball on the high school team only because I was tall, for I was not a good player. That the team won the city championship was not through my efforts.

*    *    *

2

California Junior Game Patrol

S ome 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 at first by Warden Manny Joy—a fine man who became our counselor, friend, and teacher. He took us on many outings, camping, and organized endeavors. In some of those, 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 camping, rifle shooting, trapping of predators that threatened the resurgence of populations of threatened game species, and fishing of various types. We also had tournaments dealing with shooting and casting competing with other groups within the statewide program. We learned a great deal about wildlife, camping, and sportsmanship. We later 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 a great deal 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 likable 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 the Pearl Harbor attack 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 a gunner on one of the many bombers that went down.

Another good friend was Rob Provo, with whom, as a boy, 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 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 totaled 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, of sporting adventures, and of wildlife conservation was instilled in us for a lifetime. We were taught ethics and good sportsmanship. The game wardens were great mentors.

P6%20PHOTO.jpg

Twenty pound silver salmon caught in Tomales Bay,

Marin County, by John Roush.

*    *    *

3

Basic Training

W hat does one vaguely recall of army basic training that took place seventy-three 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 learning the general skills of a normal infantry regimental soldier. 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 which was carried everywhere we went, was a smart choice. The other men were obliged to alternate in carrying the heavy weapons wherever we went. These 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. A score of 110 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 base intelligence officers much question. No one had ever scored that high. I was called in and asked to bunk near him and learn something about him. They wondered, he being an Italian citizen, if he might be a sleeper agent. Recall, in those days, early in the war, there was a lot of paranoia and we were engaged in a war with Italy.

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. You were too hungry, as a result of 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. Together with boxes of ammunition and each man’s rifle, these became heavy loads. The gunner was assisted by a loader. In sighting the weapon, one had to traverse and search. That meant rapidly moving the sights both up and down and sideways, endeavoring to put a burst of four rounds into each of fifty little boxes. This activity was timed and had to done very rapidly. In the event you put more than four rounds into a box, they did not count.

The first time we fired the heavy machine gun, I had the lowest score. As a result of that failure, I had to wear a necklace of tin can lids for a week, an ignominious fate subject to ridicule. I was determined to do better since I was a good shot with rifles. When we finally fired for qualification, I was rated expert and received that medal. Further, my score of 196 out of a possible 200 tied the camp record, so I was given a three-day pass—almost unheard of in basic training—and $15 spending money.

Apparently, my record helped in the consideration for assignment following graduation. I was sent back to college in the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP) and spent a year at Santa Clara University after a month at Stanford studying accelerated classes in engineering. Those were demanding studies, six days a week, taught by Jesuit professors who booked no nonsense. The material we covered in a year was that normally undertaken over a period of two years.

Most of the others of my Basic Training Company were sent out to the Pacific as infantry replacements, seeing intensive combat in the awful conditions of New Guinea and the Philippines campaigns. My turn to participate in combat took place later in Europe. Others of my acquaintance studying longer at other universities were suddenly diverted into combat duty as infantry replacements when the urgent need happened during the Battle of the Bulge in December of 1944.

P9%20PHOTO.jpg

John Roush completed basic training course at Camp Roberts, Monterey County, CA

Spring of 1943.

*    *    *

4

Crack Up!

P robably, there are some episodes in anyone’s life that one would not be comfortable in attempting to write about. In discussing people and events, the topic came up of how some people crack up in the stresses of combat. My younger friend suggested strongly that I write a segment to add to this collection of memories. Irrespective, I objected; writing about such a topic is difficult. I have been reluctant to recall and write of the worst of my army experiences. I was lucky, indeed, for statistics show that, of infantry platoon leaders serving in Europe in WWII, 90 percent were killed, wounded, or captured. I was not hit. Those happenings were so long ago.

However, my friend spoke of reading about similar events of people more recently cracking up from the emotional trauma of deadly combat as had happened in WWII. In the warfare taking place within Iraq and Afghanistan, soldiers had severe problems.

This is a different time—perhaps, we are more sophisticated in some ways, and we understand more about a lot of things—yet the stresses of combat can be the same now as they were then. Some people can handle the overpowering intensities of life under terrible conditions, serious threats, and seeing violent deaths; and some fail—they crack up!

The stress of deadly combat doesn’t end when the sun goes down. Some of my worst experiences happened at night. One doesn’t have the luxury of ending the day’s tasks and climbing into bed. There was a period of time, within my unit, when we were down to only two officers. I got to sleep every other night. We were able to handle that then, being young and in excellent physical condition. I couldn’t do it now. The worst part of infantry combat is the unending fatigue while one has the necessity of continuing the activity within which one is deeply immersed. During the Battle of the Bulge, many men got little sleep. All were intensely worried, under great stress. For a week, we feared we were losing the war. The effectiveness of soldiers declined through lack of sleep, but men carried on. I like that English phrase Carry on! for the meaning is poignant. The call to do your duty is overwhelming.

I don’t recall cases of men failing to handle the situation, but then most casualties were evacuated relatively soon. The rest of us were too busy to take notice of what they now call posttraumatic stress syndrome. Some called it shell shock. We all sustained a bit of that, I am certain, but we got over it. Perhaps a more correct definition of that condition is the difficulty to integrate psychologically with the trauma of horror.

A reading of a medical publication gave the explanation: When under the stress of psychological problems which he cannot cope, the patient decompensates and becomes psychotic; he adopts a special way of thinking, which makes him delusional so that he deals with reality in an individualistic and inappropriate way.

They say when the man faces such horror of intense combat with extensive bloodshed, it blows away a section of the man’s mind. While I don’t recall seeing that in action in Europe, I have read of some instances. However, I do recall seeing that in my cousin Robert.

He and I were only months apart in age and grew up together over some of the preteen years. He was drafted shortly after the war began, a private. He became an infantry replacement in action only a week in New Guinea. Early in the engagement, September of 1943, he was substantially wounded. Combat was especially hard on replacements, suddenly thrust into the maelstrom without the fellowship and bonding with fellow soldiers. Discharged after recuperation, he became one of those now called a victim of posttraumatic stress syndrome: never holding a job, devoted to beer halls, bearing intense resentment, and creating much grief for his family. I recall talking to him sensibly for a few minutes and then seeing his face change in great distress, almost horror, conveying the impression, Whoa, I’m talking to an officer. One couldn’t continue the conversation.

I am told some of this happened to a number of Vietnam veterans and in more recent combat situations. Many instances are reported of men who have been affected, those who were involved in the current conflicts. I feel sorry for them; they need much help.

*    *    *

5

The Painting on the Wall

S omber, largely in drab shades of beige, the dreary landscape hangs in the entrance hall of my apartment. The large oil painting shows an ominous harbor scene with cloud-filled overcast, murky skies. It is far from colorful, yet the scene represents a highly vivid history. In the late fall of 1944, the war was moving eastward toward Germany. Our unit had taken over a schoolhouse in the far eastern part of Holland for use as a headquarters and lodgings.

Weary from working on plans most of the evening, with work still not complete at 1:00 a.m., I had gone alone up on the roof to get some fresh air. It was a dark and cold night. There were no lights, yet a frigid moon allowed an austere view of the somber area. I was tired and bleary eyed. However, up on the roof, I was just getting refreshed when I was startled by a sudden intense noise rapidly approaching from behind.

The unexpected sudden emergence of a Messerschmitt 109 fighter plane passing only ten feet overhead surprised me. The plane skimmed the rooftops, obviously on a surveillance mission. He passed so close that I can still recall seeing the intense expression of virulent hatred on the pilot’s face as he glanced at me.

How many faces can you recall having seen the man only once more than seventy years ago? Well, I remembered clearly that one for many years! His face had an ugly sneer of complete malevolence. His superior disdain was similar to what I saw later in some of the Nazis we rounded up in the occupation period. Being an infantry officer assigned to an MP company in the occupation, we frequently were given tips by the locals as to the whereabouts of prominent Nazis. It was made clear to us that many Germans did not like them any more than we did.

Among others, I had been strafed by ME-109 fighter planes earlier in the war. On one occasion, I dove deep into a ditch with bullets striking all around me. Yet that pilot, passing over rooftops, never fired any rounds. He was lightly loaded; however, he had other means of damaging us.

He came back and dropped magnesium incendiary bombs the size of roadside flares. These burned with great intensity through the top layer on down through successive layers of the building. All hands of our unit mustered to fight the fires that continued on the rest of the night. Some of the men incurred small burns. They put in for the Purple Heart. The extent of injury did not seem to me adequate to justify the award; however, the doctor signed off on the applications. They collected five points toward speeding their return home after the war ended. While we saved the schoolhouse, sadly, the little art store next door burned to the ground.

I had purchased and sent home the painting from that tiny store only three days prior. The oil painting reminds me of the melancholy fall in the upper part of Holland, of seeing the great armada of planes flying overhead in September of 1944 delivering paratroops on the failed Market Garden mission to Arnhem, later called the Bridge Too Far.

Supplies were short in Holland, for they had to be trucked many hundreds of miles from Normandy. Local people were inadequately fed. Youths would line up to scrape what was left in our mess kits after we had eaten. We deliberately tried to save some for the kids.

The outcome of the war was still in question although the German Wehrmacht had reinvigorated some strength but largely retreated to their homeland. The Battle of the Bulge was still in the German’s planning stage and soon became a big surprise for us.

When that blitzkrieg of three German armies struck, December 16, 1944, in the Ardennes forest, the first week became the worst week of our lives. It appeared that we were losing the war. Morale was low. Giant tiger tanks in great numbers overwhelmed all that was in their way. An entire division, the 106th Infantry, new to the front, was destroyed on the first day when over six thousand prisoners of war were taken by the enemy. Infiltrating were German soldiers wearing US uniforms. Distrust was rampant. Alarming news spread like wildfire that large numbers of American prisoners had been deliberately murdered by machine-gun fire of Colonel Peiper’s SS Panzer Division troops. News of the infamous Malmedy massacre certainly affected our attitude toward the enemy.

Fortunately, the Allies recovered toward the end of December in what became the largest land warfare battle of American history.

What few souvenirs I had left upon my return home were donated to the fine National World War II Museum in New Orleans. My father had given away to his friends most