Too Yellow to Run

By Arnold Escourt

"Too Yellow to Run" by William 'Bill' Berue is Bill's recollection of his experiences after he enlisted into the Army Air Force in Philadelphia. Bill selected the name. "Too Yellow to Run" because his older brother consistently told him he was too afraid to fight in the Infantry. However,once he enlisted, he promised himself he would never bring shame on his family by running from danger. As you read his story, you will quickly realize that he was not 'yellow', did not run from danger and acted with honesty and integrity.

After being assigned as First Scout, Bill led his squad from battle to battle in North Africa, Sicily,Italy and through the hedge rows of Normandy after the invasion of France. What is unusual about Bill's exploits is his unusual interactions with his peers, generals, women and superiors. His experiences did not end when he was shot at close range in the woods in Belgium because once he got home, he had to relearn how to use his right arm and decide who he was going to marry.

Bill was my wife's brother and he was always telling one story or another when the family got together. On one occasion, I told him he was full of crap and he got annoyed and told me he would prove me wrong. He dared me to tape his story and I did. I tried to put all his experiences in chronological order so that the flow of his story was clear and meaningful. Bill was no quitter and lived until his ggth birthday.

My task was to put Bill's oral story to paper and I tried to do it as accurately and using his words and expressions as best I could.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796071252

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Arnold Escourt.

ISBN:       Softcover       978-1-7960-7126-9

                 eBook            978-1-7960-7125-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/13/2019

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Introduction

Too Yellow to Run by William ‘Bill’ Berue is Bill’s recollection of his experiences after he enlisted into the Army Air Force in Philadelphia. Bill selected the name Too Yellow to Run because his older brother consistently told him he was too afraid to fight in the Infantry. However, once he enlisted, he promised himself he would never bring shame on his family by running from danger. As you read his story, you will quickly realize that he was not ‘yellow’, did not run from danger and acted with honesty and integrity.

After being assigned as First Scout, Bill led his squad from battle to battle in North Africa, Sicily, Italy and through the hedge rows of Normandy after the invasion of France. What is unusual about Bill’s exploits is his unusual interactions with his peers, generals, women and superiors. His experiences did not end when he was shot at close range in the woods in Belgium because once he got home, he had to relearn how to use his right arm and decide who he was going to marry.

Bill was my wife’s brother and he was always telling one story or another when the family got together. On one occasion, I told him he was full of crap and he got annoyed and told me he would prove me wrong. He dared me to tape his story and I did. I tried to put all his experiences in chronological order so that the flow of his story was clear and meaningful. Bill was no quitter and lived until his 88th birthday.

My task was to put Bill’s oral story to paper and I tried to do it as accurately and using his words and expressions as best I could.

Arnie Escourt, Bill’s brother-in-law

This is William Berue’s story. The facts are his facts and the narrative was based on hours of conversations and tapes he recorded. The title of the book was selected by Bill.

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Bill and Harriet

Except for the generals and members of the family most of the names in this book have been changed to protect the privacy and dignity of those mentioned.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to those young men

we loved and lost and to those

that are still near and dear to us.

Thanks to my daughters for helping me get it completed.

Contents

Introduction

Part One

Chapter One Reflections

Chapter Two Basic Training

Chapter Three Our Invasion of North Africa

Chapter Four Morocco and the Slave Auction

Chapter Five Our Whore House, Love and War

Chapter Six Rain and Pain

Chapter Seven Sicily

Part Two

Chapter Eight Among the British

Chapter Nine Utah Beach

Chapter Ten Earning the Silver Star

Chapter Eleven My Last Encounter

Postscript

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the men

with families like Bill who were able to

return from the horrors of war to

resume normal and productive lives

in the post war years.

Editing was done by

Mindy Blechman

This book was written by

Arnold Escourt

A TRIBUTE TO WILLIAM BERUE

Bill Berue was a hero of the highest type

It took him a long time to earn each stripe.

He went to fight in WW Two as a young man

He promised his family to do the best he can.

From North Africa to Sicily

He led his men into harms way.

He was the first scout; it was his job to check each bush and tree.

It was foolish assignment because he couldn’t see

He was hit by shrapnel in Italy and could have gone ZI

Instead he went back to the war to see if his buddies lived or died.

In the hedgerows of France he was shot at close range and he fell

The bullet spun in his helmet but he lived to get a special medal.

Day after day he braved the bullets, the enemy and the fear

All the daily dangers and he tried to act like he didn’t care.

In Belgium leading his men he was shot in the arm and lung

And he became another member of the great unsung.

When he went home, the doctors told him his chances were slim

And they told his future wife Harriet not to marry him.

This hero outlived the Doctor and even his beloved wife

He fulfilled 88 years and lived a full life.

Was it Pop’s prayers or because he was a twin

That was the way it was and had been.

In spite of his damaged lung and other injury’s

He tried hard to make a buck working like a busy bee.

He smiled and sold whatever he could from door to door

He soon had a family of four sons that he had to care for.

Venetian blinds, storm windows, insurance and real estate

With his war stories he was able to get the buyers to nibble at his bait.

He fought failure and disappointment, for a long, long while

He did all he could to be positive, to laugh and to smile.

Then when things started to fall into place

A tractor trailer crash made him drop out of the race.

Once again God smiled on Bill

And he was able to live on with his very strong will.

They said he was totally incapacitated, all done

But he laughed at them and walked and even tried to run.

It took a long time before he found himself again

But Harriet with her strong will made it happen.

Alas, alack on one sad Thanksgiving Day

Cancer took his dear wife Harriet away.

Phyllis soon became his companion and friend

And all this time he continued to mend.

Then Phyllis who suffered terrible arthritic pain

Left him all alone again.

After a while Ricky and Peggy brought him to their home

From their place he continued to work and roam.

They cared for him as best they could

Then he did what he had planned he should.

On his birthday at 88 without a shout or cry

Up to heaven he did fly.

We know he went with his prayer book straight to heaven above

And is there meeting and greeting everyone he loved.

Arnie Escourt

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Arnold Escourt

Written by Arnold Escourt based on taped

Conversations and numerous discussions

with Bill Berue.

Part One

Chapter One Reflections

The men were bored on our smelly troop ship. We were headed for war and we were very cramped and a little bit scared. To avoid boredom, we gambled and watched the men fight in the makeshift ring they had set up on deck. Signing up for a fight seemed like a good idea so I signed up. Before I could change my mind, I was in the ring with another guy about my size.

He grinned as he jabbed me in the face and danced away gracefully. I followed him into the center of the make-shift ring and threw a left jab to his jaw. I missed the jab but then I hit him hard with a right to his ribs. He blinked at me in surprise when I connected, but he responded by hitting me in my left eye. After about 30 seconds in the ring with this guy I knew I had made a big mistake; he was too quick for me.

My cheek hurt and now my eye began to throb. I backed off and raised my gloves to protect my face a little better. This bastard wasn’t just another one of the troops; he was just a little too smooth, too accurate. He smiled at me and gestured for me to meet him in the center of the ring. The men crowded all around and wanted to see us kick the shit out of each other and shouted for us to do it.

I needed to prove to myself that I really wasn’t a coward. My big brother always called me one and I need to find out the truth. I had turned twenty-one in August, and my opponent was about my age. He was a little taller than I with a darker complexion and about the same weight. He was probably Italian. I was light skinned with reddish brown hair, weighed 130 pounds and in good shape after basic training. I was telling myself it was dumb to be making comparisons while he was using me as a punching bag, but that’s what was going through my mind. I could also hear the men shouting words of encouragement.

The troops needed excitement and an escape from the cramped and uncomfortable conditions on our ship. Their whistling, clapping and yelling boosted my morale and gave me feelings of confidence. They knew this was not one of the usual flat footed, push and shove matches we usually watched. This cool cat knew how to fight as he jabbed at me playfully. I aimed at his chin and tried to land a heavy one with my left. I missed and my fist bounced off his shoulder. I wiped his smile off his lips with a hard right straight to his jaw. He slowed down for a few seconds and then jabbed me in quick succession to the stomach and ribs. His hands were a blur as he whacked my body. My ribs felt like he was hitting me with a hammer and my eye started to throb.

I got him in a clinch and held on because I needed to catch my breath. I needed to get the hell away from this guy, but there was no place to run. Besides, I had promised myself I wasn’t going to run so I had no choice but to see this crazy idea through to the bitter end. He was hurting me and there wasn’t much I could do to stop him. The bell rang and I stumbled back to my corner.

You okay, kid? I heard a voice from behind me as my so-called manager shoved a sponge full of warm water in my mouth.

I’m dying, I tried to say as I spit the water and blood into a bucket he had pushed under my chin. I was grateful that none of my teeth got spit out with the bloody saliva. The cold towel over my eye felt good. My breathing had just become normal when the bell rang for the second round and the guy behind me pushed me toward the center of the ring. I tried to look tough but I don’t think anyone was too impressed. As I raised my gloves to begin the round, I knew I was outclassed by this guy, but I had to stick it out. This was my first real test of courage and I had to show my friends I wasn’t a wimp.

My aches turned to anger and I slammed him with all my strength. Again, I lashed out at him trying to hurt him with a lucky punch. My face hurt and my body was sore. I summoned all my strength to fight back. I was hurting and my lungs were on fire but I was not going to give those bastards the satisfaction of seeing me quit. I needed and intended to show them I could take it.

The sergeants were still annoyed at what I had done to them at basic and they wanted to get even with me. They had to know my opponent was a much better boxer when they arranged the match. We got into a clinch and I prayed for the bell to ring. I threw a few halfhearted jabs; I needed just a few more seconds to finish the fight. I bounced off the ropes when he hit me in the jaw so hard, I thought my head would break off. I felt myself melt and fell with a heavy thump on the deck. Unconsciousness slowly covered me like a heavy blanket muffling the shouts of the men and the counting of the referee.

The smelling salts slowly brought me back to reality and the pain all over my body. The cold compress felt good on my head but my mouth felt like it was full of flour.

Water, please give me some water. Anybody, please help me!

Here take this spoon full of crushed ice. It’ll be better for you!

My jaw hurt as I tried to open my mouth for the ice chips. The Navy medic put some iodine on the cuts on my face. I tried to push him away but the pains were too severe. He stuffed a pill in my mouth and told me to go back to sleep. I twisted and squirmed in the uncomfortable cot as I dreamed the dream I hated most. It had happened over ten years ago but when I was upset or agitated it always came back.

The dream always started out with me walking boldly down my street to the candy store on York Street. I entered the store and walked past the long counter with the round red stools that spun around if you twisted them hard enough. I toyed with the three pennies in my pocket as I went past the old brass cash register that stood proudly over the candy cases with hundreds of candies in neatly arranged boxes. I went past the tables and the lone telephone booth with the double folding door to where the cakes and pies were neatly stacked.

I tried to wake up and turn off the dream but it kept going like a record that keeps repeating itself. I was just a kid about eight or nine years old. Like a snake’s tongue my arm shot out and I grabbed a candy bar and stuffed it beneath my jacket. I knew it was wrong to steal, but I had watched other kids do it. It was a thrill, a game, trying to get away with doing something wrong. It seemed daring, bold and exciting. I walked over to the pin ball machine and watched a big kid push the machine and listened to the ding-dong sounds it made as he racked up points. Just as I was about to leave with my stolen package of candy, my father entered the store and walked toward the counter. The owner greeted him and called him over. The two of them spoke quietly for a few moments. I tried to squeeze into the narrow space between the telephone booth and the stacked soda bottles, and ignore my father’s voice calling me.

Velvil come here. He was calling my name, Velvil!

All my friends called me Bill, but at home I was Velvil. I didn’t want to answer. I was afraid to answer. I had to respond.

Yes, Pa.

Come here. Velvil, come here.

I walked very slowly toward him. I was going to try to run out the door but my father grabbed my arm and held it in a vice grip. As he squeezed he asked,

You took? You stole candy from Mr. Weiss!

He looked into my eyes. I couldn’t lie to him and I couldn’t speak. I nodded my head in shame. Pop put some money on the counter and dragged me out of the store. We left so abruptly that we almost knocked down a lady who was entering the store. Pop stopped, held me in front of her and shouted, You see this boy, my son, he is a ‘gonef, a thief.

She looked at me and then at him with wide eyes but before she had an opportunity to say anything, I was being yanked down the street. I don’t think she knew that a gonef was the Yiddish word for thief, but I knew and I was mortified to be called such a terrible thing. Mr. Bogarth was sitting on the white marble steps in front of his house reading his Yiddish paper. Pop poked the paper to get his attention and loudly told him, You see what I work for, you see what I raised. My second son is a gonef!

I was shamed by these insulting remarks and tried in vain to escape my father’s iron grip. Please, Pop, I’m sorry. Please let me go.

He ignored me and continued dragging me along our narrow cobblestone street to our house. We lived at 2452 Newkirk Street. It was only a block away, but it seemed miles. See Mrs. Potash, my son, all my hard work and I raised someone who steals. What should I do with a son who steals?

Her surprised expression changed to one of shock. Before she could think of an answer, we were continuing on our way, but I knew her busybody mind was starting to work. I was trapped by my guilt and by my father’s powerful, plumber’s grip. I had been caught pilfering and worse than that, I had brought shame on my family’s name and reputation. I knew that once something like this happens to you, no one lets you forget it. My older brother had been accused of stealing a bike. He hadn’t, the boy had lent it to him and then lied and said my brother stole it. My brother lived with that false accusation throughout our childhood.

I sobbed, as we went through the same dialogue several more times. Finally, we arrived home. Later that night, my mother pulled me aside and said she wanted to talk to me. She looked me in the eye and asked me if my reputation and soul were only worth a nickel. I sort of understood what reputation meant, but I wasn’t so sure about my soul. I had been crying since I got home and I knew I would never steal again or do anything that would bring the wrath of Pop or the wisdom of Mom down on me like this.

I was shouting, No, pop no…….I’ll never do anything like this again. I swear, I promise. Hey you, private, shut up. What the hell are you screaming about? Take it easy. You’ll be okay in a few days. Just take it easy. You took some hard knocks, but you’ll be okay. I heard you put up a pretty good fight.

Okay, thanks. I mumbled, as I came back to the reality of the troop ship, the cot, and my sore body.

When I went back to my assigned bunk my buddies complimented me on my fine performance and teased me about my being knocked out. Making fun of one another was just one of the ways we handled the daily boredom of the crowded troop ship.

I didn’t care to gamble or drink, so I joined up with a bunch of guys that sang old familiar songs and talked about home and family. It was nice to sing and slide into the fantasy of familiarity and security with a gang my age. We all knew we were going to war; we were scared but none of us would admit it.

I spent as much time as possible on deck looking at the ocean. The decks below were crowded with too many men and retained the awful smells of the many cargos our ship had carried for many years. The latrines stunk like fertilizer but were usually crowded with guys playing craps in them. It was just more pleasant for me to stand at the rail and watch the sparkling water, wondering how I would behave when the shooting started. I knew war was bloody and mean. I stared into the murky darkness and wondered would I get shot; killed, wounded, lose a limb, what? These negative thoughts were too depressing so I tried to think of home.

The Schuylkill River in Philadelphia was less than a mile from our house on Newkirk Street in the Strawberry Mansion section of Philadelphia. We pronounced it school - kill river. I grew up near Fairmount Park enjoying the trees and grass. I was always there with my dog. As a youngster, I loved to sit on the banks of the river and fish. I could spend hours watching the boats and rowers glide by ever so gracefully. My family lived in a two-bedroom row house on Newkirk Street just a few blocks from the park and river.

Our home was a five-room house with a living room, dining room and kitchen downstairs. We had two bedrooms upstairs and an outhouse in the back yard. There were a lot of houses just like it on our side of the street and there was another set of them on the other side of the street. The houses were attached to each other and built in long rows called blocks. The streets were narrow; only one car could fit between the curbs. The streets were designed to be wide enough to allow one horse and wagon easy access to deliver milk, bread or ice to your door. Because of the narrow streets, we invented games like step ball and stick ball with a half rubber ball so that a few of us could play together and not break windows too often.

I don’t know how we managed it, but eight of us lived in our house; Pop, Mom, my older brother, my four sisters and me. Mom, Pop and the youngest girl slept in one bedroom and the rest of us slept in the other. Sometimes we even invited friends to sleep over. I don’t know where we put everyone, but no one ever complained. Actually, we were lucky Dad was a plumber because he installed a bathroom when we were young. We even had a sink and tub in the bathroom.

My father was born in Russia. He learned to read Hebrew and knew all the prayers. He and his mother traveled to France to visit relatives several times. In 1910, after his mother died, he left Russia with his meager savings, boarded a steamer in Liverpool and came to America. He was twenty-one years old, unskilled and without any money. He moved in with an aunt for a while and was shuffled around his family until he married my mom.

Every morning, Pop got up early and recited his morning prayers. Then he went into the kitchen for a breakfast of