Small Victories in a Great Big War: The Terrifying and Sometimes Hilarious Adventures of a World War Two Paratrooper

By John H. Canfield

Life for a World War II paratrooper was grave and perilous; John H. Canfield’s experience was no different. However, this young man found himself in so many crazy—sometimes humorous—situations that he almost forgot about how dangerous it was.

Filled with pranksters and superiors full of bravado and an unfortunate brush with racial bigotry with a fellow African American soldier, Canfield shares his many stories from basic training and jump school. But his best stories are from the war. From having to translate a dinner for an inebriated superior using his scant French, to getting chewed out by none other than General George S. Patton, Canfield shares a wealth of experiences from his WWII tour of the European theater.

In Small Victories in a Great Big War, John H. Canfield shows that half the battle is surviving, and that he did. With bravery and flair, Canfield returned home to Connecticut with more than a few amusing anecdotes.

John H. Canfield was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1943 and found himself trained as a frontline medic. He then volunteered to be a paratrooper with the very real prospect of jumping out of airplanes in front of—and behind—enemy lines. Canfield experienced a wide breadth of training, including combat, and felt he was prepared enough—or lucky enough—to have survived to tell his war stories. While his time in combat was short, his experiences were vast.

More than seventy-five years after the end of World War II, John H. Canfield’s stories are now shared with the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781637589182

Book preview

A KNOX PRESS BOOK

An Imprint of Permuted Press

ISBN: 978-1-63758-917-5

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-63758-918-2

Small Victories in a Great Big War:

The Terrifying and Sometimes Hilarious Adventures of a World War Two Paratrooper

© 2023 by John H. Canfield

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Cody Corcoran

This work is a collection of segments compiled from the book entitled JOHN H. CANFIELD AND NEVA MAE SHARP CANFIELD FAMILY HISTORY US registered copyright number TXu 2-251-576, March 18 2021.

This is a work of nonfiction. All people, locations, events, and situation are portrayed to the best of the author’s memory.

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

Permuted Press, LLC

New York • Nashville

permutedpress.com

Published in the United States of America

I dedicate this book to my loving wife of

fifty-eight years, Neva Mae Canfield

TABLE OF CONTENTS

D. MILITARY SERVICE WORLD WAR II

Chapter One: WORLD WAR II STARTS

Chapter Two: MEDICAL BASIC TRAINING

Chapter Three: WORKING AT THE ARMY HOSPITAL

Chapter Four: BASEBALL TEAM

Chapter Five: ARMY SPECIALIZED TRAINING PROGRAM

Chapter Six: ACORN DIVISION

Chapter Seven: PARATROOPER TRAINING

Chapter Eight: MORE BASEBALL

Chapter Nine: BASIC INFANTRY TRAINING

Chapter Ten: GOING TO EUROPE

Chapter Eleven: TRANSLATING FRENCH

Chapter Twelve: MY FIRST BATTLE

Chapter Thirteen: MORE FIGHTING IN GERMANY

Chapter Fourteen: GUARDING A DISPLACED PERSON CAMP

Chapter Fifteen: SNIPER

Chapter Sixteen: STREET FIGHTING

Chapter Seventeen: THE EUROPEAN WAR ENDS

Chapter Eighteen: AMERICAN UNIVERSITY

Chapter Nineteen: BACK HOME

Chapter Twenty: EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments!

About the Author

D. MILITARY SERVICE

WORLD WAR II

I am a ninety-nine-year-old member of The Greatest Generation, living in Sacramento since 1951. While I have spent the majority of my adult life in California, I consider myself a proud Connecticut Yankee. I was born on October 9, 1923, the fifth of seven children. I had two older brothers, two older sisters, and two younger brothers. Both my paternal and maternal grandparents were immigrants from Ireland. My mother was born on the ship which was less than ten miles off the New England coast which made her an American citizen. My parents were owners of a small dairy farm in Bloomfield, Connecticut. Due to the nationwide depression of the 1930s they lost their farm as people could no longer afford to buy the milk. My parents struggled to keep the family together during these tough times which instilled in us all a strong sense of family, sacrifice, and duty. We children owe them a great deal for the successes we have achieved and the ability to stay strong through our failures.

I was a senior in high school when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. I immediately joined the Connecticut militia in my home town of Bloomfield, Connecticut. My oldest brother, Bill, had been drafted in January 1941 and expected to serve one year of army service. Brother Jim was drafted in 1942. I graduated from Bloomfield High School in June 1942 and immediately wanted to join the military. My parents had different ideas and would not sign the papers to allow me to enlist in the army. As I was not twenty-one years old I could not join without their permission. Unfortunately for my parents, Uncle Sam had different ideas and drafted me in February 1943. Later my sister Helen and brothers Bob and Dan also served in America’s military.

I served thirty-eight months in the army. I had volunteered for the paratroops during medical basic training but was not allowed to transfer. I finally made the transfer in June 1944. I had a very interesting military life. Years later I would send Christmas letters to family and close friends. At the urging of two nieces who liked those letters, my brother Dan’s daughter Linda (Connecticut)and my brother Bob’s daughter Yvonne (Florida). I finally agreed to write about my military life in World War II.

John Henry Canfield, July 1944

Chapter One

WORLD WAR II STARTS

After the attack on Pearl Harbor we were all itching to do our part. The only option available to me in the January of 1942 was to join the Connecticut State Militia. My first exposure to military service was helping man an observation spot on the roof of Bloomfield High School during off-classes time. We would telephone a central location in Hartford when any aircraft was seen and described the airplane: the number of engines, the direction it was going, and an estimate of how high it was flying. As part of our militia duties we also drilled, with or without, any weapon that was available. Even though my mother would not allow weapons in the house, I was able to fire BB guns and . 22 caliber rifles with friends who had them. As a result, like most country boys who went into the army, I was already a fairly good marksman when I put on my uniform.

My draft number finally came up and I was sworn into the army on February 6, 1943. I was given a week before I was called to active duty on February 13, 1943. Finally, I was inducted into the army and could really start to do my duty. I was sent to Fort Devens, Massachusetts which was the induction facility. Here I was fitted with army clothing, had another physical, and attended many lectures about military history. I also took many written tests during this time of induction. I did not understand why the other fellows were sent to various basic training camps while I stayed and took written test after written test for additional days. Most of these tests were multiple choice, with four or five single-word answers to choose from. My two years of Latin classes helped me quite a bit in that kind of examination as many English words are based on Latin. Knowing the Latin origin of some English words I was able to find the meaning of words I was unfamiliar with. Two examples are the English words pugilist and pugilism which were selections among the five answer options. Knowing that they are based on the Latin word pulge. I am not sure of the spelling, but as a former paratrooper I am sure of the meaning: to fight. The meaning to fight fit the questions allowing me to answer correctly. Had I not taken the Latin I am sure that I would not have known pugilist and pugilism and would have missed the question. In addition to the Latin classes, I also took two years of French. My French would come in handy giving me opportunities for some memorable experiences later during my time in Europe. These experiences will be touched upon later in my story. I came to understand that these tests were part of the army selection process. This explained to me my question why others had moved on. Apparently my performance on these tests qualified me for other duties.

At that time, I did not know anything about the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP), which included many different fields of training among which were medical and engineering programs. I would come to learn my test results qualified me for the ASTP program.

Chapter Two

MEDICAL BASIC TRAINING

I was finally sent for Medical Basic Training at Camp Pickett in Western Virginia, to learn the basics of military first aid. Every soldier received first aid training, but those in the medical training camps received far more medical training than recruits in other fields such as infantry recruits. We lived in eight-man tents erected over wood flooring. There was a round coal-burning stove in the very center of the tent. Most of the time the fire would burn out before morning, unless the person who had been assigned to keep the fire burning got up during the night to add more coal. Because Virginia is a southern state, I had thought it would be warm, but I quickly learned that Virginia was as cold as Connecticut was in the winter. Of course, the fellow who let the fire go out was not appreciated by the other seven guys in the freezing tent the following morning. Some of the ill feeling continued through the ten-week basic training period.

I do not remember anybody in my tent other than Willy Jarvis (whose nickname was Curly), who became a good friend. He was from South Windsor, Connecticut, and the South Windsor high school was one of Bloomfield’s big sports opponents. He was catcher on their baseball team for four years. I did not recognize him even though we had played his team each of those four years. He claimed South Windsor had defeated Bloomfield three of those four years. I did remember playing them and sliding into home plate one year and knocking the catcher down. I was called out by the umpire, but Willy and I spent many friendly evenings arguing whether I had been safe or out. I don’t remember what happened to Willie after basic training, but we became good friends while living together in our eight-man tent. I thought Willie would go far, in promotions as well as travel, as he quickly grasped army ways. I often wondered how he actually did in his later assignments.

Every soldier assigned to the medical corps went through the same medical basic training because no one really knew what the individual’s capabilities were. Some soldiers who had gone through other basic training, such as Infantry, Army Air Corps, Tank Corps, or many other specialties, just did not fit in well where sent. Supposedly without any stigma they were transferred to the Medical Corps to take the medical basis training camps. Often they were among the top learners and were selected to attend higher medical training sites. One was in our tent and quickly became our trusted friend and teacher when we discussed the day’s lessons because he remembered everything.

There were three critical steps we were taught in my medic training:

1.Stop the bleeding.

2.Prevent the wounded man from going into shock by keeping him warm.

3.Transfer the wounded man as quickly as possible to an aid station just behind the front lines, so that he might receive enough additional medical attention to survive until he reached a field hospital.

We constantly practiced bandaging a wound or splinting a broken bone and carrying that casualty off the field to the aid station. Sometimes we would be part of a two-man litter team carrying the wounded man under simulated enemy fire. Speed in doing the proper steps was stressed, as a few minutes could make the difference between living and dying. If we were too slow, we would be kept on the field until the sergeant was satisfied with our speed. One time we were too late to get any dinner as the mess hall was closed by the time we finally got back to camp. I liked the idea of saving rather than ending lives, even if those lives might be the enemy’s. I was a long way from being a conscientious objector, but I was not sure I wanted to kill anyone either.

I showed promise in medical basic training and was selected to attend a ten-week surgical technician class at Lawson General Hospital, an army surgical hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. We were trained to assist doctors working in field hospitals, usually within ten or twenty miles of the front lines. World War II was prior to the wide use of helicopters, so transfers were made by any other means possible. Many wounded men died because it took so long to get them to the field hospitals: they were usually transferred by Jeeps, trucks, single-engine airplanes for light observation, and/or any other vehicle that would run to a hospital, ship, wharf, or field hospital—whatever was closest. I have read that mules and other pack animals carried food, water, and ammunition up the Italian mountains to the front lines. Going down they carried wounded men and dead bodies. Therefore, our trainers always stressed that speed in treating the wounded soldier was critical to his survival.

As the need for medical technicians was high, there were two groups per day. My group’s lessons began at 0500 hours which meant we got up at 0400 hours. Breakfast was 0430 hours. Lunch was at 0900 hours for one half hour. Classes resumed at 0930 hours to 1300 hours. The classrooms were cleaned and the second group started at 1330 hours to 1730 hours. Lunch was 1730 hours to 1800 hours. The classes resumed at 1800 hours to 2130 hours. I was glad to be in the morning group rather than the afternoon group. There was no contact between the two classes.

I received a box from my niece Linda on July 29, 2018. In it were items belonging to my sister Hazel, from when she had to leave her home to live in