So ends A Shower of Frogs by William J Stigall, Jr., a World War II memoir

Twenty-two days out of England we passed the Statue of Liberty.
In two hours I was at Fort Dix. In thirty minutes, to my total surprise, I was on one of dozens of telephones provided for POWs, talking to my parents. I learned that my brothert just returned from sweeping mines off the southern coast of France, was in Los Angeles waiting word from me. I wired him a prearranged message that would bring us both to Chicago:

Home is the hunter,

home from the hills,

And the sailor,

home from the sea.

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So ends A Shower of Frogs by William Jasper Stigall, Jr., my father. I think it's a good read and a unique insight into World War II.

I'd like to make the book more widely available -- it was privately published and although available on Amazon.com, not widely accessible. I have about 200 copies that I will sell at the Amazon price (including shipping).

Feel free to contact me via this Blog, or at Frogs96822@gmail.com

-- Sam Pooley

Chapter 28 -- Arrival: Of the Sea and Icebergs

My ship was full of former prisoners of war. After all that we had

seen, what could be duller, more unexciting, than a simple sea

crossing in a convoy of ships a week after the surrender of Germany?

And yet you never know.

When morning came, May 13, I went up on deck. I was surrounded

by the sea. A convoy of ships in two long lines was visible

for mile after nautical mile traveling at a moderate speed of ten

knots. On some other route the great troop carrier the Queen Man)

was racing back and forth, loaded 15,000 strong, in four to five days,

shore to shore. On our ship the hours and the days passed-slowly.

Aboard ship I wrote uncensored letters for the first time in 700

days. It was with supreme joy that, released from the hated censor's

eyes, I could say what I wanted to say. I poured out my disgust with

the U.s. Army, the German army, and many of my fellow soldiers.

My POW shipmates were the most hateful group of men I encountered

in military life. Some bordered on being mental cases, but

most, with chips on their shoulders and resentment in their hearts,

were simply obnoxious, humorless, undisciplined, untrusting.

Nothing and no one could please them.

Five days outof England we were far at sea, but not far enough.

Military voyages taught me to hate the sea. Only sailors with strong

stomachs love the sea when on the sea, I thought. While sailing on

it, I loved the sea from the shore. Years later as a civilian traveling

first class I learned to love the sea from the sea.

We sailed and sailed and sailed.

Ten days out of England, we reached a point off the Newfoundland

coast. We slowed down from ten knots, to eight knots, to

six knots. Finally the old turtle moved not at all. We sat. In the center

of the Gulf Stream we stopped and drifted. Drifting in the same

250

Chapter 26 -- Flight to Freedom

Chapter 26

Flight to Freedom

Wednesday morning, April 25, the lights went on and the Postens came in. "Arbeiten today," they said. Everything seemed normal. We dressed. A POW who knew, or acted as ifhe did, said, "You hear the P-38s during the night?"

"Yeah."  "When did the artillery stop?" "About dawn." "What a moonlight?" said one POW. I went to my Bauers, worked, had breakfast and Brotzeit. The morning passed without incident save for news circulating surreptitiously among POWs that the Americans were getting closer and closer. At one o'clock we were bowled over when our Postens told us that we could wander about Hurlach or, if detailed to work, do so at the farmhouse, not in the fields. Americans were eighteen kilometers (10.8 miles) from Augsburg, or thirty miles from us. It was this that set off the following events.

We and the Germans knew that if the Americans were that close, then tanks, ranging far out, could at any moment be in Hurlach. In the woods to the south of town Bauers (soldiers) and Volkstroms (home guard) intensified the digging of gun emplacements.

The POWs, this time, were not invited. We had to decide to either make a break for it before returning to the barracks or take a chance on one more day. We were afraid that once locked up we'd never get out.

During the afternoon I watched the villagers. I watched the skies. I tried to get news from Bauers who were now openly listening to Allied broadcasts, and I listened for artillery. I heard music. I traced it to the castle manor, where I discovered one of our POWs and a young Posten playing a double-piano version of

231

Chapter 24: Shower of Frogs

24

The Farm: Interlude Pastorale

Early one morning in the middle of March 1945 I walked out of Stalag VIlA for the last time. The walk itself was an act of freedom. Rumor iniormed us that on joining the Kommando we'd be given new clothing and two American Red Cross boxes. We were offered a pair of cotton mittens, two British Red Cross boxes, and 100 cigarettes.

The ten of us argued for American boxes. We took the British boxes, the mittens, the 100 cigarettes, joined two Postens, and headed for the gates with the double set of guards. In a column of twos, lugging three precious boxes roped over my shoulder, two in the front, one in the rear feeling my notes rubbing next to my skin. I walked past all guards, a mile beyond the gate to the Moosburg railroad station.

I have no remembrance of looking back to Stalag VIlA or of having any thoughts on the matter. As usuat itwas first things first: roping boxes, forming a column, marching. Reaction to Stalag VIlA even a backward glance, like most experiences, had to wait upon reflection.

I sat down on a bench outside the railroad station and rested in the early-morning sun. Six schoolboys arrived to take the train, possibly as far as Friesing. They were about twelve years old, dressed alike in blue serge coats and trousers, each with a small peaked cap. They spoke English. I asked them where they had learned it. In grade schoot they said. My conversation with the children was another small step to freedom.

A passenger train arrived; we boarded it, took seats and rode in comparative luxury over the familiar route into Munich. Another small step to freedom. In the battered glass-domed station we transferred to another train, and we rode out of Munich and transferred again and then again.

By noon it was apparent that our Pastens were ...

211

Christmas Day -- Chapter 22 -- Shower of Frogs

22

Christmas Day

Christmas Day started whenever a man got up, which was anytime

from 3:00 A.M. to 12:00 noon. The Germans, as they frequently did,

kept their word and did away with roll call. For the first time in

months we enjoyed the luxury of sleeping late undisturbed by any

military information, any Posten screaming, "Raus!," any vicious

dogs. In the barracks there was talking, singing, cooking. Outside

and through the windows the sun shone brightly, and as the morning

went on the day warmed, stayed bright, with pink-tinted white

clouds drifting across the deep blue Bavarian sky above the green

pines and firs outside the camp.

"Any bets, Stubby," I asked, "on what we'll get for food

today?"

"Nope. Your guess is as good as mine. But I could use a third of

a loaf of bread."

Coppola leaned out of his bunk to say, "I heard from a guy

working in the kitchen that we get some meat, mashed potatoes,

and gravy," and added, ''I'm ready."

Jones volunteered, "I could eat a whole roast of beef."

The same conversation took place up and down the row of

bunks and across tables, one of which was especially decorated

with paper bells, tinseled stars, pine boughs, and strings of red,

white, and green crepe paper. Underneath all this was a scrumptious

bread pudding. Over the top of the "cake" in white frosting

were written the words MERRY XMAS. The big party was set for the

evening.

"Hot stuff! Hot stuff!"

The food arrived. It was, for most of us, satisfactory. A piece of

beef, undoubtedly horsemeat, about two inches wide and thinner

than a pencil. A spoonful of gravy with a touch of onion. It took half

193

Chapter 20: December in Prison -- William J Stigall, Jr.

20

December in Prison

It was the first of December 1944. Coppola, Stubby, and I were settling down for a winter in prison. 1had finally given up expecting the war to end before Christmas that year. Word had drifted in to us that our mission in Holland had failed and that German resistance in Germany had stiffened and stopped the advancing Allied armIes.

Stubby was lounging quietly above Coppola, who was trying to read by what remained of the light of day. Leonardo had by now a fine full red beard, augmented by a mustache with long, well twisted ends. His slow, thoughtful movements, sometimes seemingly calculated, gave him an appearance of age well beyond his middle twenties. His beard, mustache, and slow gestures suggested a nickname, Pop.

I was stretched out in my bunk with my head turned toward Coppola and away from the fine mist of powdered excelsior that trickled down from the sack above me. "Hey, Pop," I called out to interrupt him, "how long has it been since you've eaten a piece of meat?"

He pulled himself out of the book and slowly, deliberately, time being no pusher of Coppola, thought for a moment, then said, "Six weeks." He ran his right hand repeatedly across his mustache out to the far ends. He added in a low, soft, accented voice, "In France. A week or so before I was caught."

Stubby leaned over to say:. "We had some meat in Holland. Eight weeks ago. Haven't had a piece larger than an inch square since we got here, and that was in soup."

Many unpleasant things could rightfully be said of GI chow, the quality of which depended upon the staff sergeant and his cooks, but even at its worst we had meat two or three times a day. In

171

,

Chapter 18: Another Boxcar Ride: We go south

18

Another Boxcar Ride: We Go South

Suddenly, without any preparation, the Germans selected 700

American POWs, marched us to the railroad siding, and jammed us

in as before, and we were off on another journey we knew not

where. We left without our daily rations and without a new Red

Cross box, which somehow we had expected to get. It was the middle

of November. We had not yet been given overcoats, and blankets

were turned in. In that land of high blood pressure the guards,

shouting and gesturing, worked to get us in the cars. As before, a

milk can was provided and the doors locked. The train started with

determination and continued for many hours. The first two days

were a repeat of the former trip-no food, no water, a calculated

effort at bestiality.

We, however, were different men now. Behind us was a long

boxcar ride and several weeks of prison life. There would be few

surprises this trip. There would be no false hopes or great expectations.

We were alerted to long hours of waiting in switchyards.

We'd experienced want of water, food, and air. We would remember

the frustrating and maddening necessity of dividing bread and

cheese whenever the swines of society chose to toss it in the car.

We'd find ways this time to stretch our legs. There would be more

readiness to deal with the claustrophobic conditions. There might

even be a little cooperation, now that we were all Americans in the

car. Of course there would be a stronger sense of self-preservationin

several meanings of the words.

Yet it was surprising, what happened. We had learned very little.

The disorder was, if anyth.ing, greater now that we were really

hungry. When, after sixty hours, the Legitimate Bastards of the

human race opened the door and dumped in some food and water,

some men did not get any. There was still the galling problem of

157

Chapter 16: The Boxcar Ride

Dear readers -- this is the chaper where my daughter had to stop for a while. For it is where Bill Stigall headed east to the POW camp just as so many others headed for those other camps. Whether he knew the parallels at the time, I don't know. But we do now. -- SGP

The Boxcar Ride

On the third day just before dusk we arrived at a railroad Siding where there were ten small wooden boxcars about half the size of American boxcars. The guards slid back the doors and we were ordered in. About thirty of us climbed into each car. We sat down or lay down, taking up most of the floor space. The guards ordered thirty more into the car. We protested that it would be overcrowded, but thirty more carne in. The door was pulled shut and locked. There were two small windows, with shutters, on either side of the car, eighteen inches square, five and one-half feet up from the floor. The windows were boarded up from the outside; air carne through the cracks in the car. Straw covered a part of the floor. It was getting dark. We had not eaten since noon and were hungry.

We maneuvered about in the car finding a way to sit down or, if possible, lie down. It was apparent that not all could lie down at one time. lt got stuffy in the car, so we called out to the guards, asking for more air. No response. It was night. An hour passed. We waited.

The men in the car were mostly Americans, with a sprinkling of French and English Canadians. One man had an arm in a sling, one a painful jaw injury. Another hour passed. There was constant shuffling for positions in the car, made more difficult by darkness. We sat and we waited.

We were perfectly aware that we were a prime target for Allied aircraft. The fighting in Holland could not be far from us, certainly not far as planes fly. Transportation to and from the battle area was bound to be observed. A switchyard was the worst of all possible places. We sat in the siding near the switchyards. It was a test of nerves. We waited.

Around midnight the train started; we traveled a hundred yards; we stopped. We stood still for another hour. We heard other

143

Chapter 10: Interlude

Interlude


It was now the middle of November. We were somewhere in the cold North Atlantic. We heard the high-pitched, pulsating honk of seagulls. They swooped above us crying with delight as they dived into the garbage-filled wake of our ship. Experienced seamen, as we now were, we smelled land. Rumors and guesses got all mixed up with wishes and hopes. The choices were as extravagant as the longings. Scotland, Norway, Ireland, Greenland, Iceland, England, of course, and wistfully, the States. I do not recall the moment of docking on the east coast of North Ireland. But I vividly remember the first images. They persisted and are with me stilI. One visual: the lumbering, ponderous Cydesdale horses pulling small solid wagons loaded with whiskey barrels over the cobbled streets of modern Belfast. One auditory: the joyous and friendly sound of Irish voices speaking the cadences of my native tongue.

The horses astonished me, as did many other things in North Ireland. The voices comforted me, as did many other things in North Ireland. I came to this sweet and soft green land weary from dirt and rubble, frustrated from long confinement in the hold. Depression quite literally hung about me. For seven months I had lived exclusively with American men. Since mid-April I had spoken only to soldiers, lived only with soldiers, even in the center of Naples. I came to North Ireland having almost forgotten about ordinary society.

Whoever chose Ireland chose well. In my veins is a dribble of Irish blood; it was not indifferent to the sights and sounds of North Ireland. If man is distinguished from his fellow animals by his peerless power of speech, he ought to exercise this power. The need to reach out beyond the limits of my associates was great but unfulfilled.

My heart and tongue were starved for fresh communication.

67

Chapter 12: This is the Spring (1944)

Chapter 12

This Is the Spring

This is the Spring-the long-awaited Spring.

This the Hour-the breath-abated Hour.

Now is the perilous day approaching,

The waves on the shore encroaching.

This is the Spring, breaking the darkness.

These the Armies, smashing the blackness.

This is the Spring-the long-awaited Spring.

This the Hour-the breath-abated Hour.

3-31-44

It was the spring, and it did lead to a breath-abated hour. But from

early March to June, when my glider was one in a fifty-mile-long

flying train across the Channel, the hundred days were a strange

mixture of impatience, serenity, waste, happiness, boredom, and

beauty. The times bring to mind the analogy of a man's life being

like a tone poem. Various passages of agitation and calm, shifting

moods from vivace to largo, with mucho moderato in the middle. A

series of themes, some abandoned, some recurring. Now and then

passages of intentional monotony, including several beats of

silence. Those hundred days lived at the bottom of the military pile

must have been very different from life at SHAPE Headquarters

and in the United States. Not knowing the date or place of invasion,

making no decisions, seeing no end to repetitive preparations, contrasted

with reams of information, boxes of reports, conferences

galore, and some generally determined week "to go." Or in America,

living under the pressure of newspaper, magazine, and radio

coverage hyped by wild guessing, adding up to plain jitters. The

88

Chapter 11: Scotland and England

Chapter 11
Scotland and England, Early Spring

For fifteen years I've wanted to come to this country, to this England.
For months I've wanted to hear music. For days I've wanted to see
shows, eat at tables, and talk to English-speaking men and women.
Now I've come to England. I've heard some music, seen some plays,
been to dances, eaten at tables, conversed in English. In fact I've tried
desperately to have a good time. And I have failed miserably. I have
no heart for it-now that I've got it. I've no mind for it. it isn't the
thing or they are not the things that satisfy my desires-the interest
of my heart and mind. What I want is what I left in the mountains of
Italy-satisfaction of something accomplished, something concrete,
something real, something to eat up this tremendous desire to get on
with the business of exterminating Germans.

So I wrote in a letter from Leicester, England, February 21,1944.

Contentment was no one's lot; then, perhaps it never is. Certainly
there was much to give me joy, if I just didn't have to return to military
life. I came to England by jeep from the north. We ferried the
North Channel into what I know now is the Firth of Clyde. We
probably went through Stranraer and stayed overnight in Dumfries.
We had a day and a night in Scotland. From our British barracks
in the evening I hurried into whatever city it was to mingle
with civilians, British soldiers, Land Girls, and the small number of
American soldiers from our advance party.

Moving from North Ireland through Scotland to Leicester in
the Midlands was like traveling back through one's reading. Little
did I know of North Irish literature, but some I knew of Scotland.
The country I sped through, whether lowlands, highlands, or
moors, suggested those literary landscapes I had read about since
childhood, Conversation in the jeep was certainly negligible, so that
my mind ran off to the songs of Burns, the castles and abbeys of

77

Naples, Part Two: The Second Month

Shower of Frogs, William J Stigall, Jr. page 52

Naples, Part Two: The Second Month

After a month Naples began to recover from the Nazis/ occupation/ systematic rape/ and violent departure. Time ran out on the delayed-action bombs. Immediate mass starvation was halted. The electric and water systems were put in order. Civilian transportation/ sewage disposat and telephone exchanges were repaired. The harbor was miraculously cleared. Air raids were infrequent and not seriously destructive. The war moved fifty miles to the north. Pulsating life and a little gaiety returned to Naples. Shops and restaurants found some supplies with which to operate. Excursions to the ancient city of Pompeii and the storied Isle of Capri were offered soldiers. Refugees/ such as the Puccini lover/ returned to the city. Something was done about former Fascisti. Fraternization took over. The medics set up round-the-clock prophylactic stations. We began training again. A few companies left the division and joined the Fifth Army on the Volturno River. Officers requested jeeps and jeep drivers to get them to and from their evening dates with nurses. The celebrated and magnificent Neapolitan weather turned wet/ cold/ and dark. Uk for me/ deteriorated into disappointment. After twenty months of army life/I had seen about one week of socalled combat. Bitterness and sourness seeped into my life/ and there were long second thoughts about my place in the army/ the effort of the United States in the war/ the problem of loneliness/ the mental and emotional confusion caused by the contrasting nature of the Neapolitans/ and the possible effect on all of us of the ugliness/ destruction/ dirt/ filth/ decay/ and stagnation.

The Eighty-second Division was given the job of patrolling the city of Naples, first great city to fall to the Allies. After a month we were able to turn this job over to the civilians and return to training. I was particularly irritated because of this. The few days of combat