Saturday, June 16, 2018
Remember: Who was Bill Stigall?
Information on William Stigall, author of Shower of Frogs [a World War II memoir] can be found in the Profile to this blog.
Normandy: June 7-12
[Editor's note: Last month (May 2018) I was in Wales and met a man who was going back to Normandy's beaches to commemorate that day. As we talked, it turned out that his British unit was adjacent to William Stigall's unit. They would have loved talking together.]
Chapter 13 -
I do not know if the men in Henry the Fifth's army knew, on the morn of Agincourt, that they were about to take part in one of the memorable moments of world history. I do not know if King Henry
knew. In Shakespeare he is fully aware of it. He calls his little band about him and exhorts them with:
get in the act, as it were. I wanted to do what I was expected to do and get back safely. Which is sort of wanting to have your cake and eat it, too.
Of course we had no inspiring speech to set us upon the stinking enemy. No Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester . . .
...
So we attacked again. We pushed on to a second attack. Eventually, with infernal slowness, we withdrew a short distance, but not before we encountered more artillery and machine-gun fire, not
before we accumulated a few more casualties. We waited. The Robot bombs began falling on London, and rumors circulated that Germans, desperate to halt Allied attack, might use gas. But finally I started back, bit by bit. As a great crescendo of music starts with a small sound in the woodwinds, is picked up by a violin, then full violins, and with trumpets mounts to a full chord, so did I, bit by bit, partly in thoughts that it could not be the end for me, part in a small song sung, part in the right kind of smile from a passing soldier, joined by a warm cup of coffee, some food, and sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, and partly the certain knowledge that I am to have no more of it. I started back. The trip, long and weary as it was, was sure, until finally we reached the coast.
Chapter 13 -
I do not know if the men in Henry the Fifth's army knew, on the morn of Agincourt, that they were about to take part in one of the memorable moments of world history. I do not know if King Henry
knew. In Shakespeare he is fully aware of it. He calls his little band about him and exhorts them with:
And Chrispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
I do not know how many men who were a part of the first hours of the invasion of France knew that they were to be a part of history. I suspect many knew. I knew. I wanted to see it, hear it,
smell it, touch it, feel it. I had no wish to die in one of the great battles of the world's history. That did not seem heroic, noble, glamorous, or anything good to me. I simply wanted to be a part of it-toget in the act, as it were. I wanted to do what I was expected to do and get back safely. Which is sort of wanting to have your cake and eat it, too.
Of course we had no inspiring speech to set us upon the stinking enemy. No Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester . . .
...
So we attacked again. We pushed on to a second attack. Eventually, with infernal slowness, we withdrew a short distance, but not before we encountered more artillery and machine-gun fire, not
before we accumulated a few more casualties. We waited. The Robot bombs began falling on London, and rumors circulated that Germans, desperate to halt Allied attack, might use gas. But finally I started back, bit by bit. As a great crescendo of music starts with a small sound in the woodwinds, is picked up by a violin, then full violins, and with trumpets mounts to a full chord, so did I, bit by bit, partly in thoughts that it could not be the end for me, part in a small song sung, part in the right kind of smile from a passing soldier, joined by a warm cup of coffee, some food, and sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, and partly the certain knowledge that I am to have no more of it. I started back. The trip, long and weary as it was, was sure, until finally we reached the coast.
Naples: Notes
Chapter 8:
Hunger and poverty are almost synonymous with Naples. Even for those of us whose background was urban and who knew the depression, to whom "slums and Hoovervilles" were a part of our
youth and who had seen and smelled North Africa and Sicily, there was no preparation for the human and sorrowful sights of Naples.
It was one thing to witness the relative static nature of a slum and of the impoverished conditions of the early thirties. It was quite another experience to be literally touched by the swarming crowds, by the frantic, aggressive, and vocal hunger of Naples. Combine this emotional and physical anguish, this outpouring of suffering, with the physical destruction; mix in the elements of unexpected time bombs and the knowledge that many of the men who today walked the streets were yesterday hooting at you or giving some degree of comfort to the rodents of the Wehrmacht; add to this our own personal irritants stemming from military existence and current environment, our own displacement from the things we cared about, the uncertainty of our daily activities-put all these together and one can begin to understand the mixed emotions that rose from our stay in Naples.
...
About this time Secretary of the Treasury Morgenthau visited the city of Naples and the front lines. He returned with a list of atrocities to be shown the president. So what? Morgenthau was acting
like a little boy who had heard a few dirty words and wanted his father to do something about it. Political eyewash. War is lawful slaughter or it isn't anything. Life magazine said: "None of this [the
atrocities] is the job of a self-respecting army." Neither American civilians nor American soldiers know the enemy.
Also about this time, five senators made a pilgrimage to Italy. One wondered what in hell they were doing so far from Washington. There was enough of a mess at home. If the senators would just
take care of their mess and let us take care of our mess, how nice it would be. Both this and Morgenthau's action simply galled a soldier.
...
For all the beauty of Italy, and it deserves all praise for it is lovely beyond poetry, nothing is perfect and some things are not like home. October came and went in Naples; November seemed more like October in the United States. But it finally failed and dissolved into coldness and drabness; then I thought of a missed American autumn. I could not hold it back any longer. The massive
irritants of army life and local environment compounded into loneliness.
No man escapes loneliness. I discovered there are several kinds, such as social, intellectual, and emotional. Weeks racing into months, minutes piling up into hours, and no words spoken about
those things that were once as common as coffee. They were all dammed up, rushing against an impassable wall. Is there anyone who reads Keats in this world? Has no man heard of Mozart? Is
there no woman in the world who speaks your native tongue? Is all the world one color - olive drab? Are all things and places in the world infected with dirt and disease, and are they all gutted like
half-burned candles? Is there cleanliness someplace, dishes, sheets? Is there light on the streets and leaves in the gutters? Are there bonfires with smoke rising higher than a house? Is there a child who
will smile at you without also begging from you? Is there a warm-colored moon in a smoky sky making pumpkins' shadows twice their size? Are there red apples in great barrels, corn in tall cribs? Is there an autumn wind that can infect the spirit with the wilds of Halloween? Do lost things come home in autumn, and are new things found in the Renaissance that is October? Yes, over and over,
year after year, and they shall be found again and the great Spirit Wind shall blow again, fields shall yield again and music sing and lights light and the world grow clean. A dam shall burst and a man
shall be free again.
Hunger and poverty are almost synonymous with Naples. Even for those of us whose background was urban and who knew the depression, to whom "slums and Hoovervilles" were a part of our
youth and who had seen and smelled North Africa and Sicily, there was no preparation for the human and sorrowful sights of Naples.
It was one thing to witness the relative static nature of a slum and of the impoverished conditions of the early thirties. It was quite another experience to be literally touched by the swarming crowds, by the frantic, aggressive, and vocal hunger of Naples. Combine this emotional and physical anguish, this outpouring of suffering, with the physical destruction; mix in the elements of unexpected time bombs and the knowledge that many of the men who today walked the streets were yesterday hooting at you or giving some degree of comfort to the rodents of the Wehrmacht; add to this our own personal irritants stemming from military existence and current environment, our own displacement from the things we cared about, the uncertainty of our daily activities-put all these together and one can begin to understand the mixed emotions that rose from our stay in Naples.
...
About this time Secretary of the Treasury Morgenthau visited the city of Naples and the front lines. He returned with a list of atrocities to be shown the president. So what? Morgenthau was acting
like a little boy who had heard a few dirty words and wanted his father to do something about it. Political eyewash. War is lawful slaughter or it isn't anything. Life magazine said: "None of this [the
atrocities] is the job of a self-respecting army." Neither American civilians nor American soldiers know the enemy.
Also about this time, five senators made a pilgrimage to Italy. One wondered what in hell they were doing so far from Washington. There was enough of a mess at home. If the senators would just
take care of their mess and let us take care of our mess, how nice it would be. Both this and Morgenthau's action simply galled a soldier.
...
For all the beauty of Italy, and it deserves all praise for it is lovely beyond poetry, nothing is perfect and some things are not like home. October came and went in Naples; November seemed more like October in the United States. But it finally failed and dissolved into coldness and drabness; then I thought of a missed American autumn. I could not hold it back any longer. The massive
irritants of army life and local environment compounded into loneliness.
No man escapes loneliness. I discovered there are several kinds, such as social, intellectual, and emotional. Weeks racing into months, minutes piling up into hours, and no words spoken about
those things that were once as common as coffee. They were all dammed up, rushing against an impassable wall. Is there anyone who reads Keats in this world? Has no man heard of Mozart? Is
there no woman in the world who speaks your native tongue? Is all the world one color - olive drab? Are all things and places in the world infected with dirt and disease, and are they all gutted like
half-burned candles? Is there cleanliness someplace, dishes, sheets? Is there light on the streets and leaves in the gutters? Are there bonfires with smoke rising higher than a house? Is there a child who
will smile at you without also begging from you? Is there a warm-colored moon in a smoky sky making pumpkins' shadows twice their size? Are there red apples in great barrels, corn in tall cribs? Is there an autumn wind that can infect the spirit with the wilds of Halloween? Do lost things come home in autumn, and are new things found in the Renaissance that is October? Yes, over and over,
year after year, and they shall be found again and the great Spirit Wind shall blow again, fields shall yield again and music sing and lights light and the world grow clean. A dam shall burst and a man
shall be free again.
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