Who was Bill Stigall?

Bill Stigall was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1911. He became interested in the theater and graduated from the University of Illinois before becoming a director in the Chicago Park District theater prior to World War II. He and his brother Jack enlisted together following Pearl Harbor -- Jack went to Navy and the Pacific as a pharmacists mate; Bill to the 82nd Airborne (as shown in the photo) ... the North Africa, Italy, and D-Day campaigns. He was captured by the Germans and was a POW until the end of the war in Europe.

After the war he moved to Lincoln College in Lincoln, Illinois where he taught theater and a self-develooped course on western civilization. That's also where he met my mother, who became his wife, and me. Later on they moved to Scarborough, New York where they lived until he died in 2001, shortly after celebrating his 90th birthday in Paris.

Besides "Shower of Frogs" there is also a compendium of his writings called "I Couldn't Be Better" and a genealogy.

The "Shower of Frogs" can be purchased from the maker of this blog via Amazon. 

Chapter 1: Embarkation: New York City

So here's how it began ... Chapter 1, page 1


Embarkation: New York City

In that desperate and graceless spring of 1943 late on a somber
afternoon, a long single file of soldiers labored up a gangplank,
crossed a battle gray deck, and descended into the stuffy hold of a
nameless ship. The anonymity of the ship fitted those dark and
secret times, as did the identical khaki-colored woolens of the men.
For me and all those men on the long-awaited day of embarkation
had finally come. We knew it could be a significant moment.
After months of continuous and mostly boring training, the
unwanted adventure of sailing to some foreign land, to take part in
a far-off and unwished-for war, of joining a multitude of men who
in times past had done the same thing-the moment was at last
upon us.

Whatever thoughts I had projected about the event, what emotions
I had atthe moment of boarding, whatever gestures of looking
back I may have wanted to make--all were submerged in the swift
act of embarkation. The overriding feeling was a pain in the shoulder,
a raw bruise from the unaccustomed full field pack and Ml rifle.
Corp. Jim Hurley of Asheville, North Carolina; ex-sergeant
now private Danny Moore of Pennsylvania; PFC Leonard Goldberg
of Chicago, I, and 15,000 other men of the Eighty-second Airborne
Division had boarded a train south of Plymouth Rock at Buzzard's
Bay in Massachusetts. We rode unheralded through numerous
small towns and underground, unseen and unseeing, through New
York City to within four hundred yards of a slate gray ship with
black spots. We unloaded, adjusted the pack and rifle, and, lugging
a heavy and as yet unfaded blue denim barracks bag, marched
unceremoniously to the gangplank, were checked off, and went
aboard.

What I do remember about the event is how "un-Hollywood"
it all seemed.

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

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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

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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 ...

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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

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