... everyone who lived through World War II had their own story ... this may have been the most difficult of Bill Stigall's ... a POW somewhere in Belgium or Germany ... being moved to boxcars that after the war would be synonymous with the worst of the war. The GIs didn't face that horror, but it was hard enough - SP
Chapter 16: 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 came 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 came 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. It 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 trains coming and going. Someone suggested that we were now in the switchyards. It developed that a number of us were not going to lie down at all, since those who got in first held grudgingly to their places. We began to argue about spots to sit. There were several noncoms in the car, but they chose to remain silent. It got colder during the night.
Finally the train started again and ran jerkily forward across switches and tracks for half an hour. It stopped and waited. The train then backed up to the switchyards. For the rest of the night the train sped up, jerked to a stop, started again, ran for fifteen minutes, banged to a halt, started again. I spent most of the night sea ted against the wall of the car or standing up in my position, stretching my legs and then trying to squat down or sit down. We sixty English-speaking POW s settled down to live together.
Thursday, April 23, 2020
Stubby ... a friend in the midst of it all
One of the chalets was larger than any other and was situated outside a town named Doorn, which rang a bell. I told the soldier marching beside me, whose name was Stubbs, that that house could be where the former kaiser of Germany had come to live when exiled by the Nazis. Stubbs appreciated the irony of our being marched by German troops past the former kaiser's retreat.
Clyde Stubbs was a short, wiry, a little less than average in height, and was consequently called Stubby. What he lacked in height he made up for in aggressiveness. I discovered, while walking through Holland, that he had been home in Iowa on D day, June 6. He had been driving trucks on the Alcan Highway. He was shipped out of the States through a replacement depot and landed in my tent in England. A month later he flew a jeep into Holland. He was about to have the most crucial experience of his life.
Clyde Stubbs was a short, wiry, a little less than average in height, and was consequently called Stubby. What he lacked in height he made up for in aggressiveness. I discovered, while walking through Holland, that he had been home in Iowa on D day, June 6. He had been driving trucks on the Alcan Highway. He was shipped out of the States through a replacement depot and landed in my tent in England. A month later he flew a jeep into Holland. He was about to have the most crucial experience of his life.
Thursday, February 6, 2020
In captivity
A guard ushered me into the front room of a Dutch home occupied by the Germans. I was told to stand in front of a small table. Seated at the table were two German officers, beyond middle age, smartly dressed, well groomed, slightly Prussian in appearance. Several guards stood behind them and to the sides. The officers were examining papers. In reasonable English one of them, without looking up, questioned me. I gave him the required answer: my name, rank, an serial number. He ignored my answer and gave me in return the number of my regiment. He further identified me as a member of the Eighty-second Airborne. I was greatly tempted to point to my division insignia. He asked me a couple of questions regarding what units came on this flight, who remained, and who were coming next. He could not have asked a more uninformed source. He was looking through my dispatch case and said, "You are a singer, eh?"
This startled me. It must have been obvious. Perhaps I grunted a, "Huh?" He continued to look at my letters, which I had received that morning and which I should never have taken with me. He said with more emphasis and with more accent, "You are a singer?" I probably grinned and grunted again. I wanted to sing for him to prove that I was not a singer. I stood there. He asked me where we were going. I repeated my name, rank, and serial number. He waved me out. I was escorted through the door, passing another prisoner on the way. Upon reflection I assumed that some reference to theatre was translated by him into singer. I was returned to the shed, where I joined a couple dozen other American prisoners of war. There we spent the night. Before morning the sliding door opened and two men who had eluded capture during the day joined us.
The next morning we climbed into a truck and were driven out to a highway that was a scene of intense activity. Transports of German troops passed each other going in opposite directions. German troops patrolled crossroads; motorcyclists raced along the highway. Barricades of wooden crosses and barbed wire periodically blocked the free flow of traffic. There were some evidences of bombing. The situation was different from anything that I had seen. I was far behind enemy lines. I was, in fact, in German-occupied Holland, which at the time was under severe attack by Allied forces. I had, in Italy and France, seen roads during and immediately after combat.
I had even been behind the lines in Normandy during combat, but in the security of the U.S. Army. I was now in the hands of the opposition in the land of a member of the Allies. It was a new experience. The sun was bright and warm, the sky clear and fresh. The weather, in fact, was superb. I was in great health. There was lots of excitement. And, as far as I was concerned, the Allies would be through in a few days to rescue us.
Somewhere near a town, the sign of which had been knocked down or removed, we unloaded and began walking along the right side of the highway. Later we left the highway and followed paths through fields and along canals. There were about thirty American POWs guarded by five German soldiers. We marched a few hours, then stopped to rest. There was certainly opportunity to escape. There was talk about it. I imagine someone tried it. Some may have succeeded. I do not remember that any did. The sun remained warm, the air crisp and clean, the fields green, the sights, once we left the highway, pleasant, and walking was easy. ...
I have never been able to pinpoint the location of my capture and walk; however, we entered and went to the center of a large city. Here we stopped and were well fed by a group of Dutch ladies dressed in uniforms similar to those of the Red Cross. They were very gracious. The Germans wanted to hurry us along, but the Dutch women argued and insisted that all of us get a good lunch.
The country we walked through was especially beautiful. There were many small groves of evergreens. All along the road we saw exquisite homes or, rather, fairy-tale chalets. They were small, some two-storied, placed in gracious parks or other carefully landscaped areas. The buildings were wood with delicate filigree rimming on four sides. The houses and the trimmings were painted in outlandish colors. Each house had some red, green, yellow, and black. They were the gayest sight I saw in Europe. After so much destruction, dirt, and filth, they were a joy to the eye and spirit.
[Unfortunately, such joy was to be short-lived.]
This startled me. It must have been obvious. Perhaps I grunted a, "Huh?" He continued to look at my letters, which I had received that morning and which I should never have taken with me. He said with more emphasis and with more accent, "You are a singer?" I probably grinned and grunted again. I wanted to sing for him to prove that I was not a singer. I stood there. He asked me where we were going. I repeated my name, rank, and serial number. He waved me out. I was escorted through the door, passing another prisoner on the way. Upon reflection I assumed that some reference to theatre was translated by him into singer. I was returned to the shed, where I joined a couple dozen other American prisoners of war. There we spent the night. Before morning the sliding door opened and two men who had eluded capture during the day joined us.
The next morning we climbed into a truck and were driven out to a highway that was a scene of intense activity. Transports of German troops passed each other going in opposite directions. German troops patrolled crossroads; motorcyclists raced along the highway. Barricades of wooden crosses and barbed wire periodically blocked the free flow of traffic. There were some evidences of bombing. The situation was different from anything that I had seen. I was far behind enemy lines. I was, in fact, in German-occupied Holland, which at the time was under severe attack by Allied forces. I had, in Italy and France, seen roads during and immediately after combat.
I had even been behind the lines in Normandy during combat, but in the security of the U.S. Army. I was now in the hands of the opposition in the land of a member of the Allies. It was a new experience. The sun was bright and warm, the sky clear and fresh. The weather, in fact, was superb. I was in great health. There was lots of excitement. And, as far as I was concerned, the Allies would be through in a few days to rescue us.
Somewhere near a town, the sign of which had been knocked down or removed, we unloaded and began walking along the right side of the highway. Later we left the highway and followed paths through fields and along canals. There were about thirty American POWs guarded by five German soldiers. We marched a few hours, then stopped to rest. There was certainly opportunity to escape. There was talk about it. I imagine someone tried it. Some may have succeeded. I do not remember that any did. The sun remained warm, the air crisp and clean, the fields green, the sights, once we left the highway, pleasant, and walking was easy. ...
I have never been able to pinpoint the location of my capture and walk; however, we entered and went to the center of a large city. Here we stopped and were well fed by a group of Dutch ladies dressed in uniforms similar to those of the Red Cross. They were very gracious. The Germans wanted to hurry us along, but the Dutch women argued and insisted that all of us get a good lunch.
The country we walked through was especially beautiful. There were many small groves of evergreens. All along the road we saw exquisite homes or, rather, fairy-tale chalets. They were small, some two-storied, placed in gracious parks or other carefully landscaped areas. The buildings were wood with delicate filigree rimming on four sides. The houses and the trimmings were painted in outlandish colors. Each house had some red, green, yellow, and black. They were the gayest sight I saw in Europe. After so much destruction, dirt, and filth, they were a joy to the eye and spirit.
[Unfortunately, such joy was to be short-lived.]
Wednesday, January 1, 2020
On the ground ... D-Day continued ... And then captured
We were still being shot at. In the final descent I had completely forgotten about it. Man can do only one thing at a time. My fear of the landing consumed all my attention. I asked the pilot if he knew where we were. He didn't. It was obvious that we were in enemy territory, but how far from the front or from the drop zone no one could even guess. Although it was by now almost automatic, we made no attempt to untie the jeep. Birdwell, the pilot, and Gerry started to get out. I crawled out the door to my left. I stood outside the glider putting on my heavy Browning automatic ammo belt. Either it wouldn't fit around my waist while I was seated behind the wheel or, what is more likely, I found it uncomfortable. I got it on, grabbed the rifle, and headed after Birdwell, the pilot, and Gerry, who took cover in a ditch two hundred yards ahead. Bullets flew over the glider as I ran for the ditch followed by the new man. As I ran I could see out of the comer of my eye moving human figures to my left.
The new man and I reached the ditch together and jumped in. It was about three feet deep, with a six-foot bank behind it. We crouched down and looked around. By now the last of the flight was passing over the area. We could see it a half-mile ahead of us. Flak was still bursting all around them. Another C-47 was burning far over beyond the flight path. Shortly after we got in the ditch, five or six German soldiers came up to the glider. We moved farther away to our left but ran into fire from Germans coming down a draw that ran parallel to the field. Machine-gun fire was coming from somewhere and going over our heads. There was hardly any doubt that we were spotted. We tried to go to our right but saw men coming down a road on that side of the field.
We asked one another, "What do we do?" There were five of us. "Do we fight it out or what?" We quickly discussed trying to get contact with the other glider loads, of which there had to be, by our count, at least two. That could be from ten to thirty men. They had dropped out of sight. In the confusion we didn't know where they had landed. The firing on us increased. Again, "What do we do?" One of us wanted to make a run for it. The rest had nothing to say. It was self-evident: we fight or surrender. Someone suggested that we'd better surrender and take our chances. The rest agreed.
We threw our weapons and ammo belts into the bushes behind us, after hurrying to damage or destroy them as much as possible. The German soldiers at the glider had moved to the road. During a pause in the firing, with our hands over our heads, we came out of the ditch and walked toward the glider. The Germans in the ditch by the road called out to us and motioned us to come to them. We did. When we got on the road they got out of the ditch and motioned us to get in. I was totally unemotional and not in the least afraid. I was, on the contrary, very objective. If they had shot me I would have been completely surprised. It never crossed my mind. Why, I don't know, except that they didn't look like killers.
They searched us, took some personal things, left others. With my hands still raised over my head I looked them over. They were a mixed lot. Good-looking, poor-looking; young, old. Some of them looked like home guards. There were about ten of them. They motioned and told us to get out on the road. We were marched a half-mile and into an apple orchard. We sat down. We looked around and waited. The apples were ripe and red. I ate a couple. We waited. Birdwell, Gerry, and I, who had been together for nearly three years, admitted, in different tones, that for us the war was over. We'd had it. All we had to do now was sweat it out. I was much more confident than they that the war in Europe would be over soon.
The Germans drove the jeep up to the orchard gate. I said to Gerry, "That's the third jeep I've had shot out from under me." He laughed. Sergeant Birdwell was not frightened but was more apprehensive. The new man said nothing, but his eyes were wide open. We were piled into the jeep and driven a mile down the road to a collection of houses that seemed to make a small village. The place was filthy with Germans. It was, we later found out, Division Headquarters. The front was miles away. Everything was peaceful. We were taken to a barn or shed. Soon other glider loads began arriving, familiar faces. I had no idea where in Europe I was, but I suspected that I was in Holland.
[Note: Bill Stigall never spoke about any of this to his family, nor did he join any post-war veteran's organizations. But at the end of his life, he did share experiences with a fellow veteran he had met nearby. And once Bill had died, we found a tranche of letters and notebooks that tell a more "compelling" story of his experience. These may come later: the originals have been donated to the WWII Museum in New Orleans.]
The new man and I reached the ditch together and jumped in. It was about three feet deep, with a six-foot bank behind it. We crouched down and looked around. By now the last of the flight was passing over the area. We could see it a half-mile ahead of us. Flak was still bursting all around them. Another C-47 was burning far over beyond the flight path. Shortly after we got in the ditch, five or six German soldiers came up to the glider. We moved farther away to our left but ran into fire from Germans coming down a draw that ran parallel to the field. Machine-gun fire was coming from somewhere and going over our heads. There was hardly any doubt that we were spotted. We tried to go to our right but saw men coming down a road on that side of the field.
We asked one another, "What do we do?" There were five of us. "Do we fight it out or what?" We quickly discussed trying to get contact with the other glider loads, of which there had to be, by our count, at least two. That could be from ten to thirty men. They had dropped out of sight. In the confusion we didn't know where they had landed. The firing on us increased. Again, "What do we do?" One of us wanted to make a run for it. The rest had nothing to say. It was self-evident: we fight or surrender. Someone suggested that we'd better surrender and take our chances. The rest agreed.
We threw our weapons and ammo belts into the bushes behind us, after hurrying to damage or destroy them as much as possible. The German soldiers at the glider had moved to the road. During a pause in the firing, with our hands over our heads, we came out of the ditch and walked toward the glider. The Germans in the ditch by the road called out to us and motioned us to come to them. We did. When we got on the road they got out of the ditch and motioned us to get in. I was totally unemotional and not in the least afraid. I was, on the contrary, very objective. If they had shot me I would have been completely surprised. It never crossed my mind. Why, I don't know, except that they didn't look like killers.
They searched us, took some personal things, left others. With my hands still raised over my head I looked them over. They were a mixed lot. Good-looking, poor-looking; young, old. Some of them looked like home guards. There were about ten of them. They motioned and told us to get out on the road. We were marched a half-mile and into an apple orchard. We sat down. We looked around and waited. The apples were ripe and red. I ate a couple. We waited. Birdwell, Gerry, and I, who had been together for nearly three years, admitted, in different tones, that for us the war was over. We'd had it. All we had to do now was sweat it out. I was much more confident than they that the war in Europe would be over soon.
The Germans drove the jeep up to the orchard gate. I said to Gerry, "That's the third jeep I've had shot out from under me." He laughed. Sergeant Birdwell was not frightened but was more apprehensive. The new man said nothing, but his eyes were wide open. We were piled into the jeep and driven a mile down the road to a collection of houses that seemed to make a small village. The place was filthy with Germans. It was, we later found out, Division Headquarters. The front was miles away. Everything was peaceful. We were taken to a barn or shed. Soon other glider loads began arriving, familiar faces. I had no idea where in Europe I was, but I suspected that I was in Holland.
[Note: Bill Stigall never spoke about any of this to his family, nor did he join any post-war veteran's organizations. But at the end of his life, he did share experiences with a fellow veteran he had met nearby. And once Bill had died, we found a tranche of letters and notebooks that tell a more "compelling" story of his experience. These may come later: the originals have been donated to the WWII Museum in New Orleans.]
Friday, December 13, 2019
Into Holland ... D-Day continued (Chapter 15)
Continuing Chapter 15 ... flak as the sound of type-writing and sleeping in the air en route ...
In half an hour we were over the Channel. Again, as in the Normandy flight, there was a seemingly endless stream of low-flying planes towing gliders. I do not remember any air support. We either had it and it cleared the sky, or the Luftwaffe was extinct in that area. My determination to keep a running account of my actions fell completely apart. I got interested in the scenery below me. Of course we had no maps, and I knew only vaguely the geography from France to Holland. Below, it all looked much the same: distinct plots of cultivated ground, green and brown; scattered villages; larger towns and distant cities; intersecting lines of crisscrossing rivers, highways, and railroads.
In no time at all I got sleepy. My chin wanted to rest on my chest. I rocked gently to right and left. I looked at Gerry. He was gone. Sound asleep. As we bounced up and down, the queasy feeling in my stomach returned. The constant roar of the prop wash soothed my senses to slumber. My head fell forward and I dozed off to an uneasy sleep.
Either a noise outside the glider or someone shouting inside awakened me. Once conscious, I saw familiar flak bursts out the window to my left. I heard a sound like typewriter letters hitting a loose piece of paper. Slowly it dawned on me that the sound was made by small-arms fire going through the wings and fuselage. I had never heard it before. It did not frighten me. We were over land and being fired upon by both small arms and antiaircraft. We were still in position locked within a long line of planes and gliders. The firing on us increased. I could see it ahead of us and to the right where Gerry pointed it out to me. My concern about the glider landing was so great that I was unaware and therefore unafraid of the danger from flak.
Suddenly the pilot reached up for the release handle. I was immediately tense. My old fears returned. The pilot cut us loose. Our tow plane was hit, disabled, and plunging earthward. Almost instantly stillness descended upon us. I spoke to Gerry. We could hear the pilot talking to Birdwell. We settled into a hush with only a slight rumbling sound of antiaircraft off in the distance below us. Nothing else broke into the quiet save our meager attempts at conversation, the rat-tat-tat of occasional bullets or flak tearing through the glider, and the wind against the wings and snout. Gerry was bracing himself and was already swearing. I heard the pilot tell Birdwell that he'd picked the field. He was pointing it out. There was no sound from the man in the rear seat. He was on his own. Bullets continued through the wings and fuselage. We were flying at 700 feet and banking to the left, gliding down slowly, gradually, losing altitude and speed. The pilot was doing exactly as planned. He continued to slowly and silently circle the ground below. I picked out the field. I saw a C-47 dive in flames into a house. There were no chutes in the sky. Off to our left as we completed one circle I saw the sky-train. The planes and gliders moved in sustained flight through a smattering of flak. I saw a solitary glider head for the earth.
We continued to float gracefully downward, an irresistible target. Since we had no chutes, we had no concern about jumping. All we had to do was sit, sweat, and ride the jeep to the ground. On the second circle I again noticed the sky-train. I had no sense of their danger or my own. I was fascinated by the fact of disengagement from them. We were removed as casually as a car might pull out of traffic.
I was still not frightened of the flak. I was only frightened of the landing, the damned landing at too fast a speed into whatever was below. I looked at Gerry and knew that he shared my feelings. Suddenly we straightened out; we were fifty feet off the ground and heading in over the field. The glider was traveling at a much reduced speed, except that I didn't realize it. Gerry and I gripped the sides of the jeep and braced our feet against the floorboards. I never knew whether to use my arms to push away from the steering wheel or hold the sides of the jeep. We hit the earth with both Gerry and me swearing loudly to ourselves. The ground moved fast underneath us. The glider bounced up and came down on the earth again. I held on, prepared for a series of bounces. Almost before I knew it, the pilot dug the nose of the glider into the ground. We skidded about fifty yards and came to an abrupt halt. The tail of the glider settled down. I realized that we had made a perfect landing. Gerry, Birdwell, and I shouted thanks to the pilot.
In half an hour we were over the Channel. Again, as in the Normandy flight, there was a seemingly endless stream of low-flying planes towing gliders. I do not remember any air support. We either had it and it cleared the sky, or the Luftwaffe was extinct in that area. My determination to keep a running account of my actions fell completely apart. I got interested in the scenery below me. Of course we had no maps, and I knew only vaguely the geography from France to Holland. Below, it all looked much the same: distinct plots of cultivated ground, green and brown; scattered villages; larger towns and distant cities; intersecting lines of crisscrossing rivers, highways, and railroads.
In no time at all I got sleepy. My chin wanted to rest on my chest. I rocked gently to right and left. I looked at Gerry. He was gone. Sound asleep. As we bounced up and down, the queasy feeling in my stomach returned. The constant roar of the prop wash soothed my senses to slumber. My head fell forward and I dozed off to an uneasy sleep.
Either a noise outside the glider or someone shouting inside awakened me. Once conscious, I saw familiar flak bursts out the window to my left. I heard a sound like typewriter letters hitting a loose piece of paper. Slowly it dawned on me that the sound was made by small-arms fire going through the wings and fuselage. I had never heard it before. It did not frighten me. We were over land and being fired upon by both small arms and antiaircraft. We were still in position locked within a long line of planes and gliders. The firing on us increased. I could see it ahead of us and to the right where Gerry pointed it out to me. My concern about the glider landing was so great that I was unaware and therefore unafraid of the danger from flak.
Suddenly the pilot reached up for the release handle. I was immediately tense. My old fears returned. The pilot cut us loose. Our tow plane was hit, disabled, and plunging earthward. Almost instantly stillness descended upon us. I spoke to Gerry. We could hear the pilot talking to Birdwell. We settled into a hush with only a slight rumbling sound of antiaircraft off in the distance below us. Nothing else broke into the quiet save our meager attempts at conversation, the rat-tat-tat of occasional bullets or flak tearing through the glider, and the wind against the wings and snout. Gerry was bracing himself and was already swearing. I heard the pilot tell Birdwell that he'd picked the field. He was pointing it out. There was no sound from the man in the rear seat. He was on his own. Bullets continued through the wings and fuselage. We were flying at 700 feet and banking to the left, gliding down slowly, gradually, losing altitude and speed. The pilot was doing exactly as planned. He continued to slowly and silently circle the ground below. I picked out the field. I saw a C-47 dive in flames into a house. There were no chutes in the sky. Off to our left as we completed one circle I saw the sky-train. The planes and gliders moved in sustained flight through a smattering of flak. I saw a solitary glider head for the earth.
We continued to float gracefully downward, an irresistible target. Since we had no chutes, we had no concern about jumping. All we had to do was sit, sweat, and ride the jeep to the ground. On the second circle I again noticed the sky-train. I had no sense of their danger or my own. I was fascinated by the fact of disengagement from them. We were removed as casually as a car might pull out of traffic.
I was still not frightened of the flak. I was only frightened of the landing, the damned landing at too fast a speed into whatever was below. I looked at Gerry and knew that he shared my feelings. Suddenly we straightened out; we were fifty feet off the ground and heading in over the field. The glider was traveling at a much reduced speed, except that I didn't realize it. Gerry and I gripped the sides of the jeep and braced our feet against the floorboards. I never knew whether to use my arms to push away from the steering wheel or hold the sides of the jeep. We hit the earth with both Gerry and me swearing loudly to ourselves. The ground moved fast underneath us. The glider bounced up and came down on the earth again. I held on, prepared for a series of bounces. Almost before I knew it, the pilot dug the nose of the glider into the ground. We skidded about fifty yards and came to an abrupt halt. The tail of the glider settled down. I realized that we had made a perfect landing. Gerry, Birdwell, and I shouted thanks to the pilot.
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
Shower of Frogs Chapter 15: Into Holland
The gliders and C-47s were packed nose to tail, dozens of them in a long double line on one of the concrete slabs leading onto the main runway. It was approximately one o'clock on the afternoon of September 23, 1944. There was little activity around the planes other than mechanics checking and rechecking those most durable of all planes, the C-47s. They warmed up a few motors, shut them off, warmed up others, shut them off. I wondered if they were nervous.
I walked over to my glider and put my map case on my jeep seat. The case contained writing paper, pencils, and two letters received that morning. Sergeant Birdwell, the motor mechanic who stood up behind the jeep into Normandy, Corporal Gerry, who was in charge of a supply squad and who had sat beside me so many times, were joined by a new man. All three dumped their stuff in the jeep and began waiting.
Sergeant Birdwell was my superior. We took turns cursing each other. It was frequently heated but never lasted very long. He seemed heavier than I'd seen him for a long time. He was also worried. Glider pilots were scarce now. There were not enough to supply us with a copilot, so Sergeant Birdwell, who knew absolutely nothing about flying a glider, was to be copilot. If a bullet removed the pilot it was up to Sergeant Birdwell. Just what he was expected to do no one had any idea. Sergeant Birdwell was irritated.
Corporal Gerry, tireless and unflustered as ever, was chewing on the butt of a cigar and grinning. He said, "Looks like we go this time." He was not so relaxed as he acted. In a soft Carolina accent he turned to the new man, saying, "How ya doin'?" The new man nodded affirmatively. Corporal Gerry let it go at that and went in search of our officer.
Somewhere the signal was given. Tow planes ahead of me, followed by their gliders, were pulling out of formation and onto the runway. We in the glider, shouting above the roar, agreed that if this mission was to be called off it had better be damn quick. In minutes we were on the runway, speeding, bobbing, dipping, and rising off the ground. We quickly gained altitude and went into the familiar circling formation until we joined the long column. For the second time that summer I was leaving England. For the second time I was a part of an invasion about which I knew absolutely nothing. We were going to Holland, in broad· daylight, and it was a long flight.
I walked over to my glider and put my map case on my jeep seat. The case contained writing paper, pencils, and two letters received that morning. Sergeant Birdwell, the motor mechanic who stood up behind the jeep into Normandy, Corporal Gerry, who was in charge of a supply squad and who had sat beside me so many times, were joined by a new man. All three dumped their stuff in the jeep and began waiting.
Sergeant Birdwell was my superior. We took turns cursing each other. It was frequently heated but never lasted very long. He seemed heavier than I'd seen him for a long time. He was also worried. Glider pilots were scarce now. There were not enough to supply us with a copilot, so Sergeant Birdwell, who knew absolutely nothing about flying a glider, was to be copilot. If a bullet removed the pilot it was up to Sergeant Birdwell. Just what he was expected to do no one had any idea. Sergeant Birdwell was irritated.
Corporal Gerry, tireless and unflustered as ever, was chewing on the butt of a cigar and grinning. He said, "Looks like we go this time." He was not so relaxed as he acted. In a soft Carolina accent he turned to the new man, saying, "How ya doin'?" The new man nodded affirmatively. Corporal Gerry let it go at that and went in search of our officer.
Somewhere the signal was given. Tow planes ahead of me, followed by their gliders, were pulling out of formation and onto the runway. We in the glider, shouting above the roar, agreed that if this mission was to be called off it had better be damn quick. In minutes we were on the runway, speeding, bobbing, dipping, and rising off the ground. We quickly gained altitude and went into the familiar circling formation until we joined the long column. For the second time that summer I was leaving England. For the second time I was a part of an invasion about which I knew absolutely nothing. We were going to Holland, in broad· daylight, and it was a long flight.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
Follow-on from D-Day
Chapter 14 (continued) Shower of Frogs
On the evening of September 22 we saw a movie. Once it was over, the enormous hangar was lit up and we had an hour before lights out. The hangar's lights were pale green fluorescent, which gave a washed-out appearance to the human face. I sat on the edge of my cot writing a letter. I looked around me at the dozens of men, some new and unknown to me, others whom I had known in daily, hourly acquaintance for over two years. Some were lying down, some sitting up playing cards, others talking, smoking, joking, fussing with their equipment. There was movement to the letter box, the water fountain, the latrine. I observed the strain in their cheeks and jaws. These men whose faces were once relaxed and whose smiles were easy had tension in the muscles of their faces. Many had accumulated a smattering of gray hairs. Some had a headful. They could still laugh with the unmistakable free and easy American laughter; only it was keyed lower. Their eyes were tired and did not light up with the quick and sudden changes of youth, which was theirs by age. Impression after impression had, upon the sensitive plate in the eyes, left their everlasting pictures.
Weariness, death, a thousand strange and unusual sights in foreign lands; bitter cold, intense heat; fear, sickness, sorrow, and loneliness. The sound of explosions, the stench of bloated bodies, the strain of fog, the tastelessness of food, the rattle of mess kits, the click of rifles, the whispering of challenges in the unfriendly night; the bloodless faces, the whine of motors, the shrill of whistles, the nausea of latrines. The remembrance of the wounded's cry, the repetition of olive drab-the sights, sounds, smells innumerable burning upon the inner eye-all formed into one enormous picture. Eyes that in that brevity of time had seen too much, perhaps. Too much to absorb it all, leaving it, as it were, all jammed up in the outer eyes, making them heavy with strain, meaningful with memories, saturated with history.
Someday, I thought, these men whose eyes searched ever westward will come home. They will come home to tell their stories, individually and collectively. Some will remember much, others little. Some would talk hesitatingly, but most would open the gates of their dammed-up impressions and a great flood would pour forth. These men who were on a pilgrimage of liberation and who on their way saw half a world, most of which lay in various degrees of ruin, death, and destruction, would one day truly come home. They would come home certainly not as heroes, nor seeking applause, nor pity, but only understanding and love. They would come home with a great hope and a renewed faith-a hope for peace and a faith in America.
The next day my glider left English soil, and when it landed I was in Holland, miles from the target, surrounded by Germans. In the days that followed, my feelings about the American soldier were put to a severe test. It was in some cases a shattering experience, a deeply disillusioning experience. It temporarily embittered me toward almost all my fellow Americans, while setting the seal of admiration upon a few and separating me, to some degree, from the rest of mankind. Being a prisoner of war was one of those experiences no man in his right mind would ask for, but once he endured it, it would be equally foolish to deny its compensations.
On the evening of September 22 we saw a movie. Once it was over, the enormous hangar was lit up and we had an hour before lights out. The hangar's lights were pale green fluorescent, which gave a washed-out appearance to the human face. I sat on the edge of my cot writing a letter. I looked around me at the dozens of men, some new and unknown to me, others whom I had known in daily, hourly acquaintance for over two years. Some were lying down, some sitting up playing cards, others talking, smoking, joking, fussing with their equipment. There was movement to the letter box, the water fountain, the latrine. I observed the strain in their cheeks and jaws. These men whose faces were once relaxed and whose smiles were easy had tension in the muscles of their faces. Many had accumulated a smattering of gray hairs. Some had a headful. They could still laugh with the unmistakable free and easy American laughter; only it was keyed lower. Their eyes were tired and did not light up with the quick and sudden changes of youth, which was theirs by age. Impression after impression had, upon the sensitive plate in the eyes, left their everlasting pictures.
Weariness, death, a thousand strange and unusual sights in foreign lands; bitter cold, intense heat; fear, sickness, sorrow, and loneliness. The sound of explosions, the stench of bloated bodies, the strain of fog, the tastelessness of food, the rattle of mess kits, the click of rifles, the whispering of challenges in the unfriendly night; the bloodless faces, the whine of motors, the shrill of whistles, the nausea of latrines. The remembrance of the wounded's cry, the repetition of olive drab-the sights, sounds, smells innumerable burning upon the inner eye-all formed into one enormous picture. Eyes that in that brevity of time had seen too much, perhaps. Too much to absorb it all, leaving it, as it were, all jammed up in the outer eyes, making them heavy with strain, meaningful with memories, saturated with history.
Someday, I thought, these men whose eyes searched ever westward will come home. They will come home to tell their stories, individually and collectively. Some will remember much, others little. Some would talk hesitatingly, but most would open the gates of their dammed-up impressions and a great flood would pour forth. These men who were on a pilgrimage of liberation and who on their way saw half a world, most of which lay in various degrees of ruin, death, and destruction, would one day truly come home. They would come home certainly not as heroes, nor seeking applause, nor pity, but only understanding and love. They would come home with a great hope and a renewed faith-a hope for peace and a faith in America.
The next day my glider left English soil, and when it landed I was in Holland, miles from the target, surrounded by Germans. In the days that followed, my feelings about the American soldier were put to a severe test. It was in some cases a shattering experience, a deeply disillusioning experience. It temporarily embittered me toward almost all my fellow Americans, while setting the seal of admiration upon a few and separating me, to some degree, from the rest of mankind. Being a prisoner of war was one of those experiences no man in his right mind would ask for, but once he endured it, it would be equally foolish to deny its compensations.
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