Breathes There a Soldier: The World War Ii Memoir of Robert F. Heatley
Stateside Training and Pacific Theater Combat 1942–1946

By Lawrence H. Heatley

World War II, the most desperate stuggle ever endured by mankind, changed the world forever and those who fought in its battles. Sergeant Robert Heatley, a U.S. Army infantryman, put pen to paper recording history as it was made.

Breathes There A Soldier, the compilation of his journals, brings to life the experiences, both humorous and horrific, of an American soldier in the Pacific Theater. From the grind of combat training, to the agony of the battlefield, Sergeant Heatley's first person account of the 81st Infantry Division in World War II is a welcome addition to the genre of the U.S. Army's contribution to American history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 28, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469793832

Lawrence H. Heatley

Lawrence Heatley balances family life, writing and his career as an automotive engineer. In his pursuit to raise the awareness of World War II history, he on occasion speaks at organization events and schools about the role the war still plays in today's society. He lives in suburban Detroit with his wife, Terri, and daughter, Rachel.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Lawrence G. Heatley

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Contents

Epigraph

List of Illustrations

Acknowledgments

Lessons to Learn

A Soldier’s Burden

A Step Further

The Golden State

Mud Men

No More Pollywogs

Fear of the Dark

Of Friend and Foe

Winds of Change

Out of Ashes

Lest I Forget

About the Author

For Rachel and Robert

Epigraph

Image394.JPG

List of Illustrations

1 Camp Rucker recruit training, summer 1942

2 U.S. Army directive on military secrecy circa 1942, (courtesy of the National Archives and Records Administration)

3 GM shell production in support of U.S. War Department, 1942, (courtesy of Oldsmobile History Center, General Motors Corporation)

4 Pfc. Heatley takes a chow break during field maneuvers

5 Inseparable buddies, Heatley, Farace and Byzek

6 The 3rd Platoon attend weapons training sessions during Florida maneuvers

7 The Wildcats march along a back-woods trailon the Alabama/Florida border, 1943

8 Reconnaissance on field maneuvers near Murfreesboro, Tennessee

9 Members of the 3rd Platoon take a break from the rigors of training, Lebanon, Tennessee, April 1943

10 Machine gun practice for members of the 321st Regiment, Camp Horn, Arizona

11 Members of M Company relax before extensive field maneuvers, San Louis Obispo, California, 1944

12 Jack Zavala, Bob Heatley and Rube Schlossberg on pass in Honolulu, July 1944

13 Members of the 3rd Platoon in field bivouac after a search and destroy mission, Guadalcanal, August 1944

14 Map of Guadalcanal operations

15 The 81st Infantry invades Angaur, September 17,1944 (courtesy of Robert Perz)

16 M Company performs a Christmas play, Peleliu, December 1944

17 Christmas v-mail, 1944

18 Map of Oua Tom Valley operations, New Caledonia, March 1945 (courtesy of the National Archives and Records Administration)

19 GM war production advertisement in support of American troops abroad, May 1945 (courtesy of Oldsmobile History Center, General Motors Corporation)

20 Mortars are used on the persistent enemy, Ormoc, Leyte, July 1945

21 The Rising Sun flag is displayed by members of M Company, Tacloban, Leyte, July 1945

22 The Japanese military surrenders weapons at Ominato naval base, Aomori, Japan, September 1945

23 Engaged to be married, Bob and Rita stroll through Ford Woods, Dearborn, Michigan, September 1946

Preface

Of all wars fought by the United States throughout its short history, it was World War II, the single most profound event of the 20th Century, which most threatened the foundation of our freedom as a nation. My father, U.S. Army Sergeant Robert Francis Heatley, like millions of other young men in the United States during the early 1940s, marched off in patriotic passion to become a soldier in the performance of duty to the country he loved.

Since the end of World War II, my father’s account of those desperate years has until now waited to be told. Throughout his tenure in the military, he maintained a written chronological journal of the events he experienced between 1942 and 1946, from induction through training, to the battlefield, and home to Detroit again. It was a period of time that brought about tremendous changes in his life. Not only from the aspect of fighting the war were the changes manifested, but from the personal aspect of having to do so with the knowledge that everything constituting his happiness—parents and home—had been lost while overseas. His writings, describing personal struggles, combined with the day-today events of the 81st Infantry Division, were recorded during lulls in battle, or breaks from training, capturing fragments of history as they happened. Thus, over the course of the war, a cohesive and historically significant document had been assembled.

Many veterans of World War II hid mementos of their experiences in attic-bound boxes or duffel bags, as if to evade the memories that the sight of those things would make them recall, some, memories of horrors which could never be willingly forgotten. In that respect my father was no different than other veterans of that war, having kept a military footlocker stowed away, packed with his journals, photographs, and curios of the era. I was previously unaware that my father had saved the written history of his outfit, until the day when my daughter, Rachel, inadvertently opened a new chapter of discovery in my life.

On a search together to find photographs of her grandfather as a young man, we investigated the contents of my father’s military foot-locker, which had been stored away for just such a day. I had avoided until then the emotional roller coaster ride that I knew awaited me in that footlocker. But being with my daughter made the experience fulfilling, instead of the inevitably painful task it would have been for me to undertake alone. Her insatiable curiosity with her grandfather’s life only increased as we spent the afternoon looking at photographs that, I too, had never seen. And amidst the treasure trove of World War II history, we found several boxes of obscure family photographs, making our efforts all the more rewarding.

The next several weeks were spent reading thousands of delicate, time-yellowed pages of the chronological military history of my father’s outfit. I made new discoveries about the life of the man that I thought I knew, the sacrifices he made and the hell he endured, all in the name of freedom. It was with a strange sense of deja vu, being somehow aware of what next would occur in the chronology, that I continued to absorb his account of those times. As I read the material, I recalled memories of my childhood when my dad would dim the lights in the living room, put on a Tchaikovsky symphony on our console record-player, then proceed to tell me stories of his army experiences. And I remembered when we would take long walks together, along the shore of Lake St. Clair, where we would have our inner-man talks, as we called them. Being a ten year old boy, I was fascinated with soldier lore—the typical things that interested boys of my age in the 1960s, told in the special way dads share with their sons. I suppose that he was trying to prepare me for what he had the foresight to envision: Me, in my own uniform someday, fighting in another war. He had the wisdom to inform me at an early age that the world is an uncertain place. But, as I grew older, the stories he shared with me back then seemed to fade from my memories, or so I thought.

There were particular story sessions with my father that I vividly tie with the events of our family at the time. The night Dad told me the tale of ‘Machine Gun Mike,’ we had attended a baseball game at Tiger Stadium during a summer night in 1963. And when Dad shared with me the antics of his old drill instructor, Sergeant ‘Duck’ Welch, we were driving together in our family’s 1957 Plymouth to the old Heatley farm in Chelsea, Michigan, the site of many fond family gatherings spread across several decades.

The times our family shared together were priceless. The Bob-lo boats, Tiger Stadium, Edgewater Park, the soda fountain at Cunningham’s and Vernor’s plant tours, are places and things now gone, save for a few cherished memories.

It has been said that with fathers and sons an inseparable bond is shared that is forever tethered in the harsh winds of time. So it was, with my father and I, a special relationship, one that entitled him not only to be my dad, but also my mentor and my best friend. As I grew up during the 1960s and ‘70s, the gap between our generations was typically boundless, but, to us, our generations were seamless. He could talk to me about anything, even the news of his cancer, which we together as a family learned to accept in the end. He was a man of honor and integrity, who led his life by example, and whose values are still alive today. There isn’t a day that passes in my life when I don’t miss my father’s wisdom, wit and sense of humor, which he would often apply to life’s dilemmas. There was never a day spent with him when I didn’t benefit from his relentless reinforcement in my brothers and I, lessons about the challenges we faced in an unforgiving world of hyper-evolving change.

The book that you now hold is the culmination of one of my father’s dreams. If he were here today he would have been providing guidance throughout the work for the project, no doubt resulting in another volume of insight to accompany this. It occurred to me upon completion of reading more than five thousand pages of his notes how wonderful a birthday present it would be for my daughter to read a complete document of her grandfather’s life as a soldier—a posthumous but timeless gift. So, a labor of love began on that day spent with my daughter. In so doing, the bond my father and I always shared was renewed—filling within me, if only temporarily, the void left in his passing.

I regret having left incomplete a conversation with Dad in 1978. I was sitting at the kitchen table writing a research paper for a college history course. The topic was ships—a favorite of his. I asked him about the old troop carriers during the war, knowing that I would in turn receive a detailed dissertation of their characteristics, which is exactly what I needed at the time to complete my research. Our discussion eventually led into the captured ships of the Japanese Navy at the end of the war. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, he rose from his chair and walked to the cellar. After several minutes he returned holding a dusty bottle. As he cleaned the brown glass, he said, This is the fulfillment of a promise. I wore a puzzled expression, which drew a smile from Dad, while my project was set aside for the moment. I accepted from him a small brandy snifter containing two ounces of exquisite thirty-five year old saki. Without explaining to me the story behind the promise, he raised his glass in a toast, This is to sons everywhere, is all he said. Then, the best of friends—father and son—talked late into the night. It was years later, while writing this memoir, when I understood the promise he made so long ago and the significance of having kept it that night with me.

This is for you, Dad.

L.G. Heatley

July 2001

Acknowledgments

It was towards the completion of the transcription of my father’s memoir when I discovered that the spirit of the 81st Division Wildcats is still alive and well today. In an attempt to resolve several historic questions about the Wildcats, I explored the main United States Army website to review individual unit histories, a task made simple via the Internet. There, I found the history of several eras of the Wildcats, including their current activities as the 81st Regional Support Command, derived from ARCOM operations in 1995. Since their inception in 1917, the U.S. Army’s 81st Division Wildcats have been inactivated and reactivated on five separate occasions. But they always come back, adapting to the military needs of the times throughout their prestigious history, from the division’s beginnings during World War I, through the decades into Vietnam, and of modern deployment, the Persian Gulf and beyond.

It is with respectful understanding of their background that I say thank you to the United States Army’s 81st Infantry Division for their kind communication and constructive advice in my endeavor to complete this project. As the Wildcat Division continues in their proud tradition contributing to yet another century of their legacy, the World War II accomplishments of the division lend testimony to the sacrifice, valor and bravery their members demonstrated to protect our nation’s freedom and liberty. It is my hope that the 81st Wildcat Division’s history described in this book enhances their recent efforts to produce a documentary on the World War II legacy of the 81st Infantry Division. Conversations with Majors James Billings and Lachlan Powell, historians of the Wildcat Division were helpful for me to further understand the role the Wildcats played in the Pacific Theater of World War II.

In researching the historic events described in my father’s journals, I happened upon a lovingly prepared Peleliu Tribute web site on the Internet, listing the soldiers, both Army and Marine Corps, known to have participated in that vicious and protracted battle. The sacrifices made there should never be forgotten. The Peleliu Tribute web site strives to assure that the memory of Peleliu will live on. Whether intentional or not, the author of the site has provided a means of linking together the families of Peleliu veterans. Thank you for opening doorways to new friendships.

From the Peleliu Tribute list, I met Ralph Basore of the 321st RCT, G Company. He read the account of the Palaus Campaign, Red Rain, an early version of a chapter from this book. The account had been posted on the Internet in dedication to the veterans of the battle for Peleliu. He contacted me after reading the chapter, which brought back for him vivid memories of combat on Bloody Nose Ridge, where he, more than a half-century before, had met my father during a rescue mission. This startling revelation was the beginning of our friendship, a friendship coming full circle between the Basore family and ours, across the gulf of six decades of time. Neither one of us realized at the time that destiny, not chance, had drawn us together for a reason.

In our frequent communication, Ralph learned that I had been petitioning the U.S. Army Awards Branch for recognition of heroism performed by my father on Bloody Nose Ridge in 1944, the same incident where the two soldiers met long ago. He wrote a letter to Army Command documenting the events of that gruesome night when he and his company were nearly wiped out by enemy mortar fire and the circumstances surrounding my father’s squad which had arrived to help rescue the wounded from the ridge. It is because of Ralph’s letter bearing witness to those events, which are described in this book, that Army Command, with the aid of Senator Carl Levin and Representative Joe

Knollenberg, posthumously awarded a long-overdue Bronze Star to my father for bravery under fire. Ralph Basore, returning a favor from one soldier to another, threaded the eye of a needle formerly lost in a temporal haystack. Merely saying thank you does not adequately express my appreciation. I hope that our new relationship will.

William Baise, of the 317th Field Artillery on Peleliu, who today is Commander of the Illinois branch of the Wildcat Division Veterans, also is one of the founding officers of The World War II Illinois Veterans Memorial. He and his son, Bruce, along with Vice-Commander Fred Whitmer and Secretary A. Lee Tate, contribute their time tirelessly in dedication and commitment to establishing a World War II memorial in Springfield. Their efforts epitomize what it means to be an American. At the time of this writing, they are well on the way to making the Springfield, Illinois World War II Memorial reality instead of a dream.

Calvin Chick Hilton of Marine Air Group Eleven, now residing in rural Missouri, has become a close confidant of mine, whose insight and wisdom further allowed me to understand the man that was my father. After reading the manuscript for this book, he told me recently that he wished he could have known my dad. In a sense he did. They shared the hell that was Peleliu, which is a timeless bond with all broth-ers-in-arms who risked, and for some, gave their lives for our nation. On a visit to Chick’s home in May 2001, I spent time with his family, which reminded me of the past with my own. And, the ‘Breakfast Bunch,’ a group of veterans from several wars, who meet every morning at the same restaurant, as they have for years, was for me, a guest there, more meaningful than they could know. It was through the stories we shared that I came to an understanding with my personal burdens.

Thanks go out to Captain Richard Bruce Watkins, 2nd Battalion, 1st Division Marines, E Company, whose excellent 1999 book Brothers in Battle was a welcome contribution to the history of combat on Peleliu.

Charles Chuck Bengtsson, 81st Infantry Division, 154th Combat Engineers Battalion, along with his wife Virginia, inadvertently provided me a wonderful photograph of my father that I had never before seen, until they sent me Chuck’s World War II descriptive pictorial. Thank you for sharing your memories with me.

Robert J. Perz, who has become a close friend from our communications related to the 81st Division, was a member of Division HQ, Battery Field Artillery, Tech 4 Radio Technician. He and his comrade Orin S. Whitman, 81st Infantry Division, 321st RCT, shared with me some excellent photographs and their story of their 55th Anniversary trip to Peleliu.

Robert Moore, 321st RCT, G Company, who lives on the opposite side of Michigan from me, remembered those times so long ago with the 81st Division as we reviewed hundreds of photographs of the Wildcats in his comfortable west Michigan home. After a great afternoon spent together at his favorite local restaurant reminiscing about our lives, I know that Robert Moore and I will always share a special friendship.

Angela Lehr, of the U.S. Army Military History Institute at Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania, has been a great supporter of my work, having written to me praising the story that I had previously released. In our discussions, the future care of a delicate Japanese map of occupied America was determined. It is comforting to know that a piece of alternate history, saved from the ravages of war by my father, will have an official place of reference and access, back with the U.S. Army, whose initial rejection of the document allowed my father to keep it in the first place. The United States Army, Signal Corps, Navy and Marines, along with the National Archives Administration, I appreciate for their kind advice during this project.

Research for this book drew me to the Oldsmobile History Center in Lansing, Michigan, where I met, Ed Stanchak, the General Motors museum archivist, who assisted me during the selection process of corporate World War II images to be depicted in Breathes There A Soldier. I want to thank him for his help, whisking through his files in instant recollection of the location of the material requested.

Of course, at this point I would be remiss in not acknowledging my family. Throughout my work on the book, my wife Terri has been understanding and supportive of my obsession with completing the project. My daughter, Rachel, who is responsible for setting me forth on this wonderful family project, I have more pride in than words can convey. And, I am indebted to my mother, whose memories guided me through the postwar years, and helped to provide the ending for the long-awaited memoir of her loving husband.

Finally, to all the families of the heroes of World War II, who endured the loss of their loved ones during those dire years, the people of our great nation will forever be indebted for your sacrifice. In keeping the memories alive of the men and women who fought in, lived for and died because of the war, by telling their personal stories today, a piece of them will live in tomorrow’s world.

1

Lessons to Learn

Detroit, Michigan—April 1942

The day of the attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7,1941, a day forever infamous in the annals of United States history, was also a day that began a series of events that would change the fabric of human history, and the world would thus be made forever fragile. Whether or not the United States was prepared to enter World War II, the most desperate struggle ever endured by mankind, the madness that spawned its evil sought out and found the United States.

An exponential expansion of the flames of war continued with the consumption of the Pacific Basin by the Imperial Japanese Empire. Their conquests had reached a new plateau, which was graphically demonstrated by new bloodletting in Bataan. The chilling news of the loss of thousands of American lives had cast a pall of depression across the United States. The news reports indicated that exhausted American troops were overwhelmed by waves of attacking Japanese, virtually eliminating our defenses by sheer numbers. But our boys did not pay the ultimate price in vain, because the wrath of Uncle Sam was only beginning to be felt by the enemy throughout the South Pacific.

The Federal Government reacted to a rising tide of public pressure by creating a new bureaucracy called the War Relocation Authority, with the express purpose of confining all West Coast Japanese-Americans in prescribed encampments to prevent the possibility of sabotage and espionage on U.S. soil. In the demeaning process, an entire population of American citizens were held suspect for the actions taken by the country of their ancestral origin.

As the war raged on, in Americans, paranoia and fear yielded to a quiet and determined anger which was more than the want for mere revenge. The rare emotion, which evaded definition, demanded to be acted upon with a response sufficient to return the pain that Imperial Japan had inflicted upon America.

At the automotive plants of Michigan, craftsmen and production line workers manufactured tanks, planes and other machines of war. To meet the War Department’s urgent need for combat equipment production, at some plants, antiquated fixtures were brought out of storage to aid in the national endeavor. At a tank plant in Detroit, fixtures from the Civil War era were retooled and installed after being found in an Army ordinance arsenal—inefficient, but nonetheless productive. Everything and everyone played a vital role to produce things of war needed to avenge America’s lost sons.

Americans performed their jobs with the pride in knowing that their efforts would contribute to making weapons with which to strike back at the enemy—their bite of the bitter fruit of revenge. No one discussed the setback suffered in Bataan. Everyone persevered in their personal convictions that their contributions would go to the common goal of victory over a ruthless enemy. Faced with a national challenge, every American citizen embraced the manifestation of pure patriotic spirit like no other time in history.

Even children played an important role in the war effort. Through an organized government initiative with school systems across the country, urban landscapes were scoured for scrap refuge, as students went door-to-door collecting every imaginable item that could be recycled into materials requested by the War Department. The children knew that so many hubcaps equaled a hand grenade, or that, their mother’s nylon stockings, combined with those of a hundred others, would weave the threads of a parachute. Few children realized the true importance of their efforts, but every effort, no matter how seemingly insignificant, was yet another component vital in making tools and weapons with which to defeat Tojo and Hitler.

Although slow to become involved in what had become another world war, which had raged for many months around the globe without its involvement, the United States, in the months following the war declarations, assembled and deployed the most fearsome military power to ever exist. There would be no turning back. The sleeping giant had

emerged from slumber to a world gone mad.

* * *

Within a few short months after the war came to America’s doorstep, everyone I knew had been affected by it already. I didn’t know then how profound an impact it would have on the lives of my family.

Following my enlistment into the Army late in April, several weeks were spent attempting to be home as much as possible with my parents, until the time came that I received orders to report to the downtown Detroit induction center at the Federal Building. I didn’t enroll for the January semester at the University of Detroit because I knew where I would be spending my immediate future. I had been working on a major in journalism, but my degree joined the multitude of events of my life that were necessary to be put on hold. After the disaster at Pearl Harbor, I knew that I would not have a chance to complete school as planned. Although the enlistment sergeant told me that I could always apply for officer’s training school after being placed with my permanent outfit, it was difficult to put aside the program of learning and accomplishment that I had carefully planned.

I completed all personal business in the event that I was not fortunate enough to return from the war. My father had long ago discussed with me the realities of war, and the responsible actions a soldier must take on the home front as well as on the battlefront. He and Uncle Paul had filled me with a wealth of acquired wisdom related to the wartime burdens of the American male.

Of course, dating, camping and fishing were also on my agenda. My cousin Ann and I took our dates on a getaway to the woods of Michigan one weekend. We weren’t far from home—just forty miles—at the Metamora Recreation area near Oxford. The countryside was wild enough to give us the intended illusion that we were deep in the northern woods. We had a couple of pleasant days hiking, cooking our meals over an open fire, stargazing and having campfire conversations that weekend.

My last night as a civilian was spent with Dan Riordan, my best friend, on a double date to Eastwood Park. It was kind of a going-away party, as Dan and I would report for induction the next morning. He drove his cherished ‘39 De Soto convertible with the top down, while the four of us sang and laughed along to ‘jump’ tunes blaring from the radio as the balmy wind whipped our hair.

We visited the amusement park first, and went on all the rides, from the Ferris wheel to the roller coaster, all the time consuming popcorn, hotdogs and gallons of ginger ale. Beer was out of the question because the gals were only nineteen, but we had plenty of fun as we danced under the stars to the Tommy Dorcey Band until 2:00 a.m. The setting couldn’t have been more perfect for my last night in civilian attire.

I arrived home at 3:30 in the morning to find that Mom and Dad had stayed up waiting for me to return from my late date. They wanted to see their son one last time before Uncle Sam took possession of him. Mom had been more worried than Dad, as any mother would so near the moment of her son’s departure into the unknown. To make matters worse, just before I had arrived home, they were listening to war reports on WJR. At that juncture in time, the Marines were having a rough go with the Japanese in the South Pacific, and over in the European Theatre, events were not much better against the Nazis.

We sat up together and talked the rest of the night. It was tough leaving, tougher than anything else I’d ever done before. The farewell was tearful, as we knew it would be. Mom and Dad stood on the front porch, waving goodbye, as I walked to the streetcar stop. I looked back at them, and as I grew closer to the streetcar tracks at the corner, their tearful expressions etched an indelible imprint in my memories. I knew too well that the image of them slowly waving at me from the distant porch of my home, an image that I would never forget, could have been my last.

Aboard the streetcar on the way to the induction center, the sights and sounds of Detroit were more meaningful to me than before, because it would be an undetermined period of time until I again was able to enjoy them. I especially appreciated the portion of the ride that included Woodward Avenue, the heart of downtown Detroit. The streets of the city were buzzing with military activity. Jeeps and troop trucks accounted for every other vehicle on the streets, and the sidewalks were jammed with crowds of military personnel wearing the expected green, blue and white colors of servicemen, all hurrying about in every direction on their way to assignment.

I reported to the Federal building in downtown Detroit at 7:00 o’clock, where I was given enlistment papers by the recruiting sergeant. I then joined a large group of raw recruits, bunched together in a small reception area, who were then hurriedly marched along Fort Street to the Army Induction Center at Sixth Street. All recruits and drafters were assembled on the fourth floor where enlistment papers were checked and verified.

What followed was the most vigorous physical examination I’d ever experienced. Every imaginable inoculation, test and procedure was administered by the doctors to ensure that the Army was provided suitable soldier-stock, with rejections issued only to those who truly weren’t fit to serve their country. I felt sorry for guys like that—trying to get in, but prevented by their health conditions—ever after having to defend themselves from the inevitable endless questions as to why they had not served their country like all the rest.

For the duration of the induction preliminaries, I wandered through the corridors, self-conscious and stark naked among one hundred-fifty others, herded from one examination room to another. Finally, after many hours, we were eventually given jumpsuits to wear in lieu of our birthday suits. It was not as embarrassing to take our mental aptitude tests wearing clothes instead of our previously demeaning natural attire. Confined to the building all day, following each extensive period of testing, we were provided meals in the basement cafeteria, where bibles, playing cards and candy bars were later given to the men by USO girls, whose presence helped to ease the anxiety of the occasion.

Colonel Bacchus swore our group into the Army at 6:30 p.m., which was followed by the boarding of buses destined for Michigan Central Depot. The train didn’t pull out until three hours later. The warm and still air of the evening quickly made the train car resemble a Swedish sauna. Needless to say, the wait was excruciating. When the engine chugged into motion, the sweating and swearing men enjoyed the flowing breeze.

The trainload of confused and apprehensive recruits later pulled in at Fort Custer Military Reservation near Battle Creek, during the dark, early morning of June 19, 1942. Armed Military Police patrolled the cars of the train en route to Fort Custer, so it was reasonable that they met the train at the reservation reception area as well. I supposed that the MPs were there because recruits had been known to occasionally cause a commotion aboard troop trains. After all, they had just been collected from the civilian wilderness, possessing thus far no concept of the meaning of military discipline. They were about to get their fill of that philosophical understanding.

Still half asleep, the mob of semi-civilians was herded along a road from the rail siding to a tremendous mess hall, where at about 2:00 a.m. we devoured our first Army breakfast, consisting of oatmeal, scrambled eggs, bacon and coffee. Shortly afterward, we were assigned to temporary barracks and bunks, where our group stole about two hours of fitful shut-eye.

Drums and bugles shattered the 5:00 a.m. silence, after which we were plunged into two days of concentrated chaos. Shots and more shots, issuance of uniforms, more lectures and interviews, reveille, retreat formations and calisthenics, along with more tests and inspections, were the events of the next forty-eight hours.

As we boarded the train again, three days after our arrival at Fort Custer, a band marched outside, heading a column of recruits yet to board. They played Chattanooga Choo-choo followed by the Michigan Victory March echoing throughout the reservation. The commanders of Fort Custer stood in a group to observe the train’s departure. They had all witnessed that scene many hundreds of times before. The reservation served as a major northern troop-processing hub, linked with the others by rail networks across the country. Tens of thousands of GIs had already been processed through Custer thus far in 1942. As the war continued on both fronts, many hundreds of thousands more would pass through its gates.

Finally, we were off. The steam-locomotive passed through Battle Creek, Jackson and Manchester, not far from the beloved Heatley farm near Chelsea, where I had spent many long, hot, summer days fishing at the old pond.

As I gazed at the passing countryside, a mess sergeant threw a bagged lunch in my lap. It consisted of an orange and apple, with two meatloaf sandwiches.

Once finished with my meal, I decided to explore the train. I spotted John Thierry and Jack Barkum, old buddies of mine, pulling kaypee duty in the baggage car. They wore smirks on their faces as I walked up and razzed them. Wherever it was that I would end up, I thought, it would be swell to have two of my old neighborhood chums around to share jokes and conversation, that is when we would not be running through days of rigorous training.

Quite a bit of discussion went on during the course of the trip as to where we may be sent, but anyone we asked who we knew were aware of our destination made it clear that we wouldn’t know until our prescribed arrival. Camp Livingston, Louisiana was the general speculation, but many military reservations could be found in the south. As the Michigan-Ohio border passed by, the boundary of what I called home, it just didn’t matter anymore where our final training destination would be. At least, though, the training would be stateside.

The train continued its trek through Toledo, Springfield, Dayton and Cincinnati, then crossed over the Ohio River into Kentucky. As we continued south, the heat became noticeably more humid and heavy. Summer was alive and well in Dixie. We passed through Covington at sunset, as Sol’s fleeting golden rays cast long shadows across flowing fields of alfalfa.

As the twilight faded, I occasionally squinted out the window into the darkness to see if the silhouetted countryside would lend clues as to where we were. An intermittent street lamp or rail stop would illuminate a forlorn-looking mountain shack isolated in the wild hill country of Kentucky. Some of the boys looked for ‘Dogpatch’ and ‘Skunk Hollow’ as they joked while peering through the windows. But what I saw was a silent story of poverty—each old shack coveting its own tale of the poor folks who lived there—folks who had never recovered from the Great Depression years.

The porter began making the berths. He tolerated much good-natured jibing from the guys, because he refused to reveal our destination. It occurred to me that he was probably instructed to be evasive about that subject matter. The porter, an aging southern Negro gentleman, advised us, Y’all are going to have a long day tomorrow. But it was difficult to sleep as the train pulled in at Louisville to change engines, shaking and clanging every passenger car in the process.

The night was uncomfortably warm and stuffy, made worse by a cramped berth, which was designed to barely sleep one, much less two. I managed to get about five hours of restless sleep, despite the annoying circumstances. The train, once in the deep, wild country of Tennessee, traveled like a bat out of hell into the night, getting further from home with every click of the wheels on the rails. The mournful wail of the steam whistle reverberated into the surrounding woods like a ghost in the wind. Its desolate moan seemed to bring out my loneliness, while I laid in the berth preoccupied with thoughts about an uncertain future. The sounds and vibration of the train eventually lulled me into a light sleep as it stormed through the valleys and foothills of the Smokey Mountains.

The sobering call of the porter, Up and Adam! merged with a sudden burst of the train’s steam whistle, waking us a few minutes before our arrival at the railroad yards of Decatur, Alabama, where the engine took on coal and water. I used the pause to unpack my straight razor to get a decent shave, which was before a dangerous undertaking with the rocking motion of the train. The aroma of bacon, eggs and toast drifted through the air while I shaved. A good breakfast would provide me the vitality to forget it had been a long and unpleasant night.

The train steamed off again immediately after chow. It passed through Cullman, Birmingham and Montgomery, interspersed with stretches of track that sliced through dense Alabama wilderness—mostly pine forest, rich with patches of fern-covered, sun-speckled greenery. It was apparent to me that the southern United States was very beautiful in the summer months, from its moss-covered hillsides to its swamps and forests.

In what seemed to be the heart of a vast setting of rolling hills and forest, the train pulled off on a siding located at a sprawling area of newly built barracks, in white contrast against the green woods and red clay of the surrounding area. It was our destination: Camp Rucker, Alabama.

Drizzle came down as we disembarked from the train. A band was present there, too, fittingly blaring out martial strains of Dixie as we unceremoniously squished through the incredibly deep red Alabama gumbo-mud, to a waiting line of infantry trucks. Soon we were jouncing along a rutted muddy road on our way to camp orientation.

After our group was assigned to barracks and bunks, some of us were told to assemble in a large battalion mess hall for the expected orientation lecture orated by a reception officer, where we also heard introductions from the two chaplains. Being briefed on the traditions of the 81st Infantry Division, of which it seemed the men were bewildered and not very enthusiastic new members, I listened with interest to the history of the reactivated division. The outfit’s combat record of 1917-18, was recounted and extolled, with the Meuse-Argonne campaign and other historical milestones explained. The 81st Division was originally formed at Camp Jackson, near Columbia, South Carolina in August 1917. There, a stream passed through the camp called Wildcat Creek, hence the adoption of the name for the 81st ‘Wildcat’ Infantry Division.

The brief history of the Wildcats was received with apathetic stares and shrugs from the men. At the time, not many of them much cared about the unit’s history. Personally, though, I found the review to be compelling. My father had often told me stories of his military years, both, in training and in combat overseas in France. I guess that’s why I had an interest in the saga of the early times of the old 81st Division Wildcats.

In the short time before Taps was sounded, cards were broken out for a quick game of poker. Mike Byzek, the shark of the recruits, had taken a few dollars from everyone in the barracks by the time the lights were turned off.

We had a couple of good tenors and a few beer-barrel baritones in our barracks, so, after lights out, but before surrendering completely to sleep that night, we roared out a few lullabies performed in excellent barbershop harmony. Our repertoire included such favorites as My Wild Irish Rose, By the Light of the Old Silvery Moon and Let Me Call You Sweetheart. Finally, a three-striper opened the squad-room door and bellowed, Shaddup! We promptly did.

A sergeant taught us the principles of close-order drill the next morning. Orders came at 0900 hours to pack our barrack bags and get ready to move to our permanent outfits. Byzek and I were sent to Company M of the Division. It took all afternoon to get organized for the move. As we marched to our new barracks, it rained sideways, soaking us to the skin. Upon arrival at our new area, we found our barrack bags, which had been carried on truck-beds, unprotected from the rain, then piled up in a swirling, red, foot-deep mud-puddle. Most of our clothes were sopped, and we had a swell time trying to dry everything inside the barracks, where the walls were covered with olive-drab and white after the guys hung up their wrinkled clothing to drip-dry. In the middle of that mess, we were ordered to attend more classification conferences with camp orientation officers. Whatever condition the clothes were in, wet, dry, or in between, they were hurriedly donned in time to be present at the lectures.

The sun rose in the morning in all its blazing glory. The summer in Alabama was as hot as a blast furnace, magnified by a haze of humidity. Drilling in those conditions can be lethal.

The Army immediately started us on a conditioning program, which was intended to begin the process of our transformation from raw recruits to seasoned infantrymen. I suspected that the task would take a considerable time given the various grades of condition and general disorder of some of the men.

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Lieutenant Butler hosted a lecture on military courtesy. We then were marched to an assembly hall for another lecture about venereal disease, recited by a medical officer.

In the afternoon that day, we marched about a mile to one of the post theaters, where training movies were shown on first aid, safeguarding of military secrets, personal