Dem
47
GOP
53
On Fridays, we do collections of shorter reminiscences:
E.B. in Freeport, ME: My Uncle Jack, born and raised in Oxford County, ME, served in the Army in the European Theater during World War II. I learned his story from his son, my cousin. He began his service in the Eighth Air Force, repairing the cameras used in reconnaissance photography. Important work with little risk of harm. However, when a buddy was slated for transfer to the infantry, Uncle Jack volunteered to take his place, since his buddy was married with children and he was not. He later described this as the stupidest decision he ever made. He ended up a corporal in George Patton's Third Army and saw action in the Battle of the Bulge after Patton famously rushed his troops to Bastogne in Belgium to relieve the surrounded 101st Airborne (some of whom apparently said that they didn't need the help!). Uncle Jack did not openly talk about combat, but some of his six children pieced together bits of that story, including that he once woke up in his foxhole with his feet frozen in ice, and later witnessed a buddy get his head blown off. He was also hit with a grazing wound in the buttocks but refused the Purple Heart since he had seen others suffer so much worse.
One story he was quite willing to talk about involved his actions after V-E day. He found himself in Paris and heard that the Glenn Miller Orchestra was looking for a stand-in drummer since their usual drummer wanted time off to spend with his wife who had arrived in the city. The Orchestra, sans its namesake leader—who was lost over the English Channel in December 1944 when his plane went missing—held auditions. Uncle Jack was chosen over two other drummers and played three gigs with the band in the ballroom of an opulent Parisian hotel, to large celebratory crowds. He more than held his own, and the full-time members showed their appreciation by giving him a standing ovation at the end of the show. Upon his return stateside, he likely could have been a professional drummer, but chose a remunerative profession instead so he could put food on the table for my six cousins. I knew him as a kind, soft-spoken man with an easy smile.
K.S. in Harrisburg, PA: I'd like to talk about a non-military person; my mother. Joan was born in England and was in her late teens during World War II. Her father was career army and when the "Yanks" came over, her father's job was to assist them in setting up their bases. This meant my mother's family lived near an American air base. When the Americans had dances, they would send a troop carrier into town to pick up the young ladies who wished to go to the dance. At the end of the evening, some of the Americans would take them into the pantry and send them back home loaded down with tins of food, making it more likely that the girls' severely rationed parents would be open to allowing their daughters to return. One of the airmen was my father and after several dates, he proposed and they were married on 1-23-45 (my father was an accountant and loved numbers).
Hearing these stories, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the British soldiers. They had been fighting for 3 years before the Americans joined the fray, suffered a major loss and near disaster at Dunkirk, and now had these Americans ("overpaid, oversexed, and over here") to deal with. My mother said even the American uniforms were a softer material; making snuggling during the slow dances more enjoyable.
Despite being close allies, not all of the Americans welcomed my mother with open arms. Many people knew a girl who had received a "Dear Jane" letter, due to the girl's intended falling in love with a British girl. My mother often heard, "So you stole one of our boys" said only half-jokingly. Joan, who had raised 5 children, 4 of them being boys, would reply, "Yes, but I gave back 4 in return."
F.L. in Federal Way, WA: I'm an American man who married a Russian woman in 1993. She had a delightful 10-year-old in tow. Two years later, just before we had our own daughter, her parents immigrated to the U.S. as refugees; Aaron was Jewish and an absolute gem of a man. I'll spare you what Russians say about their mothers-in-law, except to say that it's true.
The day after Germany declared war on Russia, Aaron had earned the equivalent of an MS in radio electronics. I was amazed to learn that he made a beeline to the recruitment office of the Red Army! Surely, a Jew would be sent to the eastern front as cannon fodder, and would be first in line to go over the proverbial top.
Yet, he was a good Jew and someone in the heavens recognized that. He was sent to the middle of Siberia for the rest of the war to work as a radar operator. He was more in danger of dying from the cold than a bullet. Despite being a Jew, he was also very popular, not only because he was a nice guy, but because he was a teetotaler. Soldiers were given the "Commissar's Ration" of 90cc of vodka per day. Aaron gave his share to his friends, asking nothing in return except, perhaps, the name of that tubby little Пухляш (Pukhlyash) in the corner.
He served 27 years and became a lieutenant colonel. They had four children, one being the woman who became my wife. It was a tempestuous marriage, but we separated amicably and I now live with my daughter, who is a quarter Ashkenazi.
L.C. in Amherst, MA: My grandfather was a 23-year-old bank teller when the U.S. entered the First World War. When he showed up at the recruiting center, it was mobbed. There were just two people trying to process at least a hundred men, almost all of whom were relatively uneducated country boys. The recruiting sergeant stood up and shouted, "Anybody in here read and write?" My grandfather raised his hand. The recruiting sergeant said, "You. You're a corporal. Come here."
My grandfather didn't go overseas. He served as a clerk in a military hospital in Georgia. He told me that young men came in sick with the measles and died like flies.
L.V.A. in Idaho Falls, ID: Growing up, I was often regaled by my father's tales of his and his older brother's roles in World War II. Now, bear in mind, that my father was a storyteller who often took embellishment to a new level, but based on what I've heard from other relatives, I hope I was able to "sort the wheat from the chaff."
My uncle Alfred, known as "Jack" and born in 1917, was a Navy Seal (prior to 1962 and during the War they were Scouts and Raiders and Underwater Demolition Teams that pioneered beach reconnaissance, obstacle clearing, and combat swimming). He was in the Pacific during World War II and much of his (dangerous) mission was to clear beaches and underwater approaches to beaches of explosives (before the wider use of SCUBA gear) the night before the landing occurred. Despite what movies portray, many times Marines had to wade ashore from the landing craft. On at least one occasion, they were told to clear the wrong beach. The subsequent landing was costly. My uncle received a Silver Star for his actions, which I've seen and had a profound effect on me as a teenager. He lived out his life in Long Beach with his wife Edythe and passed away in 1995.
Thanks to all of you. (Z)