| DETOURS
ON A MISSION OF WAR
By: Robert V. Autry, Coxswain USN (Ret)
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This report presents the author’s experiences during WWII while a member of the U.S. Naval Fourth Beach Battalion in the European Theater and as a temporary member of ship’s company on the APA USS DAWSON in the Pacific area. He was a coxswain in the Navy who served from early December, 1942 to early February, 1945. He comes on the scene with a bosn’s whistle, requesting, “… permission to come aboard, Sir?” Early in 1943, coming from all points of the compass, enlisted men and officers (including doctors) began assembling at Amphibious Training Camps in the Norfolk area. There were a few “old salts” but most of the enlisted men were young and came straight from “boot camps” around the country. Most of the officers were “90-day wonders” with the exception of a few with naval backgrounds or experience in the Merchant Marine. With few exceptions, the doctors were fresh from medical school. Our group lived in tents around the drill field at Camp Bradford. Although the tents had stoves in them, we were cold. Many nights we were all awakened when these stoves caused fires. These harsh winter conditions during our amphibious training exercises made for confusion, but we survived to discover we were part of an updated version of the ancient art of amphibious warfare. Most of the time we didn’t know what was going on. We merely followed orders. The background for much of our activities was taken from U.S. Marines experiences, and we were the ones to discover improvements to modernize this amphibious warfare “state of the art.” Following this training, we were herded onto a darkened train, On our arrival at the Port of New York, we were immediately packed on board an old fruit line cruiser, the SS ARCADIA. It was far from elegant, but I suppose everything that would float was pressed into service.
Our convoy started out across the North Atlantic, which was not a
friendly piece of water during winter. I was raised along the coast in
Newport and in New England and had done some small boat sailing around
Rock Island, Nantucket, Long Island Sound and in this area. So I thought I
could weather the elements. But none of us were prepared for the stormy North Atlantic. I recall going out on deck and looking up and down at a wall of water. Most of the troops were sea-sick and we quickly learned that if you went to the rail to vomit, you better be on the lee side to avoid having it all come back in your face. To make it even worse, a lot of the guys had diarrhea. So it was as far from a Mediterranean pleasure-cruise as you can imagine. They had issued us meal cards, which we were supposed to have punched when we went through the chow line. Apparently this was because of the limited food supply the ship carried. I still have this card as part of my memorabilia kit and there are quite a few days that the card was not punched. And I have no doubt that this was the case with most of the passengers on board that vessel. After many of us developed our “sea legs,” they opened the PX, which created a stampede to get some “poggy-bait” (candy bars). These seemed to be the most digestible things on our diet at that time. I must admit, I fell in love with Clark Bars, which I still favor today. I probably ate about two dozen of them before I got off the ship. And I still like them, but can’t find them in most of the stores today. As we journeyed, the seas became calmer. I knew we were heading east when we went past the Straits of Gibraltar one night. We could see some lights on our port side and it sure was good to see some lights for a change. The next day we arrived near the Port of Oran where we were put on hold, until they could dock us. The harbor was full of ships, some docked, and others trying to get in and still others coming out. As we went toward Oran Harbor, we were directed to dock at Mers El Kibir. From the starboard side of the ship, there was a high point of land with a church on it. There was a cross or a statue on the top of it. The Oran Harbor was full of ships, some docked, others trying to get in, and still others coming out. As we approached the harbor, we were directed to dock at Mers el Kebir nearby. From the starboard side of the ship, there was a high point of land with a church on it and a cross or statue on the top of it. After we docked, we off-loaded into trucks and headed for Oran, which was on a hillside with mountains on the left. This was the first foreign city I had ever seen. As we rode up Rue d’Arzew, the buildings appeared to me to have a French influence mixed with Arabic. Heading east we soon arrived at the Port of Arzew, formerly a small French Defense Sea Plane base. On the hill overlooking the area was a French Foreign Legion Fort, and there was a Sea Bee construction camp near the port. The road, hidden by a headland, continued east toward Mostaganum. That night we slept in a field just west of Arzew. We were attached to a Combat Engineering Unit, and were treated us to meals in their field kitchen, which was a real treat, because we didn’t have any facilities ourselves. Then we began constructing little frameworks to put our tents over. The frameworks went into the ground, so we needed sandbags. We were busy doing a lot of work. Our nights were interrupted quite often by the German air raids. Although it wasn’t too bad, it was our first taste of enemy action. We learned to dig foxholes and slit trenches in a grape field across the highway from the bivouac area. The soil was dry and dusty…a red clay. As we walked through it, the air was filled with clouds of dust. It was hot work, and when we perspired, the dust would harden on our faces and hair and all over us. And when it rained, it was a terrible mess of red “gook.” My
tent mate was a chap from Keene, New Hampshire. Bob Doray was a nice kid
about 17 years old with a dry sense of humor. One night a “red alert”
awakened us. Half asleep, we grabbed our helmets and a little gear in our
arms and ran across the highway to that grape field, where we leaped into
this hole just as the Jerries came over the port dropping bombs. We just
sat there on our butts and watched the show, the flak going up from the
LSTs (Landing Ship Tanks) moored in the harbor. Then it started to rain. In fact it poured. That field turned into a quagmire. And there we sat with our butts in the mud. It was cold and we were miserable. It was so ridiculous Bob and I got to laughing, which was the only antidote for the misery we were going through. We survived, but it's still clear in my mind even today. I'll never forget it. Another time we had a “Yellow Alert.” It was just getting dark…at dusk, and we waited and waited. Then it turned into a “Red Alert” and everybody made a fast trip over to the trenches. When the “All Clear” sounded, we returned to the bivouac area. As we approached, we heard this howling and yelling…lots of commotion. We soon learned what the problem was. They used to dig deep trenches for the latrines, cover them with planks and surround them with sheets for privacy. They put roofs on them with burlap (to keep the flies away, I think). So when the latrine trench was filled to capacity, they’d dig another big hole, dismantle the sides and roof and move them to the new location. Then they’d cover the first trench. Apparently they had just made a new trench and were moving the frame for the sides and roof to the new latrine. The old hole was in the process of being covered when the alert sounded. Of course it had to happen. It was dusk when the alert sounded, and during the mad rush, someone apparently stumbled and tumbled right into the old latrine trench, which wasn’t quite covered yet. It wasn’t until the “All Clear” when we returned to the bivouac area that we heard this guy yelling for help. Let me tell you he was “soggy!” He was ripe! We threw him a rope, dragged him out, and practically dragged him down to the beach for a bath in the Mediterranean. At the time I wasn’t sure if it was a sailor or a soldier, because we all wore army fatigues, but later I heard a soldier being called “shit-face.” As you can imagine, it’s difficult to present a clear picture of those wartime experiences, and to anyone who hasn’t been involved, it would be somewhat like a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds…gun fire, small arms fire, the whistling of big stuff, like those 88s, or big projectiles falling from the sky, flak, and hearing and seeing night fire from ships off shore. And added to that was the smell of gun powder, diesel fuel and fear. One of the guys, when another asked to pray for him, replied, “Buddy, God has good ears. He will hear your prayers, too.” But how can we share our experiences with those who haven’t been there? And how can you measure bravery? Most of us were tired, hungry, wet, hot (or cold). We were heart sick, home sick, sometimes sea sick…just plain sick and tired. Often I think all of the boys who marched into manhood, many of whom marched from their young years straight into eternity. I wonder, were they braver, or just less fortunate that we were? Certainly we were all scared, but perhaps the true test of bravery is being scared and being able to cope with the crises at hand. And to stick to the resolve we made when we joined up, to see it through to the end, whether we thought we could do it or not. We were all in the same boat. You knew the guy next to you was going through the same thing that you were and had the same feelings that you were having. That created a strong bond, one that only this type of life can put together. And believe me, it is a strong bond, one only forged in warfare. This was my first-hand exposure to things in a foreign land and I wasn’t about to miss out on learning as much as I could. I first saw these North African cavalrymen in Algiers. These native African troops were very impressive.. I didn’t find out where they came from, but they were uniformly the darkest-skinned people I have ever seen. Their somewhat strange features were a shade of blue-black. Generally tall and lean, they were outstanding on their beautiful Arab horses. There were swirls of blue and white in the capes and uniforms they wore. It was something out of an Arabian Nights scene. The official headquarters of the French Foreign Legion was on a sound near Oran I expected to see a structure like one of our old forts in western United States, or perhaps one like was shown in an old silent movie starring Ronald Coleman, a solitary fort in the middle of some sand dunes. Their fort was in the center of town. It was walled in and the entrance had a beautiful wrought iron gate and monuments. The Legionaries were very military, and their barracks and grounds were very proper and neat. On several occasions we went up the hill to visit their fort overlooking our camp at Arzew and enjoyed “breaking bread” and drinking some wine with these interesting Legionaries. They were an amazing bunch…Italians English, French and Asians… characters from all parts of the world. We didn’t see any German Legionaries, and were informed that they had assigned their German members to stations away from any possible contact with Allied troops because of the hostilities. Another very interesting place we visited often was Oran. The Rue de Oran was the center of town and was the major downtown shopping center. I remember the Red Cross had taken over a building there to do its business. For the most part, to us enlisted people, their services were just as unattainable as visiting with the movie stars who came over as Red Cross personnel. Actually it was usually more interesting just to watch their activities from a safe distance. Other than going into town and getting wined up, there wasn’t a lot we could do to entertain ourselves. Mainly we visited Al’s Place, Joe’s Joint and the other numerous bars and cafes along the way. Once in a while, when the MPs weren’t so vigilant, we would visit off-limits areas near Mers el Kebir. Of course there were other stores along the way, like pawn shops, but we didn’t have anything to sell. Sometimes they collected a whole bunch of us from camp in a couple of trucks and took us to the base in Arzew to help unload ships. Because of the nature of the cargo, they didn’t trust the native dock workers. The whole base was under control by our military, because sabotage was not a thing that was out of question. It was something that could happen and sometimes did. Occasionally they needed only military people like us to help unload this type of cargo. Once in a while we were lucky to be called on to help unload a refrigerator ship, which often was loaded with fruits, vegetables and other perishables. When we were down in the hold, we had access to apples and oranges, delicious items we didn’t get ordinarily. And we filled our tanks with these delicious fruits while unloading the ship. Nobody complained either. In spite of the hard work, we enjoyed ourselves on these work trips. There was a side trip to the airport just south of Oran I remember well. The Allies had taken it over as an air base. It was the first time I had a real close look at a Thunderbird, a P-47. When I looked it over on the ground, with its massive engine nacelle, those stubby wings, and the stubby build of the body, I wondered how it could ever get off the ground. But when the pilots got in, started it up, taxied it out on the runway and took off, I was a believer. What an amazing display of power! I gained a greater respect for those fliers and our aircraft. The Oran port of Mers el Kebir was something to see. Getting a large ship, such as a transport, into the dockage area, required a harbor pilot, to avoid hitting the jetties on the starboard side that would damage the ship. When we were at the wharf, I remember looking over the side of the ship and seeing two or three large hammerhead sharks. They must have been twelve to fifteen feet long. The sight surprised me. I hadn’t known of sharks in the Mediterranean Sea. Mercy was it hot!
That day in July on the Sicilian beachhead was intolerably hot. It was
like a blanket over everything. The only activity was the landing
craft bringing in supplies to the shore. What a pile of ammunition,
gasoline, weapons and other material piling up on the beach! Watching a fly
crawling on the face of this young American soldier caught my
attention. This lad was just one of the many who lost their lives when
the flight of our 82nd airborne troops came over early July 11th,
1943. On this sweltering day, I couldn’t help but look at the body
of this young American soldier and wondered, “Whose husband, whose
son, whose friend, whose loved one? Who was this young man, and what a
loss to all those he leaves behind? His body was bloated, his
uniform stretched, his face a horrific greenish-white, swollen and
puffed. His hair was scalped from his head, like a mat from being
immersed in the water for several days. I was emotionally upset. It
brought to me and to all of us the grim reality of war. It was a
reminder of our blessing, that we still had life and limb. This tragedy happened on
the heels of a big enemy air raid of which we had many that day. There
was a huge pillar of smoke still lingering from the explosion and
destruction of the ship, Rowan. The gunners on our ships were
nervous. They had been at General Quarters many long, tiring hours and
fastened to their guns. So when more sounds of these airplanes drew
closer and closer, some guns cut loose. And when one gun cuts loose,
it’s as if it is a signal for others to start shooting too. And they
did! Explosions filled
the sky from horizon to horizon. We could see, from our vantage point
on the beach, many of these planes coming down in flames and crashing
into the sea. A few made it inland before crashing. For a week and a
half, we recovered drifting bodies from the sea. Using DUKWs and LCVPs,
we were picking them up and bringing them to shore for burial.
This is a
salute to all the guys in the battalion and to all GIs who went
through the same sort of rigors. Our soldiers and our sailors were
neither demons nor were they angels. Admittedly, there were some of
both! But the stress of war brings out the best and the worst of
humanity. However, I believe that my friends and comrades demonstrated
the best in that area, and I consider myself most fortunate and ever
grateful to my friends and comrades. To any young
people,
or non-veterans who may read this commentary, I have to state that
before WWII, America was quite a different place than it is now. We
weren’t sophisticated for the times we were in. Keep in mind, we
didn’t have TVs and weren’t as mobile as people are today. We
didn’t have interstate highways to the extent that they have now.
Life was at a slower pace.
Even we were very active
people, we didn’t have all the distractions that you have today, nor
the dependence on the so-called media. The average young American up
to that time hardly ever traveled more than a hundred miles from the
town where he was born. It may sound corny, but it was a fact of life.
Our knowledge of far
away places was pretty good, but I did know people at that time who
really thought Pearl Harbor was a movie actress. And the only thing
they knew about the world was a smattering of knowledge that they had
picked up studying geography, or perhaps ancient history, or even
reading a National Geographic in a barbershop. It wasn’t a matter of
being dumb…it was the “state of the art.” Probably there are a lot of young people around today who, in spite of all this information, continue to think Pearl Harbor is a movie actress. That is a matter to consider when reading this commentary. I’m trying to record these experiences as they happened to me, with my little background of the world. So bear with me. NO
BETTER PICTURE OF OUR PREDICAMENT could be found than by looking
off toward the sea, where could be seen smoking landing craft going
around in circles. Not too far off our beach, was one on fire. It was
running aimlessly around in circles with a guy hanging over the side.
Another one had just about sunk, with just the top of the bow still
showing above the water. NORTHWARD AS FAR AS YOU COULD SEE, there were other craft on fire. You could hear explosions and the continuing fire from the Germans. Looking further out to sea, we couldn’t see any ships---not even one of our ships. WE KNEW THEY HAD LAID OFF initially, maybe about ten miles. But it looked like they had backed off completely. Why didn’t the Germans drive right down and wipe us out? Steve Bilobran and me, we made a pact between the two of us that if the Germans did come, we would take as many as we could with us. We said a few prayers too. FINALLY
WE BEGAN TO SEE SHIPS ON THE HORIZON, small craft at first then
larger craft, and then still larger ships…but no transports. The
larger ships must have been the destroyers, Bristol, Edison, Ludlow
and the Woolsey, because shells started coming in our direction, some
of them landing at the water’s edge. We were under attack, both from
our own Navy and from the enemy, too. A couple of guys decided it was
time to leave. They “stripped to the buck” (i.e., shed their
clothes) and took off swimming toward the boats off shore. ANDY
ALARDY DASHED INTO THE WATER and had a go swimming to one of the
small crafts to help the injured if he could. And Phil Deshotels, the
pharmacist’s mate, in spite of the continuing enemy fire, did the
same thing. Heavy clothing was a drag.
THE FIRING FROM OUR SHIPS INCREASED, and since we had no
radio communication, we couldn’t tell them we were still on the
beach. But my good friend, the Sunbury flash, Fred Bingaman, with
makeshift semaphore flags (handkerchiefs) ran down to the water’s
edge when one of the larger craft seemed to be within sight of us, and
signaled them to raise their fire. APPARENTLY
BINGAMAN’S SIGNAL was picked up by a U.S. Coast Guard Scout boat
and relayed to the destroyers by Lt.(j.g.) Grady R. Calloway U.S.C.G.
It must have gotten their attention because their fire was raised and
they started hitting targets beyond the dunes. A couple of tanks were
hit. That raised our spirits. (Editor’s note: We tried
unsuccessfully to contact this Coast Guard Officer.) AT
THAT POINT we were trying to get the aerial up on our radio hoping
to get it operating. I don’t remember if they did, but Fred Bingaman
had saved the day for us. He saved our lives! ABOUT
A YEAR LATER HE WAS AWARDED THE SILVER STAR, which was recommended
by an Army Major in the 142nd Engineering group there on the beach
with us. When the recommendation was first presented to our Commander,
James E. Walsh, he dismissed it because, “Bingaman was only doing
what he was being paid to do.” Bingaman’s heroism was easy to
overlook, Walsh being far out to sea safe on a transport. ALARDI GOT A MEDAL TOO, I think, but I’m not sure if Deshotels’ heroism was recognized. They all deserved recognition. Johnny Johnston and I believe it was Deshotels who carried wounded Bob Doray up to Yellow Beach where a small craft took him out to the destroyer, USS Woolsey for emergency surgery. But Bob didn’t make it. SOON
AFTER OUR NAVY STOPPED SHOOTING AT US, we received word that Blue
Beach was being abandoned and we were moving up to Yellow Beach. Harry
Krumpolz and another radioman asked me to carry the radio (PBX). THERE
WERE SOME SOLDIERS checking for mines around the area, and we
realized that was the reason why those German tanks couldn’t come
right down on the beach and wipe us out.
WE WERE TREADING VERY CAREFULLY, and watching all vehicular
movement. Just then a Jeep came around the dunes with a driver and an
officer up front with a stretcher across back with Sgt. Joe Almada on
it. His head was all wrapped and he appeared to be semi-conscious. One
of the soldiers checking for mines warned the officer not to drive the
Jeep through that area until they had checked it for mines and cleared
it. “I’LL TAKE THE RESPONSIBILITY, Soldier. I’ve got to get this injured man off the beach!” the officer told the soldier. And of course the soldier replied, “Yes, Sir.” Several of us heard this conversation. ALMOST IMMEDIATELY THERE WAS A BIG FLASH and a huge blast, when the Jeep started moving. I was knocked into the air from the terrific shock. It was terribly loud and hot. I was flipped over backwards with the radio and landed on top of the dune. Everybody
around the area was knocked flat. I don’t know then how many were
killed and hurt, because I couldn’t even see. The details of this
tragedy were told to me later after I had collected my wits. MY
WHOLE BODY FELT HOT and I could feel this terrible stinging in my
face. I was shaking all over. Suddenly I felt this cold water on my
face and in my eyes. Someone was pouring a canteen of water in my
eyes. When I finally recognized him, it was Elmer Johnston. I told
him, “I’m alright, I’m alright, I’m alright.” He said,
”Okay, Lucky.” He was a real medic. THE
JEEP WAS TOTALLY DESTROYED! When finally my eyes could focus, I
could see that it was literally in pieces all over the beach. Some of
the wheels were off and it was on its top. The driver was blown off to
the left and was in the future world. He didn’t appear to have
anything broken. The officer had the top of his head taken off. BEHIND
THE JEEP there was the lower part of a body, from the belt on
down. The legs were straight together, the pants looked like they were
pressed, the belt was buckled but there was no top. That was the last
I saw of Sgt. Almada. THERE
WAS AN INTENSE SILENCE! There was no hollering…no panic. I guess
everybody was numb…in shock from the gruesome morning’s events.
Everything was real strange, like a slow motion dream situation. I
took the radio and carefully moved up to Yellow Beach, as did most of
the other guys. I believe that Joe’s remains were buried at Mt.
Soprano in the American military cemetery. I learned later that my
tent mate, Bob Doray, had died on the makeshift operating table in the
ward room of the destroyer, USS WOOLSEY. He may have been buried up
there in that military cemetery too. WE WEREN’T EASILY RUFFLED with anything else that happened during the Salerno invasion. That was our “baptism of fire.” I’d like to know more details about some of the other gruesome things that took place at this time. CONDITIONS
ON YELLOW BEACH were much better than they had been on Blue Beach.
But we were under periodic heavy machinegun fire from the Torre di
Paestun, a 50 foot stone watch tower. All along the beach guys were
being hit with the machine gun fire. We had a tough time getting
ourselves together, much less getting some of our tanks onto the
beach. Finally one of the 141st Engineer’s 105mm howitzer
guns knocked the top of the tower right off. Then things quieted down
a bit and between air raids we began getting our assignments done. When the Sicilian
beach was secured, we returned to our rest area in Arzew, North
Africa, and discovered we were now elevated from pup tents to much
more comfortable large pyramidal tents and could sleep on cots instead
of on the ground. Almost immediately training for another invasion
began, hikes and landing on empty beaches, only interrupted in the
evenings with old movies and lectures. Most of us skipped the shows
and wrote letters home or played checkers or chess, or just slept.
TO GET THE FULL REALIZATION OF WAR, a person has to experience it. I often think of all the boys who marched from young boyhood straight into manhood in combat. Also, there were those who marched from their young years straight into eternity. Were these latter braver, or just less fortunate? Certainly we were all scared, but I guess the true test of bravery is being scared and yet being able to cope with the crisis at hand, no matter what the out come. MOST OF US WERE TIRED, HUNGRY, WET. HOT OR COLD! We were heart sick, home sick, sea sick…just plain sick and tired! But you knew that the guy next to you was going through the same thing that you were and had the same feelings that you had. So that created a strong bond, which only this type of life can put together, and believe me, it is a strong bond. It is a bond that is forged only in this type of combat. ON THE BRIGHTER SIDE, let me tell you about “Our Walk in the Sun,” Beach Battalion style. We took full advantage of a lull in the fighting, and a group of us decided it was time to go on a foraging expedition Our idea was to plunder some goodies, like fresh produce, such as fruit or vegetables…anything from the hillsides. AS I SAID, THE BEACH WASN’T FULLY SECURE YET. I don’t think the British General Montgomery, with his troops coming up from the toe of the boot of Italy, was too far away. But there was evidence that he was getting close. We could hear some heavy stuff in the distance. SO WE TOOK OFF. We could see inland across the
fields. In the background, there were a couple of mountains, which
we knew little about from the terrain map we had. One of the
mountains was marked Mt. Soprano, and I found out later that this
hill was all of about 5,000 feet high. Leaving the sandy beach, we
headed across the fields, following small aqueducts, which led back
toward the mountains. WE ENTERED THE PLACE, which appeared to be a typical Italian town with a standard town square. There was a church on one side and a major house on the other. We walked into this square but stopped real quick when we saw across the square this hard looking bunch of guys. THEY WORE UNIFORMS AND HELMETS and were well armed. We considered retreating before we got into trouble. We were relieved to see that some of them had America flags on their shoulders. So, as we cautiously approached them, they came across the square and met us in the middle. They were a bunch of Airborne Troops who were surprised to see sailors this far inland. After sharing some scuttlebutt (and cigarettes), they advised us not to go any further through town, because there were some Jerries on the other side of this rise. We took their advice and didn’t go any further. HOWEVER, WE DIDN’T LEAVE right away and instead began visiting with the natives, young kids and older people, who came out of the woodwork to visit with us. Their clothes were in tatters and they were suffering from the war. But we were still in hopes of getting some plunder to take back to the beach. THIS ONE GUY, Timothy John, was quite a character. He appointed himself spokesman for the group. He said he had relatives in Brooklyn and Philadelphia. He had an old box camera, the ancient type with a cloth you had to put over your head, which had something to do with exposing the photographic plates. IF MY MEMORY SERVES ME, the guys who made up our “Adventure Team” were Wally Bayne, Walt Komasinski, Harry Krumpolz, Walt Butter, John Cassidy, Tony Pulvirenti, Steve Bilobran, Ted (Somebody) and myself. I’ll see if I can find a couple of those old prints, to be sure. To the best of my knowledge, Wally Bayne, Fred Antous and myself are the only ones still “hanging in there.” All the others have “shipped out.” WELL, WE HAD A BALL, trading with those Italians, especially cigarettes. We did collect some funny looking tomatoes, some melons and some greens. They were good to us, and we gave the kids some candy and things like that. I must tell you about this one character whose specialty was pocket watches. IT WAS ENJOYABLE bargaining with him. I guess my greed got the best of me, or my Scotch ancestry came on too strong. I dug up a 100 lyre note (about a buck) to purchase a fine Swiss watch. It pleased him, and I was happy with the deal. I showed this great Swiss watch around to the guys that I had bought for only a $1.00. Then Walt Butter says, “Let me see that watch.” SO HE TAKES IT, opens it up and makes the crack, “So you’re a slick trader are you? Did you ever hear the expression, ‘Caviar encore’ (let the buyer beware)?” So I asked him, “What are you talking about?” He handed it back to me and showed me what it said inside. “Made in Newark NJ.” So I learned about the slick Italian hand! I looked around for him, but he had left the scene. Anyway, I figured the deal was worth the experience. THEN WE COULD HEAR that something was going on down on the beach and could see planes going over and hear bombs exploding. It was time for us to hustle back to the beach in a hurry. And believe me, we did get back fast. That was “Our Walk in the Sun” and I won’t forget it. WHEN THE BEACH WAS “SECURE,” we sailed back to Arzeu, North Africa, and discovered our living quarters were no longer tents but vastly improved Quonset Huts. AFTER SLEEPING ON THE GROUND for so long, this was a real step upwards. This was all new construction. Each Quonset Hut, with double bunks with spring panels on them, would accommodate a platoon. By our GI standards, with our bed rolls on the springs, we were living in luxury for a change. PART OF THE RELAXATION PROGRAM for us were the movies that were always being shown in the all-purpose auditorium they had built, which was a much larger Quonset Hut. I remember during the holiday season they showed a movie, The Princess and the Bell Boy” which stared Robert Walker and (drop dead) gorgeous Hedy Lamar. If anyone is not familiar with Hedy Lamar, she was one of the most beautiful women of her day, even by today’s standards. She took our minds completely off the war! FOLLOWING THE MOVIE, we returned to our hut, where we continued discussing the beauty of Hedy Lamar. After a while, sleep caught up with most of us, and silence reigned. This peacefulness was suddenly interrupted with a loud voice, “Hey, Soskovich!”“What’sa you want?” “Are you a big Hedy Lamar fan?” After the talk that followed, I never enjoyed another Hedy Lamar movie. SOME “ADVENTURES” of those war-days stand
out strong in our memories, which we’d prefer to remember rather
than the war’s gory scenes. Certainly exploring the coast of
Italy comes to mind, among those pleasant experiences not soon
forgotten. Starting up from Agropoli, there were 25 miles of sandy
beaches, which ended at the small port facility at Salerno.
Continuing around the Gulf of Salerno past Amalfi, and going along
the coast to very rocky and picturesque Sorrento, were many
beautiful grottos that cannot be described fully here. You’d
have to see them. AFTER THE SALERNO INVASION, we returned to our
Quonset-hut City in Arzeu, North Africa, for some needed R&R.
Then our bunch left Africa, returning to Salerno, and lived right
in the center of town at one of Musselini’s stadiums. It was
probably a football arena. There was a complex of concrete stands,
which had been built up around the standard size football field
with a track perimeter. THE WHOLE CAMP WAS SURROUNDED by high wire fence
put up by our military forces. I wonder whether it was to keep us
in or to keep the civilians out. Inside the perimeter the whole
battalion lived in large pyramid tents and I believe there was a
group of six or eight MCDU men, also. That was the first time I
had heard of them. I wondered why they were with us, because we
had our own underwater demolition crews. Another case of Admiral
Hewitt not knowing where to hide them, I suppose.
LIVING IN SALERNO WAS QUITE INTERESTING, mainly
because we had lots of liberties to explore the countryside, go up
to Naples, sail over to the Isle of Capri, or simply take in the
whole countryside and the beautiful coastline. We discovered we
could rent little rowboats in Salerno. They were lightweight,
canoe-shaped, came with oars just like a regular rowboat, and were
fast and easy to manage. BESIDES THE GROTTO out on the Isle of Capri, in
our adventuring we discovered caves and grottos along the rocky
coast up from Salerno. There were beaches inside them, and they
were illuminated by the light in the water. They were beautiful.
We also discovered how to get a basket of “goodies” (salami,
cheese, bread, fruit, wine) and an afternoon picnic with some
eager Italian lass. Pulling the boat up on the beach after
reaching one of those beautiful grottos, and enjoying a picnic was
a real treat, even though I drank too much wine. But later you
paid dearly for the enjoyment, because of the all the sand fleas
you inherited. WE ALSO VISITED AMALFI, which
lives up to all its post cards. It is one of the most picturesque
places you can imagine. You come up from the beach right into the
town square (sort of like a story book) surrounded by rocky
cliffs. Sorrento was quite similar. A LITTLE FURTHER UP THE COAST were the ruins of
Pompei, which we attempted to visit many times. However, each time
we were met by a guy wearing a black suit, sporting a Windsor type
black tie, and a pork pie hat. He always spoke of his cousin,
Jimmie Fields, and his many other relatives in Brooklyn, NY. “HEY, YOU LIKE’A BOAT RIDE?” That’s how
he usually greeted us. “How ‘bout pork chop spaghetti dinner,
pretty girl, and lot’sa nice wine? Very good, you like?” Well,
it did sound good to us, so we went along with this guy. He took
us up the hillside above Pompei on the slopes of Mt Vesuvius.
There was nothing between us and the top of the mountain but this
old villa. IT HAD A POOR, RUN-DOWN APPEARANCE, although it may
well have been splendid in its day. There was a veranda around
back and a grape arbor. A family was living there, and we were
treated to that pork chop and spaghetti dinner with lots of wine
and danced with several pretty girls. We were a happy bunch, Leo
Abraham, Wally Bayne, Freddie Antous, maybe Bob Attanasio, too,
and myself. YEARS LATER THERE WAS A MOVIE on TV staring Ingrid
Bergman and George Sanders which turned out to be a flop! I had
taken some pictures of the villa and, sure enough, the site for
the movie was the same villa where we had dined and wined. Gee,
it’s a small world. That was one movie that fell flat, and, as I
recall, it quickly disappeared from the scene. Anyway, it took us
three wonderful trips into that villa before we finally saw the
ruins of Pompeii. ON OUR VISIT TO NAPLES, the kids would
come up singing operatic arias, in good voice, too. And when you
rewarded them with a couple of lyre, they wouldn’t leave you
alone, following you through the streets, singing many songs. It
was a fun trip for us, and we learned everybody in Naples could
sing. Also, we learned to keep a firm grip on our wallets. But we
did enjoy several trips to Naples. THE HARBOR IN NAPLES was the target of a lot of
German air raids. Lying in our sacks at night in Salerno, we could
hear the bombing in the distance, and occasionally even see
flashes in the sky up north. Apparently we were only Beach
Battalion people and were safe in Salerno. We lived there for many
months, and became acquainted with many of the civilians. They
even did our laundry for us. Near our camp was one of
Mussellini’s apartment complexes, and we managed to spend many
of our nights visiting. Some of us were accused of spending more
of our bunk time outside the camp than in it. All in all, it was a
very friendly town. LATER ON WE MOVED south, maybe fifteen miles
from Salerno, into an olive grove and slept on the ground in pup
tents again. After life in Salerno, I suppose we had that coming!
But it wasn’t too far from the Gulf of Salerno, part of the
Mediterranean, where we could take a dip. We began doing intense
military maneuvers with different military groups, apparently in
preparation for another invasion, and we suspected it would be
Southern France. These included some “mock invasion runs” on
nearby beaches. BEFORE WE MOVED AGAIN up north of Naples for
continuing training for the invasion, we did manage to do some
interesting things for entertainment. Somebody got hold of a Jeep,
so three of us decided to take a little ride. I don’t remember
who was driving, but the suggestion “Let’s head north,” met
with everyone’s approval. WE WENT UP THROUGH CASERTO (maybe 10 miles north of Naples), then past Cassino (another 35 miles) and kept going and going. In the excitement, I guess we simply forgot that there was a war going on. Sure, we always took our arms, helmet and full gear, but this was an adventure that intoxicated us. So we kept going and going up this road which became more and more scenic as we got higher and higher. CONTINUING UP THIS ROAD we came to mountainous country and at one point (probably about 90 miles north of Naples) we noticed, off to our left in a valley, a beautiful, unbelievably blue lake (Lake Albano). I read an article about it later, which said they had discovered an ancient Roman galleon in it. How it got there is quite a mystery, but apparently the lake had been a pleasure spot for the Roman emperors in ancient times. EVERY TIME I HEAR one of my favorite pieces of music, “The Pines of Rome” by Ottorino Respighi, it reminds me of this wonderful trip. The music was the kind with a beat that builds up in intensity, giving you the impression of mounting tension as it gets higher and higher. This is what it felt like going up this grade, and finally reaching the crest overlooking the eternal City of Rome. OUR FIRST IMPRESSION OF ROME from the crest of the hill in the Jeep was of a vast city, spread out like a cinematic sweep in the distance and all lit up in the late afternoon sun.The gold cupolas of churches and cathedrals were brilliant, especially St Peter’s, the largest of them all. The scene was like Sangre de Christos. It caught your breath. Listening to that piece of music, “The Pines of Rome” by Ottorino Respighi, I can still see, in my minds eye, the very unforgettable picture of Rome that afternoon. CONTINUING DOWN THE SLOPE, we came to the historic Appian Way, lined with Cypress trees. We kept going and going. There were scarcely any people as we made our way deeper into Rome. We passed the Roman Coliseum on our right. Farther along we passed by the Monument to Emanuel, where we turned right and drove up to the Spanish Steps. Here we crossed a bridge and immediately noticed people in the streets for a change.
THIS PART OF TOWN looked “up-scale.” It
hadn’t been damaged like some of the other parts we had passed
with many sections nothing but piles of brick and rubble. This
area looked pretty ritzy. I saw a sign, “Stop off, and see
if we can get you some wine.” So we stopped! The place had
a beaded doorway going into it. Looking through the glass you
could see people in the back. As we walked in, we discovered
quite a few people. They were very well dressed, quite upscale
for wartime. ONE GENTLEMAN was dressed in a tuxedo with a
white a shirt and a black jacket. But we immediately discovered
there was a language barrier. These guests were all speaking
German! We, apparently, had stumbled into a section that was
still in German control. We got the sweats! Here we were, babes
in arms, so to speak. So, what should we do? Somebody there
directed us to park our Jeep out of sight in the alley out back,
and join the festivities. Was that an order? THIS SITUATION WAS UNNERVING, and it didn’t seem that we had much of a choice. So we followed their suggestion with the Jeep and sat down at a table. They served us some bread and wine and some tasty pastry, and I must admit, we did enjoy ourselves. But we sure did smoke a lot of cigarettes. After a while, though, we quietly got our butts in gear and slipped out of there, and hustled back south to our camp. I’ll always remember that place, though, as the “pines of wealth!” YOU’D EXPECT we’d have officers like those
shown on the recruitment posters, dashing, square-shouldered,
like you’d see on a bond drive. One of our officers was a
young man of average height, kind of stooped and perhaps a
little sallow. He was somewhat uncertain of his position among
us scallywags under his command. HIS UNEASINESS WOULD BE REVEALED when his voice
would crack as he addressed us and he would often defer to his 1st
class Boatswains Mate, Ray Czuprynski, who was a bit awkward
himself. Ray wasn’t the “Popeye, the sailor” type but was
a rather low-key, San Francisco guy, an easy going person whom
we held in high esteem. ENSIGN STANLEY LINTON was quite a person.
Obviously he was out of his element and was acutely aware of it.
Most of the guys in our platoon were experienced….street wise.
Some were married and had jobs. Some were tradesmen who worked
in the world. We guessed that Mr. Linton was the product of a Prep-school,
had gone through R.O.T.C., and now this mantle of authority was
thrust on him. He was doing his best to cope with it and was
getting passing grades. He learned about us and learned from us,
and we learned from him. HE ATE THE SAME FOOD and went through the same
rigors, the same fire, and experiences we went going through.
And he showed courage, which made us look to him for leadership.
Even though he maintained his position as an officer and a
gentleman, yet he enjoyed a relationship with us as “one of
the guys “. SOMEHOW YOU CAN’T HELP but look back and analyze the people you were in contact with….Jews, Catholics, Protestants…from all walks of life. Some people were like me, who dropped out of school to work in a defense plant. Others were in college and left for the service. Still others were married men who were trying to earn a living and got caught in the draft. They had to leave their wives and families and trades to apply their talents to this new task at hand. THERE WAS SOMETHING we all had in common. All of us were young men who had grown up in the 20s and 30s through a depression, which gave us an appreciation for the basic facts of life and for the things that really mattered. This background gave the majority of us a sense of purpose in this war and in life. I do look back and talk to some of the guys still around, and my thought is, “What a great bunch of guys!”
THAT AREA AROUND ORAN, North Africa, was quite
miserable. Someone wrote, ”The heat, dust,
chlorinated drinking
water, dysentery and rock-hard ground are still strong memories. Flies got into everything. The
pleasurable moments were occasional trips to Oran, Mostaganem
and other coastal towns of Algeria. You had to make the best of it!” THE MAJORITY OF THEM were Sicilian, rather short and of good humor. We used them at the base in mess hall area. There were about a dozen of them and
we played soccer against them (and always lost!). There was one guy, about my age, who is now telling his grandchildren about his experiences with us. THESE GUYS WERE ALWAYS SINGING and enjoyed hearing each other sing. Sometimes they would put the potatoes in this drum and begin singing, paying more attention to tone qualities than to the potatoes. The result was that a decent-size potato would too often come out looking like a pea. They sure did ruin quite a few potatoes. I taught them to do the “Chattanooga Choo Choo” and other songs like that. WHEN THEY GOT GOING it was like a convention of “Cheeko” marches. It was hilarious. We never had a dull day working with those guys. They were good workers, swabbing the decks and cleaning out the pots. The cooks working in there didn’t have to do much of anything except cook. These guys had no spirit for war and were perfectly happy doing what they were doing. The only thing that would have made them any happier would have been being home with their families. PERHAPS YOU HAVE HEARD the story about one of the guys going on liberty with us. Obando was quite a little character. He missed his girls and he missed his wine and told us he would like a lady and some wine. Well, a couple of us, very surreptitiously, with Harry Dackerman aiding and abetting (who was pretty small himself), loaned us one of his uniforms. We cut this little guy’s hair, polished him up, dressed him in Harry Dackerman’s uniform, and coached him, as best we could. WE TOLD HIM to keep his mouth shut! Don’t speak any Italian! Well, we got out the gate in flying colors and got on the liberty truck and went to Oran. We took good care of him, arranged to get him wined and dined and a lady. We enjoyed the whole thing and he enjoyed himself to the fullest. Believe me, he was the envy of all his buddies when he told them of his good fortune. Somewhere in Sicily, Obando is telling his grandchildren about his “cappo Obando” It was a ball! SEVERAL YEARS AGO, my association with the 4th Beach Battalion was renewed when I received a roster from Jim Townley and learned that there were quite a few survivors and several from C-9, Freddy Antous, Fred Bingaman and Bud Rose. We had been a close bunch, so I gave it a shot. First I called Fred Bingaman’s number and told him who I was and asked if he remembered me? “AREN’T YOU THE GUY who played the drums on the Arcadia when we crossed the Atlantic?” I couldn’t help but laugh, because I had all but forgotten that incident. But it stimulated my memory. I’ll call it jazz on the Arcadia, in spite of the rough crossing, sea sickness and tight quarters. But the trip was made easier with the Chaplain, who was an entertainer on that old tub. . THE CHAPLAIN WAS TALKING about getting some musicians together to play some music to entertain the passengers, and I happened to be in the area. So we gathered around and asked him what kind of instruments he had. He told us he had a upright piano, with a few keys missing, and a fiddle (a bass fiddle) but, “We don’t have a bow for it. We have a trombone, and we may have a trumpet and, I’m not quite sure, but maybe a set of trap drums.” SO I PIPED UP and said I would like a shot at percussion. And, just like out of a grade B movie, guys appeared out of the woodwork, who could play the piano, a trombone, and the base fiddle. But there were no takers to play the trumpet. We decided to go ahead anyway. Then the Chaplain asked the 64-dollar question. “Do you chaps read music?” Out of the group, only one did and that was the piano player. NEVERTHELESS, WE DISCOVERED one thing. We all had a liking for jazz. and Dixieland. So we sat down and when someone picked up something; it was amazing. We all fell together to our own amazement. It was a quartet made in heaven, even though it sounded as if it came from below! But nobody complained. We were 1st class entertainers on that old rusting boat, for the ship’s crew, the troops, our 4th BB guys, and all the passengers. Everybody who could squeeze in that area enjoyed us as if we were a 1st class philharmonic. AS I WAS PLAYING AWAY on the drums, I cracked the head on a bad rib shot of the snare drum and the Chaplain exploded! I realized the rarity of musical instruments in an environment like this, in the middle of the Atlantic, aboard a old rusting tub like the Arcadia, and especially parts to repair a set of snare drums like this. THERE I WAS at the very bottom of his list of special people, and I deserved the few choice expletives I received. Under the circumstances, I forgave him. That put a damper on the musical discourse, and a lot of guys were understandably disgruntled. I couldn’t blame them. We had a good thing going, the place was “jumping!” FEELING CONTRITE, I did some hunting, and found some pieces of leather one of the crew-members had, along with some tough glue. I fashioned a patch for the drum, inverted the bottom of the hide for the top, and the drum was repaired. And this incident is what Fred Bingaman remembered. Maybe others do too. IT WAS ABOUT THIS TIME we
got our new second-in-command, Ensign R. M. FAIRBANKS. He
was a young officer, always in a perpetual state of a
dither. He would break into a silly grin for any reason.
Actually he was a nice guy, although obviously very
uncomfortable with the men, not at all used to his role as
commanding officer.
SOME OF YOU MAY recall that time we
commandeered a DUKW from the engineers and took a trip out
to the ships at anchor with some “goodies” (souvenirs
and booty) to barter. My friend, J. J. Burns, from Batavia,
NY, was with us, and wherever he was, there was always a
riot. This young Ensign was with us hooligans. We were in a
sad state of nonconformity, wearing uniforms of a dozen
different nations (we could have been shot as German
spies!), and offering verbal abuse to anyone who would
attempt to stop us.
WE HEADED OUR DUKW toward one of the
ships and as we approached the ladder, there was some
obscenities shouted back and forth between the ship’s crew
and our motley bunch. We let it be known that we had a lot
of “booty” to trade, for such things as unwanted food,
wearing apparel, and if there happened to be any extra
ship’s alcohol, which was a nice commodity to have (for
medicinal purposes, of course!).
THE SHIP’S EXECUTIVE OFFICER gave permission
for our young officer to come aboard, and come up to the
quarterdeck. So up the ladder he went, dying all the way,
because of our deportment. As he ascended, the encouragement
from us made this young officer’s head turn red as a beet
and go down into his collar. Reaching the top of the ladder,
he saluted the flag, then the Officer of the Deck. We could
see and hear that the Officer of the Deck was giving our
Ensign a grand reaming out. AT THAT POINT, J. J. Burns shouted loudly from the rear of the DUKW, “Open your mouth, Mr. Fairbanks. Don’t let him crap on you!” With that outburst, you could see our officer dying on his feet up there. Fortunately, this O.D. wasn’t such a bad guy and realized the embarrassment our officer was suffering. He broke out laughing, and gave some of us permission to come aboard to complete our bartering. However, I don’t think Ensign R. M. Fairbanks ever recovered from that. There is a photo of him in the Oceanside Beach Battalion book that was issued to us just before we left there. R. M. Fairbanks, that’s the man. God bless him. IN RETROSPECT, you have to look at it that he was just like the rest of us, a young American, torn away from his civilian environment and thrown into this cauldron that was war and no time for niceties.
WE HAD TO LEARN our skills rapidly, or perish
rapidly! Looking back, it was a great experience. The days
were full and the memories of a lot of great personalities
always flash back before me. If I got anything out of WWII,
it was memories of those relationships. Up to that time, we
were very conscious of legal differences, practices, food
preferences, and manners of speaking. I was a New Englander,
and was to learn the various “language-drawls” of people
from Tennessee, Oklahoma, Texas, the influence of French on
those from Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont.
HOW DIFFERENT were the accents from the
Midwest guys, from the Brooklyn accents and those of the
Cajon areas. Most had different type names and even
different pronunciations. But we learned what they meant. A
lot of us never heard of some of the foods they talked
about. It was amazing to me to hear some guys talk about
some of the Navy food. “What is that? Ain’t you got no
grits?” I didn’t know what grits were, nor did I know
what “haime.” Someone said “ham.”
AFTER THE WAR, I guess we became even more
homogenized. Although everything seems to be out of the same
pot, it’s lost some of it rich color. I do miss some of
the idioms, like that guy, Bill Butter, an electrician’s
mate from Florida, who used some expressions like,
“shivering like a cat passing a peach pit.” I miss the
Texas “twang” or someone’s accent from Idaho. To hear
that again, you have to go to the boondocks of their
country.
DURING THIS PERIOD, many areas of North
Africa, Sicily and Southern Italy were ripe with all kinds
of diseases that were very dangerous to us Americans and the
Allies who weren’t used to them, or had no immunity like a
lot of the local people had. Particularly in North Africa,
we saw a lot
of leprosy, typhus, elephantiasis, and venereal diseases
that were unknown to us Westerners. In Sicily cholera
often would break out.
WITH THE SHORTAGE of water, we drank our water
from those Lister bags. It was treated, wasn’t very tasty,
but it was safe. We didn’t dare eat any local produce
without great risk of contracting something, because
everything was fertilized with human excrement. You really
had to toe the line, especially as far as eating native
food. Coming back to Africa on an LST, I remember another
ship coming alongside of us, with some of our buddies at the
rail, who were brilliant yellow. They were taking Atabrine,
which was intended to protect us from malaria. ONE OF THE GUYS who came down with malaria was a young Mexican-American by the name of Gilbert Mora. He was a real nice, short, jolly guy. With his condition, they shipped him out. “Well, boy, you’ll never see this type of climate again.” However, in the Pacific theatre (possibly a year later), the war was finally over. There I was, laying on my bunk in the Naval hospital on Saipan, recuperating from a leg injury. GETTING ACQUAINTED with my surrounding, I happened to look down the row of patients and there about six bunks away was a familiar yellow face. Sure enough, it was Gilbert Mora. It makes you wonder why medical men don’t get together. Why had he had been shipped out to the Pacific for more exposure to malaria. His was a bad case. However, in spite of our conditions, we managed to have a real nice reunion. It’s a small world, isn’t ? MAY I MAKE A SUGGESTION? You veterans who went through the war would be well advised to record your experiences. Write your story out before it is told by someone else who never walked in your boots! It’s easy, once you get started on it. Don’t skip the details. |
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