The Admiral and the Lieutenant

     This tale had to do with both my ignorance and innocence, and how both traits can readily emerge when any of the armed services take a civilian and try to train him to be a soldier and, sometimes, an officer.

     As some of you may remember there were periods of time prior to the invasion when I would be away from the company for a few days, or perhaps a week.  During that time I, with several other officers from the regiment, would be engaged in planning the landing exercises that took place on the southern shores of England.  My job was entitled "Battalion Transport Quartermaster".  It was my duty, simply put, to see that you all were put aboard in the proper order, that you all had a place to sleep, that you were all fed properly, and that you were all unloaded according to the plan.

     All of this information had to be put down in the form of orders, and these orders would end up being bound together in booklets of a half-inch, or as much as an inch in thickness.  And, of course, this all had to be very thoroughly coordinated with the navy.  You will remember, I'm sure, our big ship, the Thomas Jefferson, and how good the food was, especially the ice cream we could get from her canteen.

     Suffice it to say that there were literally days and days of planning and coordinating prior to the exercises.  And, of when we got down to the planning for the invasion itself the multitude of details, orders, and changes was absolutely beyond belief.

    At any rate, just about a week before the invasion, and while we were all down on the south coast of England in one of those temporary camps, the various transport quartermasters were sent up to Scotland, where the big ships were kept out of harms way, with the final version of the orders, including all the last minute changes.  There were about four of us from our regiment and upon arrival in Scotland we were put on board a small launch and ferried way up the river to be distributed to our respective big ships; in my case the Thomas Jefferson, known as the APA 4, to represent the 2nd. Battalion.  Off in the distance was the U.S.S. Ancon, the Navy command ship for the entire Omaha Beach operation.  Aboard the Ancon was the naval Admiral in charge.

     Well, immediately upon arrival I went into conference with the various ships officers-about six of them-that were most directly concernced with our troops.  They were most anxious to see the final orders, with timetables, etc., so they could adjust their own plans.

     After about two hours work a seaman came into the office where we were working and handed a message to the senior naval officer, who, upon reading it, turned to me and said that the message was from the Ancon, informing us that the army officer who had gone to that shop had-poor man-brought not the new orders but the old ones, and would the navy deliver me and my copy of the orders to the Ancon.

     Now here's where the ignorance, innocence, and civilian-become-officer all enters the story.  Inasmuch as we, on the Thomas Jefferson, were just about finished with the last detail of our work I suggested that we complete our work and then I would take the orders to the Ancon, where they could use them as long as necessary.  That sounds logical, doesn't it?

     I do remember there were a few strange looks exchanged around the table but not a word was said to me.  In fact, nothing was said except to tell the messenger to send the message.  With that we proceeded with our work, only to be interrupted almost at once with a second message, which I remember in vivid detail and with great embarassment.  It said, " Send the army officer and orders at once!"  Signed: Admiral.

    The look on the navy officers face told me that the Admiral meant just what he said, that I had better get my ass into gear, and "Good-bye, pal, it was nice knowing you".

    So, into the launch once again and over to the Ancon, orders clutched in white knuckled fingers.  I was immediately taken to the officers where the work was going on, turned over the orders, did my best to be helpful, all the while wondering  how the hell I could have been so stupid as to suggest that the NAVY, and an ADMIRAL, at that, wait.  After all, I didn't remember ever seeing an Admiral before, much less talk with one and answer his questions.

     The conference soon broke up, our work completed.  I fully expected that someone suggest I could swim back to my ship.  But, no, instead I was told to stay for dinner aboard the Ancon.  A young naval officer took me in tow for a wash-up and it was then time to go into the big wardroom for dinner. I was seated at a table " up front" and felt quite conspicuous in my OD uniform.  However, I was made to feel at home and enjoyed a nice dinner.

     But following dinner was when I got a big surprise, for without any particular ado the Admiral arose to make a small speech, during which he mentioned the unfortunate thing with the orders.  All of this was in good spirit, and he concluded by introducing me to the assembled officers, ending his remarks with a sly, but kindly reference, to the fact that, " During all my years in the service there have been few, if any times, when I've been told by a junior officer to 'wait'. As we advance through the ranks we become more and more accustomed to instant compliance with our wishes.  Well today it was suggested by a junior officer that I wait, and it was an Army officer at that.  I shall remember it for many years, and I'm certain he will, too".

     That ended the incident.  We left the wardroom, with much good-will and friendship.  Also, much poking of fun at a very embarrassed  "junior" army officer.  I was ferried back to the Thomas Jefferson and was soon on my way back down to you people in the south of England.  I didn't see the Ancon again until the morning of "D" day.  I often wonder about the Admiral, and remember him with much respect. 
    

A French Sing-Along

This is a tale I've remembered many, many times, and one that never fails to warm my heart, and sometimes, brings tears to my eyes.

On D+2 we entered the town of Gran Camp de Les Bains, immediately adjacent to the channel. The town had been cleared that morning and the lead elements, whoever they were, had moved on to greater deeds. The town was really not very badly damaged, being situated somewhat to the west of where the heavy fighting and shelling had taken place on D-Day and D+1.

At any rate, Co. "E" had marched part way through town when we were given the work to hold up. I don't know why, and didn't particularly care, for it gave us a chance to sit and rest. I passed the word that we might as well eat as it was about mid-day. My theory had already developed that you rest and eat whenever you can, because no one knew when the next opportunity might come. So--I sat down in a recessed doorway (if you'll recall, many of thein the old countries come right to the sidewalk. There is no front yard such as we're used to) and began to open up my "K" ration. There were several other soldiers with me, but I'm sorry to say that the only one I remember for certain was Robert O. Berthiaume. I dimly remember that Ludger Boucher and Armand O. Berthiaume were in the group, but cannot be certain of that. All three of these men were able to speak the French language quite fluently and were absolutely invaluable as interpreters, as you can well imaging.

As we began to eat there arrived in front of us four French children, running across the street in their noisy, wooden "sabots". Threee of them were about five or six years old and the fourth, a girl, was about eight.

They seemed delighted to be with us, not at all afraid, and were quite charming in their innocence. Of course they immediately asked, in their sing-song way, for "chocolate por babie". Well, we were perfectly willing to give them whatever we had, but first I had one of the french-speaking men tell them that they had to perform some little song or dance for us. This they did, all the while giggling and chattering as any children would do, apparently thrilled to find that some of the men could speak French.  Then, all of a sudden, the eldest spoke to us while the rest watched, all solemn and round-eyed. That foxy little rascal, it turned out, wanted us to now entertain them with a song or verse.  Well, the fellows all demurred, stating that they knew of nothing that would amuse the children, who, of course, were waiting expectantly for something to happen.

I was reluctant to have this wonderful little episode end, and all at once remembered a song my sister had learned while playing with two little French girls in our neighborhood.  The song, and I'm sure many of you are familiar with it, was "Friar Jacque, dor me vous, dor me vous" etc.

Now, my singing was never anything to brag about, and I'm certain my pronounciation of the French words was atrocious, but they immediately recognized the song and began to sing along with me with all the delighted innocence and charm of children the world over.

We sang  several more times, and then it was time for us to move on, and to start the war once again.  As we put on our packs and moved off down the street the children ran alongside, their sabots once again clattering on the pavement, laughing and collecting more sweets, all the time singing the simple little French nursery tune.

We soon came to the edge of town and moved of down the road, where once again things became somewhat more menancing.  We had to tell the children to go back home, which they did with much waving og hands and blowing of kisses.

I've often wondered if they, in fact, had a home left to go to. And, too, I've often wondered if they remember those American soldiers who sang the nursery rhyme with them.

Dad's introduction to his stories

The following stories are my attempt to tell you some things about the war in Europe and the experiences which many of you men, and your men, my dear ladies, went through so many years ago. I hasten to tell you that there is hardly a day that passes in which my thoughts, perhaps only momentarily, fail to go back to those days so long ago. There was a time when I mistakenly thought I remembered everything that had happened to during those years, but my attendance at these treasured reunions has shown me that there are many things which I have no memory of whatsoever, for the men about you have told me tales, many concerning myself very intimately, which had long slipped into the dim recesses of my mind, and were only brought to the surface by their prodding words.

Also, I hasten to tell you, I have no intention of regaling you with tales of horror and terror, but rather intend to try to tell you tales that demonstrate the kindness and humaness of men the world over, traits which I pray to God shall never leave us.

And, often as I am sitting here, writing these words, my heart cries because I've not had the courage or the time to tell you my feelings personally. Our good and faithful friend and comrade, Emmet Dooley, said it so well at our reunion in Texas, when he so simply said "I Love you all". What wonderful words!!

Many times during these accounts which follow you will find the pronoun "I"; more times than I really like, and more times than considered acceptable in writing. However, it is pretty much unavoidable. I've noticed when at these reunions that the stories and tales which you hear are filled with that, oh so prevalent pronoun. The reason is quite simple. A soldier in a rifle company, and especially during the bitter hedgerow fighting, can only be aware of what is going on in his immediate vicinity. Therefore, his memories, and, consequently, his stories, are filled with phrases such as "I did this", or " I saw that", etc. etc. Do not misunderstand this as ego. It is not. He's not trying to brag on himself. He can only tell you of those happenings in his immediate vicinity. What was going on in the next field is as unknown as if it had been ten miles away.

And this applied to me, also, as company commander. My vision, and therefore, knowledge of the battle was absolutely limited by those ever-present hedgerows. It was immediately apparent to me, as soon as we moved off the beach and into the fields and hedgerows, that a person's knowledge of the battle is, unfortunately, limited to what is going on in that field, within the confines of those hedgerows.

Therefore, although the army manuals always talked about a commander directing his troops from some sort of forward command post, this concept was completely out of the question as far as I was concerned. The only thing to do was to run back and forth, from one field to the other, sometimes up and back through the fields and personally direct each platoon commander, whether he be a noncom or an officer.

So..we come back to the very, very prevalent pronoun "I". Don't scoff at or scorn it. It's a perfectly good pronoun and is very properly used to describe these small unit actions and stories.

I am vain enough to hope that you will find something of interest in at least some of these stories. Perhaps they will bring back memories to you, as they have to me. Or, perhaps they will be informative about some things which you've puzzled about over the years. I truly hope my efforts have been successful.