Veteran's Day

My father is a veteran of the Korean War. He served in the U.S. Army. He used to tell a story about serving meals somewhere far away from home. As he dished out potatoes, he spied his older brother, a higher ranking officer, coming down the chow line. When Jerry reached him, my father put just a dab of 'taters on his plate. When Jerry started to bark out the order for more potatoes, he looked up and found himself bellowing at his brother.

He jumped over the serving line to hug him.

Two of my uncles on my mother's side served in the Air Force. One served in the Gulf War; the other did his duty in Germany. I do not know either of them very well.

My grandfather on my father's side served in World War II. Grandpa died in 1989. He had black lung from working in the West Virginia coal mines in his younger days.

My grandfather had hopes of being a writer but never published. Prior to his death he sent me about 100 pages of writings and asked me not to share them with anyone else until he died. I respected his wishes and eventually made a little book which I gave to my father and other relatives. He told me just before he died that he had more things to send me but I never received them and I don't know what happened to them. He lived in California when he died.

In my grandfather's writings, the only pieces he wrote in third person were those he wrote about the war. I think it was too difficult for him to use first person because he didn't want to acknowledge what he had been through.

He served in France and was part of the push into Germany in 1945.

So in honor of those who fought to defend a better way of life, I present to you a small piece of my grandfather's memories about what it was like to have served in World War II. His name is Joe.

Warning: Some of this is a little gruesome, but then, war is.

The War

On February 7, 1945, a young man of about twenty six was ushered before an army captain in Hatviller, France, a small town west of the German border. He had been in the army approximately six months, going through infantry basic training, and had been sent over seas. As an infantry soldier he had left behind a wife and three small boys. After proper salutes and the briefing, he was sent to the front lines, where he joined two other guys in a muddy foxhole.

Tony Stokes and John Grindle looked him over, and decided they liked what they saw. He was sort of a quiet fellow, about medium height with gray eyes and a shock of brown hair. John was a regular army guy with about eight years and he had been on the line for about three months. Prior to that he had been in the transportation department, but had got butted from a staff sergeant to a private and sent to the front because of a drunken brawl, where he had sent a first sergeant to the hospital with a broken nose. Tony, like Joe, had been in the army about six months and also left a wife and two daughters at home. All three men were from the south, and all had strong feelings about America.

Joe had been a coal miner from West Virginia. Tony had been a warehouse long shore man from Mobile, Alabama. John had been a peanut farmer from Georgia, and all were prejudiced toward yankees and black men. After being together about three days and exchanging information about each other, they were beginning to form a friendship that would last the rest of their lives.

They were in the 100th Die 3971 of Regiment, 3rd battalion. COK third platoon and third squad. When Joe had arrived the third squad had been dug in on a small hill overlooking a valley. The foxhole had been enlarged enough to accommodate a 30 caliber machine gun with a field telephone. The hole had about eight inches of water in it from the melting snow and rain.

John and Tony was sleeping outside in raincoats and shelters houses, only using the hole when the artillery started. Joe took one look at the water, took out his shovel and dug a small ditch at the bottom of the hole and drained the water out. He then, with his bayonet, cut several armloads of pine boughs, laid them in the hole, spread out his shelter house and made a dry bed. In the meantime, John and Tony was watching all of this. Tony said to John, "why in the hell didn't we think of that?"

Joe, in his West Virginia hillbilly way, replied, "You all didn't have sense enough." They didn't know Joe had been wrote up in this camp Joseph T. Robinson team camp news as being the best camouflage fox hole expert in the camp.

On about the third day, about 4 a.m., Joe was standing guard at the machine gun. The phone clicked and Joe lifted the receiver. The low voice of Lt. Nolon came over the wire telling Joe to be on the alert, as there was some kind of commotion down by the river. Joe strained his eyes trying to see through the fog and mist, but could see no movement of any kind. Suddenly a flare shot up from the other end of the line, and a gun opened fire, staffing along the riverfront.

Then all hell broke loose as the whole platoon opened fire, showering the valley with a wall of fire. The command came down to stop firing. When daylight came and the fog lifted, you could see a flock of sheep had drifted down from the hills, and that was what was making the noise. After that the third platoon was called the sheep brigade.

The water the men had been drinking came from a small mountain stream that was flowing approximately 20 foot from their hole. The snow had started to melt, and John had went upstream to relieve himself. Joe and Tony heard a loud yell from John. Grabbing their weapons, they started up to see what the matter was.

John was sitting down throwing up and at his feet laying in the water was a dead German soldier with the top of his head blown off. The small stream of water the men had been drinking from was flowing overtop of his half blown off head. The thought of drinking that water was just too much for John.

The next morning orders came down to get ready to move out, as a push was starting to crack the ziefreig line after loading up the machine gun and a weapons carrier, we had removed the phone and everyone mustered up.

The push started about 8 a.m. Joe and Tony had discarded everything but their shelter houses and raincoats. John had decided he was going to wear his heavy overcoat. As they proceeded up the muddy road, balls of mud would accumulate on John's overcoat, and he would cut off about six inches of the bottom. After a while it was cut off up to his waist, which left him with a good heavy top jacket.

That started a trend, and it wasn't long before the whole platoon was wearing the top half of their army overcoats. They named them after John and called them Johncoats.