Temporary Warrior WW II Memoir

TEMPORARY WARRIOR

A WW II MEMWOIR

By Roger E. Greider

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2011 Roger E Greider

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TEMPORARY WARRIOR

WW II MEMWOIR

Chapter One

On December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed the American Naval Base at Pearl Harbor, and the United States immediately declared war on the Axis powers: Japan, Germany and Italy. I was seventeen years old and was a senior at Will Rogers High School in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I was 5' 7" tall, weighed 145 pounds and had not a hair on my face. I was on the track team and played sousaphone in the marching band, doing neither with exceptional talent.

My few group lessons on the violin in grade school with little practice did not prepare me to play in the high school orchestra. But in the sixth grade I had composed a little music, and while attending high school I won the contest for writing the music for the school song. The words were from John Greenleaf Whittier's poem, Pioneers. And I declared in the yearbook that I was going to be a music teacher.

Having led a sheltered life, I was a little afraid of girls, and had very little experience with them other than a normal family relationship with my older sister, Donna, who graduated from high school at age fifteen with an IQ that placed her in the genius category. However, I had worked in my father's tire and battery shop on weekends and summers from the time I was nine and had developed a muscular body and a reasonable ability to work with my hands.

In the days following the attack on Pearl Harbor, many changes took place in our lives. Those men who were in the reserves were being called up, and a draft had been put into operation to select young men between the ages of 18 and 39 for military service. I thought I would have a better chance of choosing the branch of the service if I didn't wait to be drafted, so in May of 1942, when my 18th birthday rolled around, I announced my decision to join the Army Air Corps.

At that time, Germany was launching a new offensive drive toward Moscow and hurling its might against the Allied forces in the Crimea to capture the rich oil sources there. Also Hitler's general Rommel was making spectacular progress in North Africa, and Corregidor had just fallen to the Japanese. The battle of Midway, which many believed later to be the turning point of the war, had not yet been fought, so things looked rather Grim for the Allies.

My father had held the first pilot's license and the first aircraft license in Kansas, and I thought he would be proud that I was going to go into the Air Corps. But he sternly said only, Bad decision, bad decision. And my mother almost went to pieces, having suffered so much worrying about him before he quit flying. So, deferring to them, I waited to be drafted, accepting a band scholarship and enrolling at Tulsa University in Aeronautical Engineering.

A month or two after the fall semester began, the Dean of men, M. M. Hargrove, called all of the male students together and told us about the Enlisted Reserve Corps. Joining it would give us the opportunity to finish college and enter the service as commissioned officers. Most of us believed the war would be over by that time, and contrary to Hollywood's output, very few of us liked the idea of going to war; so the ERC sounded like a good deal. Dean Hargrove recommended the program, and I'm sure he believed that the ERC would help prevent the enrollment at the University from suffering drastically from the draft.

I wasn't eager to join any Service except the Air Corps, but I, with almost all of the guys at the school, joined the ERC. We all had the feeling that America would win the war handily even without us. And we were surprised, a few months later, when Uncle Sam decided that the men of the ERC should be inducted into the Army and given infantry training. And in April, a couple of weeks before the end of the second semester, TU excused the ERC men from final exams, gave grades based on whatever tests we had previously taken and waved a tearful goodbye as we went off to camp.

I'm sure that all but the most naive realized that this was the first step on the way to a combat assignment. The United States, at that time, was solidly behind the war. Most people were beginning to realize that it was a war of survival and for a young man to not do his duty was shameful. So even with our dislike for war, no one that I knew of complained, or even talked about it like they had been deceived or mistreated.

We were first sent to the Oklahoma National Guard facility next to the fairgrounds, where we were given medical checkups and shots. One of the boys, Clyde Goodnight, was a star performer on the nationally ranked Tulsa football team; TU had played Tennessee in the Sugar Bowl that year, allowing them only two touchdowns. Tennessee won, but we were all proud of our team. The Tulsa football program had not yet started using the platoon system, and Clyde was an excellent athlete, so he was on the field almost sixty minutes of every game, playing both offense and defense.

Many of the TU football fans worried about losing Clyde to the army; it would be a bitter loss. But as it turned out, the worry was over nothing. He failed his checkup exam because of high blood pressure. I don't think the seemingly preferential treatment bothered any of us. We loved our football team and Clyde was a popular guy. But we did wonder if the doctors had been influenced by the group of wealthy oilmen who were diehard TU football boosters.

At any rate, the rest of us lined up in the buff and walked between two doctors, each injecting the arm closest to him. Being raised as a Christian Scientist, I had never had any medicine, so the shots were something new to me. However, I was sure that the shots couldn't harm me, so I was at ease as I approached the pair of doctors and was surprised to see one of the other guys faint.

After the army doctors finished with us, we were given orders to report to Fort Sill, at Lawton, Oklahoma. The day before I was to arrive at camp coincided with Donnas’ graduation at The University of Oklahoma, so the family all went to Norman and attended the exercises. After the ceremony my parents drove home with my Donna, and I took a bus to Lawton, where I got a hotel room for the night and then checked in at Fort Sill the next morning. If I had been smarter, I would have phoned the Base when the bus arrived in Lawton and discovered the Army was prepared to furnish me with a bunk for the night.

The first day at camp, we lined up to receive our clothing issue, and after hearing all the stories joking about poorly fitting army clothes, I had to conclude that someone had goofed; all my clothes fit. I had, by the way, gained two inches and fifteen pounds since the war started. And I was to gain another inch and fifteen more pounds by the end of the war.

At Fort Sill we underwent some testing and indoctrination. One test was meant to identify those of us who were qualified to take Signal Corp training. It consisted of tests that dealt with sound pattern recognition. It was a piece of cake for me and I was given the opportunity to join the Signal Corps, as were many others and most of us turned it down. It may have been wishful thinking, but I thought we were to be trained as Army Engineers.

Other things I remember about Fort Sill were mail call and the baker's shift. One day at mail call, as the Sergeant was calling off the names, a friend and I were carrying on a quiet conversation in the rear rank, and whatever we were talking about we weren’t as quiet as we thought. The Sergeant wasn't pleased with us and told us to report to his office. He gave us a short, angry lecture and told us we were on the baker's shift.

We didn't know what that was, and his displeasure with us seemed to increase as he explained that we were to be up most of the night helping the cooks prepare bread for the next day. We were addressing him as Sir, thinking to improve his attitude toward us. Wrong! Showing further irritation, he informed us that his title was Sergeant. Only commissioned officers were addressed as Sir.

We spent the night in the bakery doing odd jobs, mostly custodial in nature, and eating freshly baked goods. The cooks were great company, and the whole experience was a fun adventure. I don't even remember being sleepy the next day, although I'm sure I was. The thing that bothered me was the Sergeant's being so hostile toward me. I knew it was my fault, but I didn't think my offence had been that bad. I discovered later that he thought we were hotshot cadets from some military school, and he thought we were mocking him when we reported to him calling him Sir.

After a few days, we were off on trucks to Camp Maxie, outside of Paris, Texas for three months of basic training. The tarpaper huts we occupied were constructed originally to house Japanese prisoners, and the accommodations were depressing. We mopped the unfinished wood floors every day, and they were still the dirtiest floors I had ever seen.

We had laundry service, for which we paid a modest fee from our thirty dollars a month salary. But a lot of the fellows washed their clothing in the shower and hung it out on the high fences that were supposed to keep Japanese prisoners from escaping. This made the place look like a refugee camp, and I was glad when the order eventually came down for everyone to use the laundry service, and hang no clothing on the fence. I tried to think of ways to justify the orders we were given, rather than concentrating on reasons for disobeying. In this attitude, I differed from many of the guys.

One activity, which most trainees disliked, was the obstacle course; jumping, crawling, climbing, etc. I didn't consider myself an athlete, even though I had been on the track team in high school (third string), but I thought the obstacle course was fun. I had no doubt about my ability to climb the rope or go hand-over-hand across the ladder over the water, or perform the other physical challenges, and with one exception, my performance was always OK.

The exception was going across the twelve-foot ladder, suspended above a deep pit. The pit had been dug in the dirt, and three feet of water had been pumped into it, leaving eight feet between the ladder and the water. We wore packs and carried full equipment, so it was supposed to be challenging.

On my second time through the course, after having crossed the ladder easily the first time, it didn't enter my mind that I would fail to make it. The best way to do it was to use the outside rails, which were easier to grip. But that was against the rules, and a sergeant was always watching to be sure you did it the hard way.

I launched out with great enthusiasm and learned first-hand the meaning of the old saying, Pride Goethe before a fall. I should have tested each rung as I grasped it and changed to a better grip if necessary. But the rungs had all been dry the first time I did the maneuver, so caution didn't occur to me.

As I swung forward, I realized too late that some of the rungs were wet, and in a fraction of a second after grasping a slippery one, I was an easy victim of gravity and the muddy water that engulfed me following an awkward and embarrassing free fall. I remember thinking that the muddy water I fell into was punishment. Later, it occurred to me that the water and soft mud were to help prevent injuries.

There was also the benefit of the entertainment for all the others, especially if the arms and legs flailed on the way down. And believe me; we all needed some things to laugh about. Of course, I wasn't laughing. With wet, muddy clothes and a red face, I climbed out of the water, several pounds heavier, and poured the water out of my rifle barrel.

I was told to try it again, but I would have done that anyway to ease my embarrassment. Wet and heavy, it was more difficult, but I made it by being careful. Maybe that was part of the lesson I was to learn. Anyway, as I cleaned my rifle that night, I promised myself that I would use more caution. I never fell in the water again.

The army had furnished us with Enfield rifles. They were from WWI, but were good serviceable equipment. The new rifle being used in combat was the Garand M-1, which was semiautomatic. I took only a second to slip the eight-cartridge clip into the chamber and the weapon was ready to fire. The clips were carried in straps called bandoliers, which could hang over a shoulder around the neck. The munitions factories were working night and day to produce the huge number of weapons that were needed, but we didn't get M-1 rifles to train with until later.

It was July; then August. And the days were hot, which made the training exercises more difficult. The dust we churned up on our hikes was unbelievable. Five miles was a common distance, and I remember one twenty-five miler. At the head of the column the dust being kicked up would be noticeable but not bad. However, if you were near the rear, it seemed like the column was walking through two inches of flour, except it wasn't white. And without a crosswind, the hundreds of infantry boots slogging through it ahead of you resulted in a dense cloud.

However, even under these conditions, the hikes were like adventures to me. On one hike, when the column stopped for a break, I saw a spiral-shaped fossil sticking out of the ground close to where I was standing. It was about fourteen inches in diameter. I'd seen some fossils like it, but never an unbroken one that big.

My father and I had made a natural stone fishpond for my mother in the side yard. It was circular, fifteen feet in diameter, and I could visualize that fossil protruding from the middle of her pond. So I dug it up and carried it for the remainder of the hike; it probably weighed twenty pounds or more. The other fellows thought I was crazy. But it spent the next thirty-four years in the pond, giving pleasure to Mother, and to the goldfish.

The commander of Camp Maxie was an older man, and the word was that he had run a filling station. I thought he was middle aged, but he was probably only in his late thirties. He was tall, having a pear shaped body and thinning hair. When we took the 25-mile hike, quite a few of the eighteen year-olds dropped out, but the Captain led the column all the way and walked into camp looking as fresh as when we started. He didn't have to put up with the dust cloud at the rear, but his stamina still impressed most of us.

A walking activity that was a favorite of our trainers was precision drilling. It was a different type of walking than the hikes we took, requiring careful attention to timing, distances and the shouted directions of the drill sergeant. The military stride in drilling had to be exactly thirty inches, and had to be performed to a steady cadence. I think everyone who wanted to take a turn at being drill sergeant was given the opportunity.

Having spent years in marching bands, I could see that we were pretty sloppy. It also disturbed Qualey, one of the other privates, so at the next drill session, to show the worst offenders how far off they were, he ran up and down the ranks, using a thirty-inch measuring-stick he had made. We called it a Qualey stick. I thought the noncoms would object to his antics, but they didn't say a word, and it was first class entertainment.

Another activity I was involved in at Camp Maxie was painting names on the officers' helmets. One day, the officer in charge asked if any of us were good at lettering. Don Emick and I had taken an engineering drafting course at TU. He was a straight-A student and I had earned a B in that course, so we volunteered. Actually, he volunteered and talked me into joining him.

We were given paintbrushes and helmets, and went to work. I thought everything was going OK; my work looked acceptable to me, but then an officer came by and noticed that the M I had painted on his helmet was an upside-down W. He was upset about it and let me known that the mistake had better be corrected; he would get someone else to do it if I couldn't.

As he pointed it out. I remembered the correct shape for an M, and when Don started to tell me, I said, Yeah, I know. I was upset with myself for making the mistake and a little unhappy with the whole project since my art work looked like garbage compared with the excellent quality of Don's. He was a real artist; it was clear to me why he was an A student.

Don and I had been best friends and were together a lot both before and after being inducted into the army. It was he who had been on the baker's shift with me at Fort Sill. And when the Company put together some amateur boxing matches one Saturday afternoon, he and I decided it would be fun to get into the ring and square off at each other.

We were right, but now I can't imagine why we thought it was fun. We wore big soft gloves, and each match lasted only one round, so there wasn't much danger of us hurting each other. After I wore myself out, giving a few good punches, he stepped aside on two of my swings and I went rolling onto the canvas. Both times I rolled up on my feet again, and he took a swing at me when I came up. I guess I kept my guard up because I don't remember getting hit much. Maybe he was pulling his punches. I must have looked pretty comical. The next day neither of us had any bruises, but he confided to me that he was sore all over.

At about that time, we were moved to better quarters. They were regular army barracks with chat roads, walkways and no fences. The bunks and floors were the same and the restroom facilities were a little better but were still in an adjacent building. I was an early riser, and one morning before the sun came up, I was sitting on the lid of the wooden trash bin outside of the back door when a young lieutenant came walking up. I jumped down and gave him a salute, and he gave me a forget-that wave and sat with me for a while.

Then he looked at his watch and asked me if I would take his whistle and go through the barracks, waking up the men. He said he had to take us out on an early training exercise that morning. I didn't want to break the silence with that whistle, knowing it would make me unpopular, but he was the officer and I was the grunt.

Not too long after that incident, I was talking with Don, who was telling me about his first experience of drinking beer, saying he was pleased with the buzz it gave him. I told him I didn't think drinking beer was a good idea, when a guy next to us that I didn’t know spoke up in a loud angry voice. If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll shut it for you.

I didn't know it, but before being in the Army he had worked in a brewery owned by his family, and had taken my remark to Don as a personal insult. His fists were clenched and he was steaming. I couldn’t imagine how he could be so angry with me. By that time the whole barracks had gathered around to watch, and most of them found it entertaining.

Only once before in my life had I encountered such a challenge. It occurred when I was a hall-monitor in the sixth grade. On a Saturday morning, one of the other students had approached me. He had his big brother with him and was angry, saying he was going to wind my clock. Something I had done had offended him; I didn't know what.

He was a little smaller than I was, but I didn't want him to wind my clock. So when he drew his arm back to hit me, I shot a quick, soft jab to his forehead; it was just enough to jar him a little bit, and it stopped him from throwing the punch. But with a determined look, he drew his fist back again, and I repeated my quick jab to his forehead. The fight was over and he went home crying, accompanied by his big brother, who hadn't been in a fighting mood.

The situation in the barracks was similar except my antagonist wasn't smaller and didn't have big brother with him. I don't think the other fellows were on anyone's side; they were just amused. I wasn't afraid of him, but I thought fighting him would be stupid. And my attempt to apologize for making him angry prompted the quick response Shut up!

It occurred to me that after my inept performance in the boxing match he thought I would be a push over. But the match had been entertainment, and this was serious. He looked as though he was ready to start swinging, and I tried to hide my nervousness, remaining alert. I knew if he started it I could make a good account of myself, but I wasn't about to throw the first punch.

As we stared at each other I decided that instead of his forehead I would jab his nose if he made any movement signaling he about to hit me. We stood there motionless for the best part of a minute, and then, keeping eye contact, I lay down on the bunk on my back with my hands behind my head and watched him as he walked away with a poker face, saying nothing. Everyone lost interest and I heard no reference to it after that.

Chapter Two

In September, after a stimulating summer of heat, dust, and fun at Camp Maxie, we were shipped out to colleges and universities all over the country to study engineering and supposedly to be trained as army engineers. I have a feeling that the schools to which we were sent were just holding pens for us before the slaughter. But the logistics of a world war army present difficult problems