Heroes: the Army
"...We were approaching the hill when shells began to land around us. The jeep stopped and we began to scramble into the ditch. As I prepared to jump, a shell landed next to and slightly back of the jeep. It hit me and I flew into the ditch. If I lost consciousness, it couldn't have been for more than a few seconds..."
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Odra W. Calloway: My War!
From: Frank J. Dowd, Jr.
1987
EXPERIENCES IN THE 102 DIVISION, 405TH INFANTRY, F COMPANY
Early memories of my time in the 102 Division are essentially the same as those written by Ed Souder and others. Like many others I was in the ASTP at Ball State College in Indiana. The ASTP was dissolved, and I was transferred to the 102nd at Camp Maxey in Texas. We spent the summer training and wound up at Fort Dix in New Jersey bound for Europe. I missed guard duty at the time of the transit strike in Philadelphia because I was on a short leave. When I returned to empty barracks, l wondered if my company had left for Europe without me. Weekends in New York City were filled with hearing jazz at various bars on 52nd Street, and taking the last train back to Trenton early Monday mornings. Finally, we were sent to Camp Kilmer, and shortly thereafter to a ferry which took us to the ship that was to transport us across the Atlantic.
One memory of the ferry ride remains. There was a comrade from Tennessee who hadn't learned much geography. Upon arriving in Brooklyn on the ferry, we told him we were in France. He believed us.(Ed Souder writes that we left from Staten Island which is probably correct.)
I also remember the submarine attack scare. Seeing the men man the ack -- ack gun and the destroyers circling was a dramatic event. Otherwise, shipboard life was rather routine, other than lifeboat drill which was a daily reminder of the danger around us.
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The white cliffs of Dover gave way to landing at Cherbourg; I believe after dark. A barge took us ashore, and trucks delivered us to a field where we set up our pup tents. As I recall, we stayed there for two or more weeks.
While we were there we exchanged courtesies with a French army unit. As national anthems were played, a French officer saluted a cross which he thought was a military grave. He didn't know that the cross marked a newly closed latrine. No one told him of the mistake he made.
Some memories stand out. Three hour training marches were tough. Another was the striking green color of Normandy's trees and bushes. It was a green such as I thought could only be found in Ireland. The people were polite enough but not overly friendly; willing to sell us Calvados which I found to be rather rough. It was not until years later that I discovered how good and smooth it could be. It remains my favorite brandy and one of my favorite Christmas gifts. I both give it and often used to receive it from my wife.
I don't remember where we went to get on a train with 40 and 8 cars that took us closer to the front. We exchanged the train for trucks that took us to a point where artillery fire could be heard. A day or two later, planes with crosses on the wings flew over at a very low level. The war was then for real.
Other units captured Geronsweiler, but our squad entered the town shortly thereafter. This was my first experience with a sniper. He was in a tower, and his shot missed me by less than
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ten inches. A scary experience. Shortly thereafter, all three segments of the 405th began the attack on Beeck. The second battalion was in reserve at first, but was sent into the line. The project was a failure, and we ended up in a former German pillbox.
There was a faulty valve on the heater used to heat coffee, and two of us went back to company headquarters to get a new valve.
We had been in a German pillbox for several days; sleeping by day, awake at night. No particular sense of danger. Our morter was setup outside the back entrance. Two memories are particularly vivid. The F Company was strung out in foxholes to our right. One night the shelling was quite heavy. I could hear someone in the rear trying to reach Sgt. Malanosky. This voice said, "Malanosky, Malanosky. Can you hear me?" The answer, "Yes. Damn it, yes." The first voice, "It's in the game, the bitter and the sweet." Malanosky: "You blank, blank, blank bastard. Wait till I get you. Come up here, you blank, blank." This goes back to Ft. Dix when the sergeant and others would drive back to camp early on Monday mornings and the car radio would be playing songs and someone would repeat, often, the poem which started, "It's in the game. The bitter and the sweet."
The other memory also has to do with communications. A telephone wire from our pillbox to the next unit was cut by a shell. I set off to try to find the break somewhere in "no man's land". I know I was lost. I heard German voices. Where should
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I go? The voices seemed all around me. Needless to say, I was really scared. Somehow a vision of my grandmother came to me. She used to take her little grandson into our backyard in the suburb where we lived to show me the stars. Her passion, among other things, was astronomy. I used the North Star to find my way back to friendly lines. They say that, "There are no atheists in foxholes." That night l thanked every God there is. I hope I remembered to tell this to her later. Oddly enough, her husband's name was Otto Gotlieb Rhein and her maiden name was Meyer. All that side of my family was German.
There are ironies in what turned out to be a very important day for me. That morning our coffee could not be heated because the gas heater was missing a small part. One irony is that I did not drink or like coffee until some years later. With one or two others, I went back to Company HQ to get a new valve. We made our way back through the beet fields to where our HQ was located. I believe that this was in the morning.
I must leave to others to say what we did or what happened. At some time that afternoon we prepared to return to our pillbox home. I believe that it was well into the afternoon. Hops returned to Headquarters and asked that we take a look at the area of the Ruhr Valley that we would be attacking in the days to come.
We set off in a jeep, anxious to complete our mission and brag to the others over our good fortune in feeling clean and in having eaten some better food than the rations available in the
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pillbox.
We were driving up a hill which was between us and the river. There were five of us in the jeep; two in the front and three in the back seat. All five were F Company men. We were approaching the hill when shells began to land around us. The jeep stopped and we began to scramble into the ditch. As I prepared to jump, a shell landed next to and slightly back of the jeep. It hit me and I flew into the ditch. If I lost consciousness, it couldn't have been for more than a few seconds.
At first I thought that I had lost my left arm. Soon I as I turned over began to feel a tingling in my fingers as I turned over. "Thank God," I thought, "at least I have my arm." I learned later in England that the nerves are such that I could have lost my arm and still had feelings in my fingers. Needless to say, I'm glad I was ignorant of this facet of the nervous system.
Within minutes, Lt. Weigard appeared from somewhere. He said, "I'll be back with help soon." I'm not sure, but I think that a stretcher team got there in about 15 minutes. Three of us were loaded on an ambulance and taken to an emergency med station. It didn't seem far away. We were patched up. I don't think I received blood plasma, but I remember taking some pills.
Earlier, Weigard and I had found a wounded buddy whom we couldn't drag to safety. Our buddy later died. We made a pact on the spot that if either of us were wounded the other would had somehow help get the disabled one to safety. Weigard kept his word!
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From the aid station we were moved by ambulance to a field hospital in Holland. I was in a ward with about 15 beds. By now I was in pain. I complained that I wasn't being helped quickly enough. A nurse said, with some irritation, "Shut up! You're not going to die and others may." I was properly quiet. Someone close by did die. Years later I found that he was likely a Psi U brother in another division. I didn't know this until I returned to the University after the war. Once again, I'm glad I didn't know at the time.
From this field hospital, I was moved to an army hospital in Liege, Belgium. I was in a cast which stretched from my waist to my neck. While in bed (finally a bed rather than a cot), the Germans began to bomb the city with V-l bombs. A window was broken in the ward, and we were all told to get out of bed and hide until the bombing stopped. Some rolled onto the floor. I remember laughter. This resulted, I suspect, from a combination of fear and hysteria. Glass splinters from the broken window littered the floor, and I must have received a small cut on my arm or wrist. Ironically, I later found that this wound gave me a second Purple Heart.
At some point in early December, we were put on a hospita train which began the journey to Paris and Cherbourg. A bomb had broken all the phonograph records on the train, except one. This, "As Time Goes By", was played over and over on the PA system. Rudy Vallee was the singer. For obvious reasons, the movie "'Casablanca'" remains my all time favorite. I once met
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Ingrid Bergman who lived in Rochester while her then husband was studying at the UR Medical School. She remains my favorite movie star. She was beautiful as she approached us on a walkway or sidewalk with her young child.
The train had on it a movie star who I remember as Carole Lombard. I recall her kindness as she talked to all of us. Another love bloomed.
We stopped in Paris, and then went on to Normandy. We were unloaded onto a wharf which may well have been the same as the one from which we disembarked in October. While I lay on my stretcher a nun offered me a fried egg. I was starved for my first fresh egg in what seemed like years. I can still smell its goodness as The drugs I had been given took over and I could not stay awake. I've been frustrated both before and after that moment, but never as much as then.
I must have slept through the channel crossing. Others said it was choppy. Upon landing, a train or perhaps an ambulance took us to a hospital somewhere northwest of London. I was there for the remainder of my stay abroad.
My memories of this hospital are fairly clear. I think it was heated by a wood stove. The head nurse was a lovely, competent woman. Again, all the patients loved her. The doctor was a young man from Chicago. They seemed to be in love. I remember reading a novel about a reunion at Princeton and what had happened to all the classmates who returned for their 25th. Seemed, and still seems, a fine book. We heard of the Battle of
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the Bulge as well as the loss of Glenn Miller as he flew over the channel to France. Of course, I thought of my F Company friends and wondered how they were doing as Later I received a letter from Si Smith.
I had mixed feelings about the war being over for me. I vowed to return to Europe. Happily, I have gone back, at least to England and France.
I was told that I would return to America in several weeks. I couldn't write about this but thought of a code which would evade the censors. Much later, I was pleased to learn that it worked. I wrote home that I was very happy to have heard a recording of the "New World Symphony", particularly the second movement. Those at home, of course, knew that this movement was named "Going Home". My sister, Barbara, was the first to break "my code".
On either Christmas or New Years Eve, a fifth of scotch was smuggled in. We had a fine celebration. After midnight, almost everyone had fallen asleep. The head nurse and I retired to her office for one last drink. I can remember kissing her and returning to my bed to be tucked in. Again, I was in love and jealous of the doctor. I had my first sexual awakenings in a long, long time.
The guy in the next bed had his leg amputated, and he was in a lot of pain. This was when I learned of how nerve endings retain their feelings. He said that he could feel his toes.
We went to London by bus. Just before getting on the bus, an officer awarded me my first Purple Heart. I was in a hurry
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and so was he. The ceremony was very brief. This hero was glad when it was over. So was the officer who had more important things to do.
We met a train called the Royal Scot which set off for Edinburgh. There we went aboard the Queen Mary and, after a short delay, set off for New York. The ship was pure luxury since it was almost empty for its return voyage. Lots of wounded soldiers and a USO troupe. Late at night I went on deck for some air and who should be wistfully looking over the water but Helen Hayes. At least I thought it was she. Later I thought to say that my father knew her husband. Charles McArthur was later famous as a Chicago reporter upon which "The Front Page"' was based with Cary Grant as "Hildy".
The trip was uneventful except for the memories of the Grand Ballroom and the wide stairway. The "Queen" traveled alone counting on speed to avoid the enemy. I got up early for a good viewing of Coney Island and the Statue of Liberty. I had last seen "The Lady" in 1939. Both were quite far away. I was disappointed in that, but happy to be home.
We landed on Staten Island to a heroes' welcome replete with milkshakes and hot dogs. There were phones available to call home. I did. A soldier next to me could hear his mother as she fainted. She thought that he had been killed in the channel. In fact, he had broken his ankle in a fall while boarding a troop ship and had never made it onto the ship that sank soon thereafter. He couldn't write to his parents to tell them of his
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accident .
We landed on March 30, my sister's birthday. Soon we boarded a train for the trip to the West Coast. We saw signs which told us that "wounded war heroes" would be sent to the hospital closest to each person's home. One hero from Maine was closer to home in England than in Tacoma, Washington. I didn't do too well either in Ft. Lewis, Washington.
We stopped in a yard just south of Chicago's Loop. I could see Dad's office windows on LaSalle Street, but was not allowed off the train. The trip to the West Coast was uneventful and pleasant. I had not been west of the Mississippi before.
At the hospital, all of the staff seemed competent. I received '"Z Plastic" surgery on my neck to improve movement. My private room was nice and I had lots to read. I did so, avidly. After several weeks, I was given a month at home. Upon my return to the hospital, I continued physical therapy which seemed to help. Finally, in late summer I was moved to a hospital just west of Chicago. From there I was discharged with the usual Honorable Medical Discharge. I was just short of my 21st birthday .
I think that this account is accurate, but there are likely to be mixed up memories which others may be able to correct. Oddly, I finish this on my granddaughters' fourth birthday. Thus, it is dedicated to "the Girls" and my children.
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PERSONAL NOTES
There are some War memories that are too subjective and personal to put into my history. Some are recorded here.
Dad met me at the Chicago Airport when I flew in from Seattle. I will never forget the look of anguish on his face. I guess he thought I would still have my cast on or look wounded in some way. Actually, all I had was a sling for my left arm. I later thought of Oliver Wendell Holmes, the Poet searching for his fallen son on a Civil War battlefield after the later Justice was wounded.
Somehow, Dad got onto the field rather than waiting with others in a building. The drive to Winnetka was a joy for us both. I don't remember his driving which was usually quite bad.
My only other memory of that 30 mile trip is passing the Hawthorne Plant of Illinois Bell. This building, on the southwest side of Chicago was, of course, the location of the famous "Hawthorne"' experiments, familiar to every Psychology student.
While at Fort Lewis, I visited my Uncle John, and Dad and I laughed when I recounted how he was doing. Uncle John was living with his fourth wife. He left home in Canton, Ohio to escape a "lady"' who was pregnant. Evidently, next came the "high life" in Paris and elsewhere, and eventually the West Coast. He was both a dentist and an M.D. who helped the Mayo brothers develop cleft palate surgery. At the time of the Alaskan Gold Rush he was one
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of two doctors in that Territory. Uncle John and I talked mostly of family (not most of the above), how crowded Seattle was becoming, and his current life. He admired his brother, Joe, and almost went to visit him in Baghdad. I later read about Uncle Joe in Miss Taylor's unpublished book which my sister, Barbara, has. I saw Uncle John once after that when he made his last visit to Chicago. A very interesting group; each different, each accomplished .
Dad was doing some legal work for Illinois Bell. Whenever he was in the President's office they would call me on the West Coast. This was great for all concerned and free! This is how we got fast news of each other including the activities of Harry Bettinghouse (see Brady AA) on my behalf. The Senator pressured the Army to move me from Tacoma to Chicago. My World War II files have a letter to Dad on what a hero I was.
My personal liberation from Paris is distinct in my mind, but I now think that some of it never happened. We did get on a truck, headed for Paris, and alcohol was much involved. It is in the history books that Eisenhower stopped the Americans, who could have reached Paris easily, so that LeClerk's second Armored Division could be the first to "liberate" the capital. The General was a great diplomat. I now think that I didn't see the Eiffel Tower until years later. I did get back to my pup tent a very tired young man. Perhaps I was competing with Hemingway and Dean Noyes to be among the first to get to the French capital. Noyes was impressed when I told him my story. Claude was too, as
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was his lovely wife. Dean Noyes really was first, and the Germans were still there. I wish that the Noyes autobiography was better written.
Another memory was a joint ceremony with French troops. It did happen, and a French officer did salute a cross on a recently closed latrine thinking it was an American grave. Perhaps Ed Souder or Si Smith can help with this.
I wish "Army" was still alive. We visited Cherbourg a week or so after arriving in Normandy. He insulted a French speaker in English. The Frenchman turned out to be a French Canadian who understood "Army" full well. The Canadian was very angry. He didn't hit "Army" but came close.
Our train parked in Liege for several hours on its way East. There was supposed to be a whore in the bushes down a short ridge from the tracks. After some giggling, several from our car went down the hill, and came back wearing smiles. This much is true. Less likely was a sad, beautiful woman waiting for a train to the West. I talked with her a while and may have kissed her. The lady's train did not come while we were there as Who knows? In any case, it is a romantic story worthy of Greta Garbo. I don't know how this could be confirmed.
While in Texas, I did volunteer for the Paratroops. I was turned down because I was too tall. Shortly thereafter, I went to another camp for enrollment in a ASTP unit. The commandant of this camp was General Johnson's son who knew my parents. He had an attractive daughter. We dated several times and went into the
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closest town. I tried to use his influence to be sent to a unit near New York City. He and I failed and Muncie, Indiana was my fate.
I was at Ball State for slightly more than a semester. Engineering was the outcome of all of us in the unit. Engineering and math were not my strong points while in ASTP, and this would have confirmed the opinion of the advisors at New Trier Township High School and Dean Long at Rochester.
The 102nd was an odd kind of outfit. The lowly privates -- mostly former ASTP types -- were better educated than all of the non - coms and a few of the officers. As far as I can tell, this did not interfere with the effectiveness of the individual units, but did create some tension during the training period in Texas. So far as I know, there were no Arkansans in our ranks.
Some of the paragraphs in this Kitchen History describe the daily life of the Army footsoldier: Hurry up and wait; Life is so basic that food and dry socks are at least as important as fighting the enemy.
I don't remember thinking about the ideals of the war or grand strategy. I do remember worrying about keeping out of the rain and keeping my feet warm. Not unlike many Americans, I knew nothing of concentration camps. I did see Germans and Italians in such camps later in, I think, the Midwest or elsewhere.
Given my background, I should at least have wondered about racial segregation. There were black soldiers in British towns as we drove by. I do remember listening to happy, black voices
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on a radio somewhere in Europe. At least they sounded happy and laughed a lot.
There are several memories that involve New York and Chicago rather than actual training service of combat.
One has a setting in both New York and France. One weekend several of us went to the Radio City Theatre. It was a new experience for all of us. A lady singer sang "I'll Be Seeing You", "Paris", "A Small Cafe", "Children's Carousel". She and the large orchestra were great, and we clapped loudly.
The next October, we went to a USO show in a Normandy field. Of course there was a girl singing "I'll Be Seeing You". In that muddy farmyard, I was very homesick for New York and the Paris I had never visited.
By pure chance, as I was preparing to write this, I was watching "The Kennedy Center Honors" on TV. What should I hear but Tony Bennett singing "I'll Be Seeing You". It must be the fall of 1944 even though my calendar read December 29, 1993. I was not ashamed to cry.
Another music memory concerns 52nd Street's Jazz Row. On Saturday night we heard someone playing the "St. Louis Blues" on his violin. His improvisations went on for almost half an hour. A great performance.
Sunday in Rockefeller Center was fun. I can remember leaning over the fence where they skate in the winter. Twenty feet away were Captain Peterson and other battalion officers with their dates. We did not greet them since we thought that some of
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the women were not their wives.
I wish I could remember my last furlough which ended with F Company going to Philadelphia as strike breakers while I was away. I know that it was typical and was repeated many times by others. A tearful girlfriend kissing the hero goodbye. I don't remember her name, but her perfume remains in my memory. All that I can recall is her mother was a writer and a friend of Mr. Petty of Petty Girl fame. He was a neighbor.
I knew that the parents of wounded soldiers were sent a telegram. The details of this event were told to me by two of my sisters at a family wedding last spring (1993). The doorbell rang. Mom was in the tub and Dad was busy somewhere. Barbara answered the door. An embarrassed Western Union messenger asked for my father. Barb told him that both of her parents were busy and accepted the wire. I have forgotten the rest of the story. I now have the wire which contains two grammatical errors and reads that "Private 1st Class Doud 36748669 (36-74-8869) was 'slightly wounded.' (Incidentally, I just wrote my serial number without having to look it up.)
I have written about the Army nurse at the hospital in England. It was clear to all the patients that she and the attending doctor were in love. He told me that he was from Chicago .
While I was at home for a weekend from the Chicago Army Hospital, that doctor's parents called to ask my parents and me to dinner in Roger's Park which, incidentally, is where I was
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born. We accepted and at the dinner party was the doctor's wife or fiancee. I've forgotten what her exact status was.
Of course, his parents had many questions to ask me about their son whom they had not seen in years. I answered their questions but left out some of the details of his life in England.
The final memory may show me at my sentimental best or worst. Some of it is true, while some of it is not. Until I started to write this history I believed every word of this story. Now I know that some of it is impossible.
In Normandy we heard that Paris had been "liberated" by our Army. We knew, of course, that this had to happen in days. With much Calvados inside, three of us got on a Red Ball truck and struck out for Paris. None of us had ever seen the "City of Lights". What we did not know was that General Eisenhower had stopped the American Army short of Paris to allow General LeClerk's Second Armored Division to go around our right flank and be the first to enter the French capital. Eisenhower was a great diplomat. This maneuver was under way as our Red Ball drove throught the night to Paris. All this is true. The rest never happened.
We arrived in Paris. Someone began to shout at us. We turned around and headed back in great haste. The German SS still occupied the capital. None of us were harmed, but we were both frightened and confused. I got back to my tent a very tired soldier as dawn came up over the hedgerow.
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It is impossible to travel by truck from Normandy to Paris and return by sunrise. Probably we were shot at by the French FF1 somewhere on a road just beyond Normandy while traveling southeast. I will never know, and I do not remember the identity of my comrades.
I have related this story many times in its original form. Perhaps I was competing with Hemingway whose "liberation" of Paris has been told by him and several others. The latest is in "Continual Pilgrim; Continual Pilgrimage" by Christopher Sawyer -- Laucanno .
In the mid-50's I told the story to Dean Albert Noyes. He really was in Paris while the Germans were there. He had been sent to interview fellow scientists on where the Germans were on atomic bomb research. With graduate degrees from the Sorbonne, he was the ideal person for this spy project. The Dean was impressed when I told him my story. His son Claude, Phyllis Andrews, Lewis Beck, and Ralph Meerbote were all impressed as well. I always wanted to be a Nobel Laureate like Ernest.
I wish that there was a good quote to end this essay. Something that would properly describe my modest contribution to the war, or what heroism is, or what war is really like. Perhaps something like "The War to End All Wars - Chapter II", or "Good soldiers don't die, they just fade away." I will continue to work on this and to remember.
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ADDENDA
I include here various other recollections of my War experience which I cannot put into proper context.
Thanksgiving Day of my European experience was spent in a basement somewhere behind the lines. I was there briefly because of Trench Foot which I found very bothersome. They gave me some sort of powder. It did not help except for some little time.
Almost everyone was a hero some of the time. Among the best was a British subaltern who, of course, commanded his batman to leave a foxhole to escape to safety during a shelling before the officer would leave. They both wanted me to leave first.
Sgt. Pollock helped his heroism a bit with smuggled whiskey. I think he shared the bottle, but I can't be sure. He was a tough sergeant, and I am grateful to him also.
A British unit advanced from their position on our left but, of course, stopped for afternoon tea. They were our source for whiskey. We had cigarettes. In those days, I didn't smoke and profited mightily as a result.
One of my worst memories is the cold and wetness of Normandy. Others, happily, are mostly long forgotten.
My best are in the narrative except for a very few that shall remain unwritten. I do fondly remember the New World Symphony, a hot shower somewhere in Belgium, and close friends:
Si, "Army", Sgt. Lake, and others remembered except for their names.
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Like all young men, I was certain that I could not die. I continued this belief through the severing of my jugular vein and other adventures. This is not to say I wasn't scared -- often.
Ed Souder reflects very well the mood of our religious experiences and visits in France. I must admit, however, that the details have long since left my mind other than marching past a country church in Normandy.
Another memory is seeing peasant women washing family clothes in a stream. Their washboards looked exactly like the ones at home and a recent photo of a painting in the Sunday Times.
While I had read Ernie Pyle while in the States, I saw only one correspondent at the front. He came up from HQ to see how we were doing. It was quiet while he was with us, and he left before there was any shelling and we had to go inside our pillbox. It was daytime as he visited and talked with us. He looked eager and not frightened. I've forgotten if he said what paper he was with.
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Note from Edward L. Souder: The last story by Frank Dowd. He was one of the other men wounded with me on Nov.28,1944 and He later became the Chancellor for the University of Rochester, N.Y. I located him in 1987, and hoped to see him in person but finally didn't until he had a heart attack and died in l997-98. How I wish now that I had gone to see him in person &emdash; as he might have been able to fill in a whole lot of things for me - after we parted on Nov. 28th in Germany. He was wounded in the left arm and shoulder and I was told that a hunk of shrapnel actually nicked his jugular artery in his neck and that that could have killed him that night before he was sent back to the hospital in Holland.(the fates of Combat).
----- Frank J. Dowd, Jr., 1987
Interested in some background
information?
Check out the related links below...
United States Army, 102nd Infantry Division
History of the 102nd Infantry Division
Attack on Linnich, Flossdorf, Rurdorf - 29 Nov -- 4 Dec 1944
The SS hideous Gardelegen War Crime
Gardelegen:
April 13, 1945:
Massacre
at the Isenschnibbe Barn
American Battle Monuments Commission: WWII Honor Roll
National World War II Memorial
Information and photographs were generously provided to World War II Stories -- In Their Own Words by Mr. Edward L. Souder of Minneapolis, Minnesota. The subjects of these essays are all members of Co. F., 405th Regiment.Our sincerest THANKS for allowing us to share their stories!
Original Story submitted on 19 September
2002.
Story added to website on 1 October
2002.
