As is our custom now, my wife and I drove out to the assisted living facility where my parents now reside. On the table, along with other mail and magazines was a publication on slick paper, the size of an annual report, titled The Timberwolf Howl. Over the years, in different forms, be it tabloid newsprint or magazine, it would appear in our mailbox from time to time. It is the publication of the 104th (Timberwolf) Infantry Division Association.
The 104th, under the command of a rather flamboyant Maj. Gen. Terry de la Mesa Allen, was originally formed from men from Washington and Oregon and was sent to fight the Germans. My father, 90 day wonder lieutenant, joined it as a replacement while it was fighting in Holland alongside the British. In fact it was attached to the Brits, and so the rations and ammunition they received came through British supply channels. This caused some logistical problems, particularly in ammunition, which was not issued in clips for the M-1, but had to be broken down and individually loaded into the clips. Eventually the division was moved further south to team up with the American Army, fighting across Germany from Aachen, through Marburg, where I would eventually attend school at the university there, liberating the concentration camp at Nordhausen and on to link up with the Russians.
After the war, my father wanted to put what he had seen behind him, and avoided joining any veterans' organization. Nonetheless, I assumed he paid dues, and over the years received the Howl.
As I opened it, I read the inevitable. The 104th Timberwolves had had their last reunion, and the association was being disbanded, its assets being given over to a new one, The Timberwolf Pups' Association. “Pups” is what all us baby boomer offspring of these reluctant warriors were called as they settled back into civilian life.
It had to happen. The youngest of them would be in their mid to late 80's and there were too few physically up to traveling hither and yon about the country to attend.
It struck me as very sad. Not only is a piece of history fast disappearing, but as the generation ahead of you passes on, so too does a piece of your own life.
When I was small, these men were the young adults, the fathers who coached our elementary basketball teams, were our scoutmasters and were the hot dog cookers and burger flippers at those family gatherings that continue in our memory. They drove us to town to see Santa Claus at Christmas and read “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” before we tried to sleep on Christmas Eve. They helped us build tree houses, taught us to swim, how to catch grounders with our Scooter Rizzuto gloves, and how to make telephones out of string and tin cans.
Now those that are left are old, many infirm, and sadly many cannot even remember the great things they accomplished. Soon they will all be gone and the 104th and all the other men of that generation will be nothing more than ranks of moss covered stones. Their army will have passed into the shades of history.
Time passes, and soon my generation will be at that same point in its journey. I doubt that history will mark our passing as it will my parents' generation.
Showing posts with label 104th Infantry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 104th Infantry. Show all posts
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Christmas 1944
My family gathered together this Christmas for my father, now 90 years old, to read the Christmas stories he has been reading for 62 years now. Every year we get out the 1947 Giant Golden Book with the beautiful illustrations by Corrine Malvern and his once strong voice falters over the words to “The Cobbler and His Sons”, “The Peterkins’ Christmas” “The Harper”, and finally “The Night Before Christmas.” In recent years we have discussed having one of us younger people read the stories, but his is the voice of them, and sadly will be extinguished sometime in the future.
When St. Nicholas had finally wished everyone a happy Christmas as he drove out of sight, my father raised his hand for silence and said, “We have to remember one of us is not here, but in Korea, and we must think of her tonight. (My youngest daughter, a captain in the Air Force Intelligence is currently on active duty at Osan AFB in South Korea.)
He then continued, “We all have Christmases that stand out above all others. Mine was the Christmas of 1944.”
In the dark of December 14, 1944, the 104th Infantry Division, of which he was a platoon leader, was lying on the ground outside of the German village of Merken, on its drive into Aachen. The village, currently held by the Wehrmacht, was to fall victim to a Time On Target, an artillery operation in which every available gun, from small mortars to the largest howitzer is fired in such an order that the entirety of the fire falls at once. The effect, not only on the buildings, but the people in them is devastating. In the aftermath of the TOT, the 104th scrambled forward into the rubble to clear out any remaining resistance. Coming upon an anti-tank gun in a bombed out house, my father ordered his platoon to cover him while he and another man rushed in, releasing a salvo of semi-automatic fire into the basement where the enemy had taken cover, killing one and wounding another. The remainder of the stunned Germans stumbled out, blood flowing from their noses and ears, to surrender. In the course of the night, he doesn’t know exactly, as shock can deaden pain, he was hit in the knees by shrapnel, probably from a hand grenade and given first aid by a German medic, a veteran of the Russian front, happy to be a prisoner of the Americans, and then evacuated to a MASH for surgery.
“I was in Paris on December 25 and put on a plane with other wounded and flown to England,” he said. “I’ll never forget when we arrived: they were singing Christmas carols. They were singing about peace on earth, and yet we were out in the mud doing just the opposite.” His voice choked for as second and continued. “At that time the Germans we were fighting were often 12 and 14 year old kids. We captured this one young soldier and brought him back to our orderly room. He broke down crying. All he wanted to do was to go home for Christmas to be with his mother.” He paused. “I wonder if he is still alive.” And then he wept.
When St. Nicholas had finally wished everyone a happy Christmas as he drove out of sight, my father raised his hand for silence and said, “We have to remember one of us is not here, but in Korea, and we must think of her tonight. (My youngest daughter, a captain in the Air Force Intelligence is currently on active duty at Osan AFB in South Korea.)
He then continued, “We all have Christmases that stand out above all others. Mine was the Christmas of 1944.”
In the dark of December 14, 1944, the 104th Infantry Division, of which he was a platoon leader, was lying on the ground outside of the German village of Merken, on its drive into Aachen. The village, currently held by the Wehrmacht, was to fall victim to a Time On Target, an artillery operation in which every available gun, from small mortars to the largest howitzer is fired in such an order that the entirety of the fire falls at once. The effect, not only on the buildings, but the people in them is devastating. In the aftermath of the TOT, the 104th scrambled forward into the rubble to clear out any remaining resistance. Coming upon an anti-tank gun in a bombed out house, my father ordered his platoon to cover him while he and another man rushed in, releasing a salvo of semi-automatic fire into the basement where the enemy had taken cover, killing one and wounding another. The remainder of the stunned Germans stumbled out, blood flowing from their noses and ears, to surrender. In the course of the night, he doesn’t know exactly, as shock can deaden pain, he was hit in the knees by shrapnel, probably from a hand grenade and given first aid by a German medic, a veteran of the Russian front, happy to be a prisoner of the Americans, and then evacuated to a MASH for surgery.
“I was in Paris on December 25 and put on a plane with other wounded and flown to England,” he said. “I’ll never forget when we arrived: they were singing Christmas carols. They were singing about peace on earth, and yet we were out in the mud doing just the opposite.” His voice choked for as second and continued. “At that time the Germans we were fighting were often 12 and 14 year old kids. We captured this one young soldier and brought him back to our orderly room. He broke down crying. All he wanted to do was to go home for Christmas to be with his mother.” He paused. “I wonder if he is still alive.” And then he wept.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
How I Got Into The Flag Day Parade And My Father's German American Flag
June 14, 1978 found me riding in a jeep as part of a convoy headed to Ft. Drum, NY for two weeks active duty. The unit, an Army Reserve infantry battalion from Portland, ME had left the day before stayed overnight on the floor of an armory in Vermont, and was on the final leg of the trip. We were stretched out with a proscribed distance between vehicles, trucks, jeeps, ambulances, and fuel tankers, extending for several miles along the road, probably irritating local drivers, as the military was still suffering from its poor Vietnam era image.
At once the radios crackled with a message that we should all pull off to the side of the road as a problem had developed at the head of the column. The problem was that in planning the convoy route, no one had considered the possibility that any of the towns through which we had to pass, would be holding a parade in honor of Flag Day. I doubt that it had occurred to anyone that June 14 was Flag Day at all.
But here we were, outside the town of Gouverneur, NY, and our lead elements had come down upon the start of their parade. Being somewhat far back in the marching order, I have no idea what actually transpired only to know that with some quick thinking, probably on the part of the local officials, we would simply blend into the parade and pass on through town as part of it.
The commander sent a radio message back along the line, that we were to put on our web gear, that is to say our harnesses which held canteens, first aid and ammunition pouches, and replace our caps with our helmets. The convoy was then to bunch up.
When all this was accomplished, we fell into the parade behind the high school band. Ahead in one of the ambulances, Tommy Mullen, a somewhat irreverent medic, who had been awarded the Silver Star as a corpsman with the Marines in Vietnam, substituted a paper Burger King crown for his helmet, much to the delight of the small children.
Several of us practiced our best beauty pageant waves as we progressed through the town, and many surprised residents asked us how we knew about the parade, and what brought us to it. The answers, they received were varied, I’m sure. And so we passed along out of town and on our way to a cold, wet, “fun-filled” two weeks of playing soldier at Ft. Drum.
Which brings me to my father’s story. Toward the end of World War II, the 104th Infantry Division was in an area where combat operations had ceased. The US Army had linked up with the Russians, and everyone was starting to breathe more easily. Not having an American flag, my father thought it would be nice to have one flying over his platoon command post. A local German woman, who spoke English and had relatives in Chicago, volunteered to make an American flag, if he would show her exactly what it entailed. He explained the 13 stripes, the blue field, and told her it would require 48, five pointed stars. To help her, he took a piece of paper and cut out a star as a pattern. She promised to return with it the next day.
True to her word, she returned, but, as she explained, it took longer to make, and she had been up all night to finish it. The flag, she said, did not require 48 stars; it required 96! My father had forgotten: the flag has two sides!
When the unit returned to the states, my father decided the right thing to do with it, was to have everyone in the platoon put their name in a helmet, and the person, whose name was drawn would get to keep it. To this day he has wondered whatever happened to that flag.
At once the radios crackled with a message that we should all pull off to the side of the road as a problem had developed at the head of the column. The problem was that in planning the convoy route, no one had considered the possibility that any of the towns through which we had to pass, would be holding a parade in honor of Flag Day. I doubt that it had occurred to anyone that June 14 was Flag Day at all.
But here we were, outside the town of Gouverneur, NY, and our lead elements had come down upon the start of their parade. Being somewhat far back in the marching order, I have no idea what actually transpired only to know that with some quick thinking, probably on the part of the local officials, we would simply blend into the parade and pass on through town as part of it.
The commander sent a radio message back along the line, that we were to put on our web gear, that is to say our harnesses which held canteens, first aid and ammunition pouches, and replace our caps with our helmets. The convoy was then to bunch up.
When all this was accomplished, we fell into the parade behind the high school band. Ahead in one of the ambulances, Tommy Mullen, a somewhat irreverent medic, who had been awarded the Silver Star as a corpsman with the Marines in Vietnam, substituted a paper Burger King crown for his helmet, much to the delight of the small children.
Several of us practiced our best beauty pageant waves as we progressed through the town, and many surprised residents asked us how we knew about the parade, and what brought us to it. The answers, they received were varied, I’m sure. And so we passed along out of town and on our way to a cold, wet, “fun-filled” two weeks of playing soldier at Ft. Drum.
Which brings me to my father’s story. Toward the end of World War II, the 104th Infantry Division was in an area where combat operations had ceased. The US Army had linked up with the Russians, and everyone was starting to breathe more easily. Not having an American flag, my father thought it would be nice to have one flying over his platoon command post. A local German woman, who spoke English and had relatives in Chicago, volunteered to make an American flag, if he would show her exactly what it entailed. He explained the 13 stripes, the blue field, and told her it would require 48, five pointed stars. To help her, he took a piece of paper and cut out a star as a pattern. She promised to return with it the next day.
True to her word, she returned, but, as she explained, it took longer to make, and she had been up all night to finish it. The flag, she said, did not require 48 stars; it required 96! My father had forgotten: the flag has two sides!
When the unit returned to the states, my father decided the right thing to do with it, was to have everyone in the platoon put their name in a helmet, and the person, whose name was drawn would get to keep it. To this day he has wondered whatever happened to that flag.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration Day
My first “tour” at Ft. Benning, GA, home of the Infantry School, was in 1951, when my father was recalled to active duty for the Korean War. A veteran of World War II, he had remained in the inactive reserve, something a five year old did not understand. He and my mother had just purchased a house and moved in with my sister, not yet one year of age. All I knew is we were going far away, and I had to have a lot of shots before I could be registered in the on post elementary school.
Up to that point I had never been further away from home than my grandparents’ house, a three hour distant ride. Traveling by train, plane and automobile, we arrived in Columbus, GA, two days after leaving my grandfather’s in New Hampshire, and moved into an army housing area called “Battle Park.”
Integration of the armed forces was underway at that time, but not complete, and some commanders dragged their feet at incorporating black troops into what had been all white units. The commander of the battalion to which my father was assigned was a southern gentleman, who believed that placing all the blacks in his command into a separate company was “integration.” My father, a reservist (and a Yankee), and therefore considered by the regular army officers to be at the bottom of the pecking order, was placed in command, and was, indeed, the only white in an infantry company of black soldiers. Shocked wives of his fellow officers asked my mother if he carried a gun when he went to the field, and were more stupefied at my mother’s response as to why he would want to do something like that.
For most people, who serve in combat, the unit you serve with stays close to your heart. And that is true with my father. He is still a proud member of the 104th Timber Wolf Division, but though he will turn 90 this year, he remembers with great fondness, that all those great guys at Ft. Benning, who accepted a red haired Irish guy from Maine as their commander and who could stand tall with any man.
Today we saw the inauguration of our first African American president. How far things have come in a lifetime. And to the Brothers I had the honor to serve with: Right on!
Up to that point I had never been further away from home than my grandparents’ house, a three hour distant ride. Traveling by train, plane and automobile, we arrived in Columbus, GA, two days after leaving my grandfather’s in New Hampshire, and moved into an army housing area called “Battle Park.”
Integration of the armed forces was underway at that time, but not complete, and some commanders dragged their feet at incorporating black troops into what had been all white units. The commander of the battalion to which my father was assigned was a southern gentleman, who believed that placing all the blacks in his command into a separate company was “integration.” My father, a reservist (and a Yankee), and therefore considered by the regular army officers to be at the bottom of the pecking order, was placed in command, and was, indeed, the only white in an infantry company of black soldiers. Shocked wives of his fellow officers asked my mother if he carried a gun when he went to the field, and were more stupefied at my mother’s response as to why he would want to do something like that.
For most people, who serve in combat, the unit you serve with stays close to your heart. And that is true with my father. He is still a proud member of the 104th Timber Wolf Division, but though he will turn 90 this year, he remembers with great fondness, that all those great guys at Ft. Benning, who accepted a red haired Irish guy from Maine as their commander and who could stand tall with any man.
Today we saw the inauguration of our first African American president. How far things have come in a lifetime. And to the Brothers I had the honor to serve with: Right on!
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