. . . I viewed with awe the steaming cauldrons of army grub. How my eyes were bigger than my stomach and I piled my try with an assortment worthy of a king’s consumption. Then upon leaving the mess hall I was politely informed by the officer in charge to eat the rest of the food I was about to throw away – OR ELSE! Whereupon I commenced doing so against my better judgment and in direct conflict with my already overworked esophagus. Incidentally, the large portion of rich custard pudding had to be swallowed in large gulps with the aid of water. Why the damned stuff gags me I’ll never know! I shall never forget Monterey for it was there that I learned the nomenclature of an army cot. The burly corporal took 3 hours to give us the ‘do’s’ and ‘don’t’of attaching model M-1 blankets to a cot, army, standard, model M-3 series 1939!

         Of the cross-country trip to Fort Riley, Kansas, whereon Eldon Markt, Bill Fisher, Jack Forsythe and myself shared a class A compartment and spent the three-day journey playing poker and becoming nauseated from the mothball smell of the new O.D.’s! The arrival at Junction City on the bleak morning of April 25, 1943 and the four hour wait on the station platform for the trucks that were to transport us to Fort Riley proper. And how we were virtually poured into said trucks so tightly that we had to breathe by the numbers.== “One, inhale, two exhale!”

Of my basic training at Riley where I developed a murderous hatred for some of my fellow men; namely, three sergeants and two corporals whose names I shall not mention here because the recollection might lead to bloodshed of a very vicious type!

         The job of becoming a soldier is, in my mind, similar to the job of training mules for pack work. Each day a new piece of equipment was issued to us which had to be placed in our pack accordingly to “the book”, the soldier’s handbook or rather, his bible. Two weeks of waiting in front of the supply room – rain or shine, 10 degrees below or 90 degrees above – and we finally had our full field pack! A dandy little item it was, too. 55 lbs. of dead weight excluding rifle and ammunition. Indeed, it was a veritable home consolidated into a neat-looking job, which, according to “the book” must measure 27” long and 9” in diameter. If nothing else, this encounter with packs had made me realize that snails and turtles don’t exactly lead a life of ease!

         Then came days and days of drilling in which I lost all sense of individuality and privacy and became nothing more than a pair of feet with a serial number attached thereto. Close order drill; extended order drill; calisthenics; a bawling out by the sergeant; rifle nomenclature, butts manual, combat problems; another chastising by the sergeant, kitchen police; latrine orderly’s night problems; two day’s restriction for talking back to the sergeant; mud, rain, wind, sweltering heat, freezing cold, even tornados all joined forces to make life miserable for God’s most wonderful creation, i.e., humble man in the guise of an O.D. uniform! Hail the lowly rookie! Three cheers for G.I. Joe! My one fond recollection of Fort Riley is the companionship of Susan Wainwright, a WAC stationed on the Post, who was brought to my attention with the aid of two mutual friends – my eyes! Every weekend, barring those in which I was stuck with K.P. or restricted for some minor infringement such as sleeping during a lecture by the captain, we would sally forth to that booming little metropolis, Junction City, and partake of the entertainment therein.First a good dinner at Marshall’s Grill, then an evening of dancing or maybe a movie or perhaps just sitting in the park and among other things – talk! Sunday would bring either swimming, cycling or skating. A few times we walked through the historic Main Post of Fort Riley taking in the various monuments dedicated to the heroic cavalry that fought in other wars!

         On July 22, 1943 I left dear Susan and Fort Riley behind me, looking forward to further adventures at Camp Butner, North Carolina. Further adventures is questionable; I’d better say further disappointments!

         Camp Butner was more or less a repetition of Riley except that the training was even more strenuous. We were subjected to actual combat conditions, live ammunition included, and had to live on field rations, C and K, 50% of the time. Ranger training they called it. If you lucky enough to escape alive you were ready for overseas duty. That is, if your nerves hadn’t cracked under the strain!

         A few weeks at Butner and rumors started circulating that we were getting furloughs. Ten days at home plus traveling time. I figured it would take at least 5 days to reach San Francisco so quite naturally I expected at least 20 days. Ah, what fools these mortals be! How wrong I was! The happy day arrived and furlough papers were passed out. I joyfully received mine, glanced at them and – what’s this! August 13 to August 20 inclusive. Hell, man, that’s only 8 days. There must be some mistake – there must be !!! I immediately went to see the captain and laughingly told him of the error, but he quickly changed my smiling countenance to one of utter dejection. We were moving on August 22^nd so the furloughs had to be cut to a minimum – nothing could be done. Alack and Alas! Home was 5 days away and I had 7 days to get there and back and to spend a few days with the folks! A plane was the thing, but I had no time to make inquiries about an air priority so Eldon Mark and I stuck our heads together, thought over the situation, cursed the army and decided to take a chance by train and hopes that we might catch a plane back to camp. If we couldn’t get the plane – well, the guardhouse isn’t too bad!

         We caught the first train west, spent 5 days of sore muscles, perspiration, soot, servicemen by the thousand, civilians by the million and bugs of an indeterminable amount. Then came three wonderful days in familiar surroundings – three days that disappeared only too quickly. Eldon and I secured our air priorities through the efforts of Dad and Jim, regretfully left San Francisco on August 20^th arriving in Washington D.C. 16 hours later where we spent an evening of wine and women!

         Camp Butner was the same as we’d left it 8 days ago except that the smiling faces of old pals now held a grim determined overshadow. I knew what that meant; we were leaving for overseas duty shortly.

         Two days of routine checkups, re-issuing of clothes, a few insignificant shots and we were on our way to Fort Meade, Maryland, Replacement Depot #1.  Meade is a beautiful post situated in the foothills only a few miles from Chesapeake Bay, but the ominous feeling I had was too strong a detraction for me to notice my surroundings; instead I thought of where I was going after I left Meade.  England?  North Africa?  Or maybe Sicily? 

         As it happened, my anxiety was of little avail.  I was subjected to a very thorough physical examination and before I had time to call my new sergeant a few nasty names I was hauled off to the station hospital, given a pair of ill-fitting pajamas and assigned to ward S-4.  An acute cartilaginous protrusion of the left metatarsals, they called it.  I had noticed the swelling on my foot sometime ago, but thought nothing of it, attributing it to too much marching and only temporary.  Little did I know!

         I soon discovered that I was a victim of osteochrondroma (after looking through a medical dictionary I found it to be a tumor of the bone), and was scheduled for an operation very soon!

         On September 15^th I was the main attraction of a drama in which the doctors dulled their knives on my steel-like sinews and following my performance spent two weeks in bed catered to by a nurse whose voice would have made Sirens pull each other’s hair in envy, and smelled like Cleopatra’s couch and the Garden of Eden combined.  Heavenly days indeed!

         Of the following 4 months I had many poignant memories.  My friendship with Bob Rothwell, Stan Greenberg and Leroy Miller – all brother patients.   Of days at the Recreation Hall playing ping-pong by the hour, or croquet out in the sun or perhaps just reading a good book while reclining in a deck chair.  Of our poker games after curfew when we’d steal into the latrine under cover of darkness and play stud and drink cool smuggled-in beer until the wee hours ever watchful for the night wardman who would have locked us in the local guardhouse if we were discovered.  Luckily we never were!

         Of my daily knock-down-drag-out arguments on insignificant subjects with Gerry Gazlay, a good friend who had trained with me at Riley, luckily meeting him in the hospital and who has since been discharged. 

         Of his casual suggestion one day that I write a letter to his cousin Betty Ann Whalen which I did and have corresponded with her ever since – regularly.  I have her picture, nothing more.  To pay her a visit after the war is one of my “musts”.  Sweet girl!

         Thanksgiving 1943 and I gorged a dinner that did justice to those unsung heroes, the army cook.  Christmas, New Year’s Eve came and went.  New faces appear, old pals leave and her I am still reclining in my deck chair, enjoying the wonders of nature.  Winter comes in all its fury, snow covers the hospital grounds and the steam heated wards are justifiably appreciated. 

         The morning of February 9^th my discharge papers come through bringing me mingled emotions of pleasure, sorrow, foreboding and disappointment that my application for a transfer to A.S.T.P. had not come through.  Nevertheless, I packed up my duds, took one last look at the surroundings that had been my home for 5 months, hitched up my pants, swallowed heavily and was soon engulfed in the snowstorm raging outside. 

         The area of D company was greatly changed when I arrived.  The buildings had been repainted, the P. X. renovated and the Service Club had become the hottest spot in the vicinity.  Dances every night, WACS and WAVES supplying the feminine talent.  I didn’t have much time to enjoy the extra-curricular activity, however!  My name was immediately put on the regular training roster and before I could spit I was out with the boys going through untold hardships in the midst of one of Maryland’s worst winters.  Long hikes in the mud and snow with heavy overcoats and full-field packs.  Rifles too!  Battle tactics in the same slop; calisthenics on a broad icy field, stripped to the waist and the 60 mile gale cutting you to the quick and I have a very sensitive quick!

         I swear – at times I was so cold it pained to blind my eyes and so tired that I had to clench my teeth (between clatters) to keep my tongue from hanging out!  My nights – when no night problems were on the schedule – were spent in peaceful slumber; not in gallivanting hither and thither – I was all petered out after a day in the field.  Pooped is a better word!

         In fact, I was almost happy when word came through that we were shipping out.  To leave Fort Meade was my one desire – any place on earth would be better than this – this chain gang!! 

         On the evening of Feb. 21^st we were politely informed that we were confined to our barracks.  No one was to leave under any circumstances come hell or high water.  In the morning we were leaving for a Port of Embarkation. 

         My adventure is about to begin!

         Somewhat ironic, perhaps.  Nevertheless I can’t but admire the speed and efficiency with which the army transports a few thousand men from place to place.  Within 2 hours after reveille this morning our shipment had gone thru the uninteresting rigmarole of final checkup, boarded trains to the accompaniment of an all-negro band and were on our way.

         At 2:30 hours our train pulled into a siding.  I could hear waves lapping against wooden piles.  This is it!  With a heavy heart I took one last look over my shoulder and with due deliberation picked up my barracked bags, A and B respectively and trudged heavily up that seemingly endless path, fondly called the gangplank by sea faring men, into the bowels of a transport – destination unknown.  Then came a feeling of emptiness – utter emptiness which comes with the knowledge that I was leaving behind everything dear to my heart and embarking on an adventure from which I might never return.  For the first time in my life I had thought of violent death.  Of course on rare occasions – when matters concerned with insurance policies were under consideration or perhaps a visit to a hospital – I have thought of my own death, but only to reaffirm my convictions that I would die of natural causes.  Accidents did happen, to be sure; but I am a careful driver; I am not unnecessarily careless; I’ve never been subject to attacks of dizziness and I’ve never had the smallest desire to jump in front of an approaching train.  I have felt, on the whole, that the conviction was not entirely unreasonable. 

         The idea that someone else in the world might so much as hope for my death has never occurred to me.  If it had done so I would probably have hastened to consult a psychiatrist!  But on leaving for a war-torn country and confronted by the proposition, that someone was, in fact, not merely hoping for my death, but deliberately lying in wait to shoot me on a battlefield, I was profoundly shocked!  Not scared; just shocked.

         Of the ten-day voyage across the Atlantic I refuse to make much comment.  After all, there’s a limit to the mental and physical torture the human body can take!  The stuffiness of #3 hold; the crowded sleeping quarters; the endless chow line that wound down, down into the bowels of the ship; the tasteless food that only permitted survival; 2 days of lying in my bunk in the throes of seasickness, praying for Death to ease my misery!

         Otherwise the trip was uneventful.   The excitement of being a target for a U-boat gradually died down.  But due to the fact that we were traveling solo without the usual protection of numerous destroyers gave me an unhealthy feeling at times even with the knowledge that the U.S.S. Butner could outrun any sub afloat – or submerged!

         During the day we would lie on deck and bask in the sun (if there happened to be any) and talk endlessly about our first days in combat, home, the latest rumors, home, what was wrong with the army, home, the European situation and home.  Also home!!

         On the morning of March 1^st it happened!  Somebody who had been using an eagle eye for just such a case, came to our neather-door and yelled down, “LAND, FELLAS.”  I jumped off my bunk which was the topmost of four, stepped gingerly over a crap game amidst curses unfit to print, and dashed madly up the gangway to the after deck only to find about 1000 other guys already jamming the rails scanning the horizon in search of that which we hadn’t seen for 10 days.  The long thread-like strip of land gradually grew in size and before it takes the time to write it down (or so it seemed) we could discern ships of various shapes and forms, buildings of strange architecture and finally the people themselves!  The gay-colored uniforms of the French colonials were predominant; G.I.’s in olive-drab fatigues cast curious glances our way as if to say – you’ll be sorry!  Hundreds of trucks, every type imaginable, were scurrying to and from the docks; giant cargo ships unloaded their valuable material of war; barrage balloons floated lazily above us protecting the harbor from air attack.  I tried to absorb the newness of everything around me but there was so much activity I couldn’t take it all in.  There were  no flags waving; no joyous crowds to welcome us – we were just another boatload of American soldiers arriving to take part in the business at hand.

         We stayed on board the Butner the rest of the day and at 07:00 hours on Mar. 2^nd we strapped on our worldly goods and stepped off the gangplank onto foreign soil.  The historic city of Casablanca was spread all around us.  I don’t recall ever having seen anything as downright impressive as on the ride thru the outskirts of Casablanca from the docks to the new post.  The massive date palms draped over the highway; the straw and mud huts along the side of the road belonging to the lowly Arab; rickety old carts of every description rattling along with the little old jackasses pulling with all their might while the musty, bearded native in the driver’s seat gave us a perfunctory look; occasionally a close-veiled woman would be walking behind a cart – obviously the man’s wife; and as we drove on little kids, some no older than Glennie, would beg us for candy and cigarettes.  We tossed a few and the ensuing scramble would keep us laughing. 

         I saw a little girl, she couldn’t have been over 12, with an infant strapped onto her back plodding along under her burden, oblivious of everything going on around her.  I’ve often read of young mothers but this was an occasion when I could say, “I’ve actually seen it!”

         The Arab children were a great source of my concern.  I have never believed that humans could live in an environment so close to that of an animal!  They were dressed in the barest of clothing – a gunny sack if they were lucky.  Shoes were something they didn’t know existed.  They were dirty – no, filthy in the sense of the word, with no more desires than something to eat occasionally and a place to sleep when night overtook them.  Little boys of 8 or 9 worked on a railroad gang for 10 cent a day and girls – well, as soon as they lost that childish look they married and started to raise a family!  A girl of 14 is considered an old maid and just about her only means of livelihood is to join the vast army of prostitutes roaming from place to place wherever men congregate. 

         Two hours after we left the pier we reached our destination, Camp Don B. Passage, named after and dedicated to the first American soldier to give his life in North Africa.  We only stayed there two days, but Bob Walk and I were lucky enough to get an 8 hour pass so we spent a very enjoyable time in Casablanca proper.  People of every race and creed roamed the streets.  Moslems, Frenchmen, Mohammedans, Chinese, Jews, Poles, Russians and many well-dressed refugees from occupied Europe.  Everybody seemed to be marking time – waiting for something to happen!

         We spent most of our time in the Chateau Blanca, a quaint little saloon, drinking cognac and watching the floor show – and what a show!  It put American burlesque to shame!  Every time we ordered a drink, the cute French girl would say in a very coquettish tone, “Wee, wee, Baby!”  Some fun.

         By the time we had to leave for camp I was pickled – very, very pickled!  Bob had to drag me out the place bodily and escort me to the nearest G.I. bus stop and from there to Passage!  If Bob hadn’t been with me I’d probably still be sitting in that bar listening to the cute French girl say, “Wee wee, Baby.”

         On the morning of March 4, I found myself once again loading onto a G. I. Truck.  However, it was only a ten-minute ride this time.  We were dumped off at a very disreputable–looking railroad station and herded into very disreputable-looking freight cars!  Now these cars are really something.  We had been accustomed to the comforts of American passenger cars with their spongy plush seats and upon being confronted with these bare, drafty, dirty boxcars, our ego had been dealt a cruel blow!  These cracker crates are commonly referred to as “40 or 8’s”, meaning forty men or 8 horses, but being U. S. soldiers, we were given the doubtful pleasure of only 35 men per car.  I can still see that beautiful picture of arms and legs entwined, field packs piled everywhere, cases of C rations in one corner, muttered curses by someone who had had a G.I. shoe pushed into his face!

         Our discomfort increased as we rattled past the quaint little towns of North Africa.   Sidi Bel Abbis, Abasa Dem, Bela Bes, Attai Bel Sim, all small agricultural settlements, were no different from the “badlands” of Casablanca.  Natives running along the tracks begging for “bonbons or cigarettes or some more enterprising vendor would offer walnuts and oranges in exchange for smokes.  Business flourished for these boys!

         We reached Oran 3 hours after leaving Passage and with great glee left the “40 or 8’s” behind and boarded H.M.S. Almansora for the next phase of our journey, across the sub-infested waters of the Mediterranean to Italy!  The voyage was uneventful, however, and the novelty of listening to the British sailors murder the English language was great sport.  Eating ‘bully beef’ and drinking tea for every meal also had its points. 

         At 1200 hours on March 7^th we docked in Naples harbor and here I saw the first evidence that a war was raging nearby.  What was once a beautiful seaport filled with large pleasure liners was now a mass of rubble and sunken derelicts; gigantic overhead cranes hung crazily, their foundations shattered; a massive concrete bulkhead had been dynamited to block the entrance and in the background large warehouses on shore had been burst so that only the steel skeleton remained!    I walked down the gangplank onto the temporary pier and stood dumbfounded as I gazed at the wanton destruction everywhere.  The havoc of a raging tornado was slight compared to this!

         Everyone was quiet as we marched through the streets of Naples.  So this was Italy.  My first picture was a dismal one, indeed!  Vehicles jammed the roadways.  British trucks, G. I. jeeps and small Italian Fiats all pushing, shoving, trying to go someplace.  The M. P. directing traffic was sweating bullets trying to keep a semblance of control, but it seemed useless.  Conditions were anything but improved by the multitude of soldiers and sailors of every nation – and civilians, crowding the sidewalks!  Across the street a long line of poorly dressed Italians were waiting for food rations.  Over there sitting on the curb was an oldish woman nursing her infant.  Little kids in the barest of clothing ran to and fro along our column begging for whatever we might give them.  We passed a block of gutted buildings – 4 walls was all that remained of each one, sometimes only three.   A grim business, this!

         The railroad stations seemed utterly useless as we marched to the tracks, but evidently one section of rails was still usable because we were soon loading onto the lowly “40 and 8’s” once again!  This time the trip lasted only 3 hours, however; we stopped at the end of the line which turned out to be the forward echelon Replacement Depot, just outside of Caserta, and, what was more intriguing, only 20 miles from the front lines! 

         No more train rides from here.  This was the last stop before we reached our final destination.  From here we’d be assigned to regular fighting units, especially those that had suffered from enemy action.  Our equipment was checked once again, we were issued new rifles and even taken out to the range for a little practice.  The weather has been pretty nasty – rain and more rain.  Consequently, the fertile Italian soil is now a mass of ugly mud and lying down in the stuff in front of a rifle range is not my idea of a bed of roses.

         We had two days of this so-called final conditioning and then, on the morning of March 10^th we were called out to hear the names of the first group of men to be sent to the front.  “Roscoe, Arthur; Rutledge, John,” bellowed the sergeant.  “Stein, Solomon; Stoddart, Paul” and then, “STOREK, FRED.”  My heart dropped to my feet and buried itself in the mud as I answered meekly, “Here!”

         He continued calling names and when he finished we were told to pack our bags and be ready to move in an hour.  A few queries and we were told that we were being assigned to the 142^nd Infantry Regiment of the 36^th Division, a rugged outfit which was now fighting a bloody battle near Cassino.

         A light drizzle was falling from overcast skies as the 2 ½ ton trucks drew up to the loading zone where we had been waiting for an hour.  There was another roll call and as each man answered to his name he climbed onto one of the remaining trucks.  There was no laughter, no smiles – very little mirth among the men as they quietly helped each other with equipment onto the bed of the 6X6.  I glanced around at the faces of the men in my truck, looking deep into the eyes of each one hoping to see something I knew wasn’t there – a look of humor!

         They all looked like average, healthy men – just a handful of the many filling the gaps in the veterans holding the nearby front.  Nor did we have anything in common except the rank of private, the classification of riflemen, and because we were grouped by roster, all our names begin with S.

         In age, the majority was over 25.  Most of them were married and 5 or 6 were fathers.  Paul Stoddart has 3 children.  On the whole we were all Americans who had been kept out of the army in its formative stages because of dependency, essential work or physical ailments.  And because of our late entrance, we were replacements – infantry replacements.  Not as punishment, but because we were in the army and the army needed infantry replacements above all others!

         We had come a long way since we left the states, shunted along the irresistible trail from camp to camp, from train to boat, from boat to truck.  None of us had received mail.  Often we had missed meals because of the transient mess where once the food is gone it’s tough luck. 
         And now, as the convoy got under way – as the trucks skidded in the thick mud of the roadway – I suddenly realized that all this wandering was over, that what might prove to be the end of the trail was almost in sight!

         I could hear the artillery very distinctly now.  Whether it was our big stuff or some that the enemy was throwing in I could not tell.  It had been close to three hours since our departure.  The trucks labored as we neared the steep mountains before Cassino.  Now and then someone would let go with a nasty remark about the rain or curse his water-soaked overcoat.  Conversation was attempted but the overcast skies, the grinding of gears and the increasing rumble of cannons didn’t create the atmosphere for talking.  Everybody was tense!

         After what seemed to be more like 3 days than 3 hours we pulled in to a clearing – a bivouac area.  Pyramidal tents were set up haphazardly on the high ground above the road.  We jumped off the trucks to the bellowing of still another roll call.  Overstuffed barracks bags came flying off making a “ploop” as they hit the mud, mud which obliterated the stenciled names on the bags making the task of finding your own bag a little tougher.  What the hell!  Who cares!

         Finally, after tramping around in the quagmire until the slush was churned up into a pretty mess of milk-chocolate – after bumping into a thousand guys loaded down with bags and packs, we managed to line up in front of the orderly room (I say orderly room because that’s what the sign which stuck at a crazy angle in front of a dirty tent read, “Company C Orderly Room”).  Here we were confronted with a grimy, tired-looking sergeant (1^st sergeant Dave Halliburton, I later found out) who looked up and down our ranks and after putting us at ease, he said, “Okay, you guys, you know what you’re here for!  I don’t have to tell ya.  We’ve been waiting three days for you guys to get here and now that you’re here, welcome to our city (laughing).  I know you have a lot of questions, but all I can tell you now is that we move up to our positions on Mount Castelona tomorrow night at 7:30.  Castelona is that peak over there (he pointed to a mountain that wasn’t far enough away to suit me)!  So you haven’t much time to get ready.  Sgt. Nix and Sgt. Kurbo and Cpl. Babbich will assign you to tents.  Any questions you might have, ask them and as soon as you get into tents grab your mess kits and form in front of that large kitchen tent over there.  We’re going to give you some chow!”  His last word started the guys yelling.  Goddam, somebody said, it’s about time!  The tension, the strain, the worry of coming battle no longer existed.  We were going to get something to eat! 

         When a man is hungry even a meal of warm C rations appears inviting so after duly being assigned to tents – tents in which the ground was damp and in places actually wet – we didn’t waste any time dashing to this front-line version of a mess hall.  Beef and vegetable stew, canned pears, white bread and coffee – hot coffee – quelled my appetite to the extent that I almost felt normal, but Napoleon, notwithstanding, a full stomach sort of accentuates the pressure which is bearing down on my insides as I contemplate the move we make tomorrow night!  After all, Napoleon had a horse.

         Sleep comes pretty easily in my new home after the tiring day.  The ominous rumble of artillery – both sides – kept up all night.  Now and then the faint chatter of a machine gun would echo through the mountains.  Probably a recon patrol hitting a little opposition.

         I awoke the next morning to the shrill cry of sergeant Halliburton’s whistle, hurriedly dressed in damp clothes and sopping shoes and rushed outside to form in the chow line.  The rain had subsided during the night so it was almost a pleasure to wait for the hotcakes that were dumped into our mess kits.  These were my first hotcakes since leaving the states.  Seconds were in order.  Yes, even thirds.  Cripes, were they delicious!

         We spent the morning checking equipment, rerolling our packs and drawing the essential ammunition – 16 clips of 20 caliber rifles were given a thorough cleaning, bayonets oiled, dry shoes coated with grease and 2 pair of heavy socks were stowed into our pockets.  Then we were issued combat suits, heavy wool-lined jacket and overall affairs which gave the comfortable feeling of warmth just to look at them. 

         By 12:00 o’clock we had everything in order, ready to go, so after a presentable noonday meal we went back to our tents and spent the afternoon chewing the fat with the old men, prodding them with questions about what to expect coming up.  They all seemed somewhat reticent to talk at first, but soon opened up. 

         S/Sgt Oliver Lee, my new squad leader, tenderly called “General Lee” by the boys, told us about the hot times crossing the Volturno River.  He had just come back from the hospital, he was hit by a German rifle grenade while directing some of the men into positions.  He showed the scar on his calf where a piece of steel had gone through.

         S/Sgt  Charlie Johnson and Cpl. John Babbich had supported a bazooka man who had knocked out three tanks in the Cassino Valley, shot up a platoon of Jerrys until the rest of the unit came up.  Somebody later told me they had both been recommended for D. S. C.’s.

         The veterans tried to give us helpful hints to observe when under fire, giving us the lowdown on how it is up there.

         “It’s good that we’ve had this time to talk to you guys,” Charlie Johnson said, “Some of you might let it sink in; some of you won’t.  We had to raise hell with the last bunch of replacements.  I had to raise hell when one of the new boys got shot with his own gun.  A guy hands him the gun with the safety off!”

         The talk went on to first reactions in combat, to the first view of a man getting hit.  “It’s just TS,” said Voss, a pfc who had made the invasion at Salerno.  “I’ve seen my friends get it and it’s just T.S.  Sure, it bothers you, but what can you do?”

         We new men heard everything and said nothing.  There really wasn’t much we could say.  We were just getting acquainted!

         The jabbering went on for hours until it was finally time for supper – our last hot supper for who knows how long.  After chow we were issued a three day supply of C & K rations which had to be squeezed into our pack.  5:30 P.M.!  6:00 o’clock.  6:30.  It was growing darker.  7:00 o’clock.  At 7:15 Halliburton blasted away on his whistle.  Nobody told us what to do.  We knew.  Combat suits zipped up, packs strapped on.  We lined up along the muddy road in platoon formation, 1^st platoon leading followed by the second, third and the heavy weapons platoon in the rear.  I was in the first platoon.  It wasn’t long before another blast of the whistle stirred us into action.  “Okay, let’s go,” someone yelled.  I tightened my cartridge belt, worked my hand grenades into pack straps, picked up my loaded rifle and took off 3 paces behind the man in front of me. 

         2 A.M., March 12, 1944.  We’ve been on the go for almost 5 hours now – always climbing.  Now and then we’d get a 10 minute break to rest our aching dogs, but 10 minutes was not ample time.  No sooner did we sit down when we’d have to be off again.  None of the guys seem to be complaining, though; probably too tired to waste valuable energy to curse somebody or something.  Maybe the image of God has swallowed up all the complaints – all the thoughts of those soldiers as they face war on this dismal mountain in Italy.

         We just passed 4 Sherman tanks lined up on the side of the road.  In the darkness, their dim outlines are barely visible but their presence lends confidence to we of the infantry.  One of the mechanical monsters hangs at a crazy angle off the road’s edge.  Heavy rains softened the shoulders and the bulky M-4’s have trouble whenever mud obstructs their path.

         Intermittently the blinding flash, followed by the deafening roar, of one of our .55 mm howitzers will split the stillness of the night.  We’ve passed battery after battery of these big guns, dug into positions above and below us.  When they let go with a salvo – over our heads, no less – into the German positions, it’s enough to make a man flinch and run for cover, even with the knowledge that they’re our guns.  First the flash, and the roar pressing sound into your eardrums and then a split-second later the , Wh-e-e-e-e-e-e-o-o-ooo as the projectile speeds to its objective somewhere over the mountain top finally ending its flight as a low rumble echoes and reechoes through the valleys.  I have a stinking hunch that our adversaries will have to do without sleep tonight!  Don’t think I’ll get any either!  Probably couldn’t if I wanted to.

         At 3:30 AM our column stopped.  Word is passed along from man to man that we are on the crest of Mt. Castelone.  Runners are soon dispatched to Regimental C.P. to get info as to our exact positions.  They shortly return with the data and we’re off once more only this time we march downhill a short distance, stumbling on the rocky ground, eyes straining to see the misty form of the man in front.

         It isn’t long before our company is segregated into platoons and platoons down to squads.  Sergeant Lee gathers us together in the darkness and orients us on the military situation. 

         We’ve reached the end of the trail, he explains.   Our battalion has an 800 yard front to cover.  To our left flank is the 2^nd battalion, 3^rd in reserve.  On our right flank, extending to the eastern slopes of the mountain is a division of British Colonials, probably Senegalese natives and in front of us – well, in front of us we have a wide valley above which rises Monte Cassino and the Abbey.  Within the Abbey and on the forward slopes of the mountain a few German divisions, well-imbedded, well-supplied await our arrival whenever that may be.  Our 141^st Regiment is spread out directly behind us and the 143^rd is taking it easy on the protected slopes of Castalone, backing up the artillery.

         Lee divides our squad into pairs (I’m teamed with Johnny Marks, an old Veteran of Salerno) and as haggard, as weary as we are from the long climb, we immediately commence hacking away at the rocky ground preparing a good two-man foxhole before the light of day finds us in the very unhealthy position of being without cover from enemy artillery!

         The ground doesn’t want to give in to the G.I. pick and shovel that Johnny and I are wielding with all out might. We have to be content with a rock barricade on the forward slope of the mt. and a shallow hole behind it to protect us from stray pieces of steel from Jerry guns.  And as dawn brings light and the blackness about us, our personal fortress is completed.  We sit back restfully and munch on our K rations.  It wasn’t long before my curiosity got the better of me and I stuck my head above the rock parapet and took in the surrounding country. Even in the early morning light I could distinctly see the Cassino Abbey across the valley.  It didn’t look like much, but I knew that it was an all-important German O.P. and the accurate fire that had been raining down on our troops held up any possible chance for an advance.  

         0800, 12 March 1944

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     /s/With love for Fred and his memory, Fred Storek's family

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