WAR by James E. Mortensen 460th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion - HQ Co

Truth and objectivity are the first battle casualties in any war. Countries lie before, during and after the war. Most individuals stretch the truth beforehand, either in terms of what they are going to do or what they have already done. Many expand on their exploits after the war as well, for many reasons. Sometimes, even the true veterans go astray because they simply can't remember the exact details of the action in the giant war fought so many years ago.  These variations on a truth-in-war theme were brought home to me very recently. Through a friend, I discovered a book written about my regimental combat team. The book, written by a journalist who happened onto a reunion held in New York City, probably in September 1945. When I first opened the book, I was astonished to see the picture of a close friend and former section leader, Joe David Brown. Joe had been wounded shortly after receiving a battlefield commission, and sent home for therapy and discharge. This pleasant surprise was far and away the best part of the book. 

The story of the 517th RCT was told through a series of anecdotes recalled by some of the individuals present at the reunion. This might have been interesting to a casual reader interested in World War II paratroop lore. But I was there and I didn't recognize many of the episodes described, even though some actions were described in great detail!   Ah, but great historians know that the same law influences the history of all campaigns. Combat stories from our business careers, long after the war, fall into the same trap. I had a most interesting experience (just a few weeks before typing this paragraph) that confirmed this discovery.

Three high-level warriors from the good old days at the company where I spent 25 of my 73 years had lunch recently. Two of those in attendance began to discuss a meeting that took place some twenty years before. A very important session, it was a confrontation between our company and a legendary real-estate tycoon who represented the partners of the building we had occupied for over fifty years.  The basic story was the same on both sides. Our company made a deal for the purchase of the building; the price and closing date were set; the famous tycoon reneged on the deal. Simple. Straightforward, just like the war-we went to Europe and we won! Memories can't alter those facts. But they murder the details! Most of the meeting's intricacies, even to its location, were 'fuzzy!' I happen to know that my version of all the events and details was absolutely correct, of course. Unfortunately, I know my friend and colleague felt the same way! So be it.                                           

I entered the US Army as a raw recruit shortly after my 18th birthday in the spring of 1943, and lived through the induction process at Ft. Logan, CO. My serial number, according to both sets of my dog tags was 57357031. The entire time was spent in the paratroops as a member of the 517th Regimental Combat Team, a part of the 82nd Airborne Division after December 1, 1944.

Sergeant Mortensen's discharge is dated 20 December 1945. It also took place at Ft. Logan, a most unpleasant place, both coming and going.  It was here, at Fort Logan, at the end of the second day, that I volunteered for the paratroops. Why the paratroops? In truth, it happened after about 36 hours of unabated displeasure at the induction center, even before the rumored weeklong stay could exact its toll. I needed to get out of there, fast, because my freedom underwent substantial downsizing during those awful introductory hours.   An announcement was made at the evening meeting, at about 8PM, after a miserable meal called dinner. The smiling captain said, If anybody wants to leave Ft. Logan tonight, volunteer for the paratroops and depart at 11PM to catch a train to Georgia. I heard more of the promise than the price. My hand went sky high. One other hand joined in. In a rare display of being as good as their word, they inspected us, declared us physically fit, then sent us off on time and we were officially transferred to the paratroops. All we had to do was survive the training, and then the real war. The moment arrived and changed my life forever. 

The train ride was the longest and hottest of my lifetime of travels. Traveling from Denver, CO to Camp Toccoa, GA was an exercise involving at least six or seven railroads, none of which exist now. Worse than flying through the Dallas hub today, it was an endless series of switches, sidetracks and delays and produced a journey lasting four days! But we were treated to Pullman accommodations. Air conditioning, available every now and then, depended on the occasional block of ice handed down by a sympathetic employee in some unknown rail yard. Food depended on the whims of the railroad in charge and they all assumed we were on a very strict diet. 

Mid-morning, on a very hot day in Georgia, some railroad shunted our car to a siding. We were nowhere. All we could see was the red-earth of the cut through the hill and a lean, mean and lanky staff sergeant, our welcoming party.  Gear and bodies off the train, the sergeant said. And the minute our feet touched the gravel, he ordered us to hit the ground. Fifty pushups, NOW!

Given our lack of conditioning, four days on the train, the hot and humid weather and our wool uniforms, there was no way we could accomplish our first mission. Relenting, after about ten or fifteen successful pushups, he went into the standard lecture. Okay, you pansies, we'll let you go this time. But, if you can't do fifty pushups within five days, you're washed out. You'll never make it to Benning.

And understand two things-we double-time everywhere we go, and we do pushups whenever and wherever your instructor commands. Get used to it! Now, since you can't do pushups, you have to run, all the way to the trucks at the top of the hill. And we did, though at something less than the pace of our leader. 

All of us, whatever our origins, very nearly died during the first few weeks of training. For the few of us used to the low humidity of the high plains, it was the prickly heat as well as the incredible physical demands that weighed on us. Lighter weight clothing helped but little.

We arose at the crack of dawn, ran to the mess hall, ran back to the very temporary buildings they called barracks, then double-timed to the assembly areas where we did all the calisthenics ever devised, hiked over the hills, ran back to the barracks and the mess hall . . . and then collapsed for a short night's rest. I survived.

I made the cut, as did most of the arrivals. By the end of phase one, just as they had planned it, we were transformed into physically fit kids ready for anything.   Our first move was to the north, all the way to Camp Mackall, North Carolina. This minor extension of Fort Bragg was buried in the sand hills of what is otherwise a wonderful state. 

Running and doing pushups for the slightest infraction or stupidity were still very much in style, but suddenly training became more interesting. The pack 75mm howitzers arrived, we began to carry carbines and other weapons, and over the horizon loomed Ft. Benning, our ultimate goal. The pace quickened. Everyday we jumped out of the tower mock-ups several times. The door looked exactly like the ones on the C-47's at Benning. Out the door, turn left, duck the head, clutch the emergency chute . . . and ride the cable to the sawdust pit a few hundred feet down the way. Soon there was no thought given to the process at all. Out the door, turn left, down the cable, over and over and again and again. 

In the meantime, our conditioning reached a new level. Those pack howitzers . . . there was no motorized equipment to pull those thousand-plus pound chunks of metal. Human power did it. Yes, six or seven of us, each equipped with a tow strap, hauled the darn things over the hills and through the sand until we resembled pack mules. No surprise, for the weapon was originally designed for just such use. Paratroopers merely replaced the pack animals! 

Long hikes, mini-maneuvers, lectures, demonstrations, all continued at a pace at or a little beyond our capacity to absorb. But we strived, learned, merged into a cohesive unit and kept our eyes on the trip to Benning. Next month became next week and we suddenly were out of the fire into the Benning frying pan. The training area at Ft.

Benning, lovingly called the Frying Pan, was appropriately named for those who arrived there in the summer of 1943. Scorching heat didn't slow down the process, though. Everything continued as before. More training towers at first,  and then the big drop from the 250-foot tower. Real chutes were used with cable guides to assure our orderly approach to the ground. This was serious and getting us closer and closer to the first jump.  

Next came parachute packing as an after-hours pursuit. Everybody paid very close attention to these instructors. NO exceptions, for we soon had to pack our own chute for each of the five jumps scheduled for the next week. The long smooth tables made the packing chore as simple as it might be. Straighten the lines, fold the fabric, and then gently pack it into the proper shape for the canvas cover. Lace it up and then worry that night about whether or not it would open the next day.

The training plan produced complete exhaustion by the end of the day so nobody could possibly stay awake and worry!  We fretted and tensed up a bit, but Drop Day arrived anyway, right on schedule. Packed parachutes picked up, we trucked over to the nearby airfield. Little conversation accompanied the noise to of the truck. The brakes squealed. We looked out and there it was, the plane with the open door, our date with destiny.

No mockup this time for it was a well-used C-47, gassed and impatient to be under way. A 21-man stick of nervous troopers herded themselves on board for their first jump. Neither the plane nor the crew exhibited much sympathy for this anxious bunch. They yelled at us and told us that they were about to prove to us that the chute we packed would work as our sole means of support. Or not. 

This was the first airplane flight for every member of the stick. Only the crew had previous experience. They were relaxed so we tried to echo their calmness. But it wasn't easy, for bumpy flying at 600 feet on a hot day quickly added more turbulence to the internal disturbance churning in each beginner's stomach. The drop zone was but a few miles away so there was little time to grow too upset.

In far too short a time, the scrawny, tough little jumpmaster told us get off our butts and move around to check each other's equipment for one last time.  A red light went on, code for the reality that we were but a couple of minutes from the Drop Zone. Stand up and hook up he shouted. I was number four or five in the stick. My right hand did a quick check of the parachute in front of me. My left hand reached up to clip my static line to the airplane's anchor cable. This cord connected the anchor to the cover of my main chute, and, in theory, the cord would rip the cover off my chute before I was fifteen feet from the door. Then, in no time, the cover would pull the chute out of the pack and the prop blast would blow it wide open. And I would descend gently to the ground. In theory. 

Rule number one required that I push the clip toward the rear of the plane as the stick moved out the open door, fling it back to the end of the cable as I turned right to grasp the door and jump into space. Green light! Go, go, go, go, came the order and we began pushing down the aisle as though some battering ram was behind us and, within two or three seconds, there was the door.

My God, there was no time to even worry about what to do or how to feel. Grab the door, step out, turn left and duck! And it happened just as it had so many times from the training tower. The chute opened with a bang, thanks to the prop blast, but it delivered a painful jerk. But there I was drifting down toward the ground. No time for dreaming! Within seconds, my boots hit the ground and I rolled to lessen the shock, perhaps not quite as perfectly as we had done in training.

Now, get out of the chute, roll it up and run, yes, run to the truck at the end of the drop zone, as if in some kind of a contest. And then go back to the packing shed to redo the chute for the next day.   While running to the truck, I suddenly realized what had happened. It was over! I did it! I was a trooper! I completed the entire process from train side to plane side and didn't get tossed out for any reason whatsoever! No one could ever take that from me. I felt for one moment just about six inches taller than normal, for that very brief moment before our cheerful leaders piled us on the truck and hauled us back to the salt mine.

But the moment arrived and for the first time I knew that my role in this war was settled.  This went on five days in a row. No, it did not become easier, nor did any one of the jumps deliver more than a few seconds of pleasure. There was little but a constant grind of running, jumping, hitting the ground, repacking, pushups, hot and humid weather and a total mess only an eighteen-year-old recruit could endure-just as they had planned it.

But . . . but, as I hit the ground on the fifth jump, a stab of pleasure reminded me that this part of the war was over. The wings were mine, the boots were mine and I could wear my pants tucked up in a way that would make everyone realize those shiny boots were those of a full-fledged paratrooper. No need to look for the wings above the breast pocket or the paratroop patch on the cap worn at a jaunty angle.

All of which made us want to get to the real war even sooner. My certificate of completion of both the Parachute Packing and Voluntary Jumping requirements, I was appointed a QUALIIFIED PARACHUTIST on September 18, 1943. The certificate, still in my possession, carried the signature of Colonel James B. Anderson, Commanding.

The training schedule complied and back to North Carolina we went. Almost overnight the emphasis switched from jump school preparation to combat preparation. Full combat gear became standard fare most of the time. Training jumps became less an exercise in the art of parachuting and more the labor of getting a lot of men and equipment down to and assembled on the ground in the shortest possible time.

Loading the bomb racks under the wings with the pieces of the howitzer and its ammunition, and the door loads with communications gear placed strenuous loads on even the young, well-conditioned bodies. Suddenly we weighed near 300 pounds when we went out the door, with neither the size of the chute nor the jumping altitude changed to accommodate the heavier load. Long hikes, rapid deployment, live ammunition, simulation . . . all became routine as the summer months dissolved into the pleasant Carolina Fall.

All of our activities intensified as rumors about our division's future were everywhere. Nobody knew anything, of course, but everybody acted as if they knew it all. Par for the course!  With the end of the year approaching we were granted our first passes, then furloughs. We should have read the signs for not long after the last bunch returned from home, the train was ready to take the division to Tennessee for maneuvers.

Only three memorable events come to mind from this otherwise mostly unpleasant experience. First, the pup tent affair. Putting up a tent on the solid rock slope of a Tennessee mountain is an exercise in futility. Without stakes, use rocks. There was no way to ditch the tent or divert the water in any way. Rains at 2AM proved that ditching is a requirement. Water ran down the center of the tent for all the remaining hours of the night as we tried in vain to keep our sleeping bags dry. Morning never arrived so slowly! 

A few days later, after an all night patrol, we were desperately hungry. Coming down the mountain we saw a lone farmhouse and took a chance. We knocked on the door and asked, as pleasantly as possible, if we might get something to eat. Never, ever was I made to feel so welcome. Eggs, sausage and pancakes, coffee of a quality never before seen, arrived in huge quantities. The owners of the farm were so welcoming and friendly that we knew we were dreaming. Let us pay you, we said. No, it is our privilege, said the couple. 

Another few days later, in the middle of the night, we were rudely awakened and told to pack immediately! Our fearless leader went on to say that our combat team was being ripped out of the division and sent overseas without delay. The trains were waiting. In the first light of dawn, it became apparent that no breakfast would be served because there was no kitchen. What they did have was beer, the last remaining treasure of the regiment, one that must be forfeit when we boarded the train.

So, we jumped and opened the cans, only to find the beer frozen. Not quite, it was the water in the beer that was slushy and the 3.2% alcohol on the label became something substantially in excess of the legal limit. No one cared!  (Note: this is taken from a November 1945 piece written on a typewriter once owned by Bill Downs of CBS, or so it said on the case. At this point in time, I would still have been in Berlin.)

After we returned to camp and picked up our gear and packed up all the equipment, we were off! The train was hitting top speed, and soon, past the window flashed the woods and the houses and the rivers of Virginia. The ride was far from tiresome and very short. But within that time, the passengers were crowding into their minds the scenery, for this was the last bit of America their eyes would see for a long, long time and things like houses and roads, uninteresting subjects that civilians accept as part of their lives, suddenly became the most precious thoughts.

One hour had already passed and Newport News now loomed ahead, and that was the end of the line. What to do with the last twenty-seven minutes? What is the proper thing to remember? No one knows, no two people will remember the same pieces of these last few minutes.  Necks were craned as the train passed through the city.  Perhaps the pretty girls would linger the longest in our thoughts.

There is the traffic that always seems so American, and the buildings and the parks and the railroad, but the minds of those on the train wandered and were confused. Now, just seven minutes. The train stopped for no one, it was high priority traffic, and the pace remained constant, always drawing nearer and nearer to the docks. 

Now it's through the factory area, and then the waterfront came into view, and into the maze of tracks that form the yards right at the pier and without slackening speed, out to the docks and, finally, the train came to a screeching halt. Not twenty yards from the track was the USS Cristobal. We had been at the dock just a few minutes when the Red Cross came up and gave out coffee and doughnuts.

We were standing there with all our gear, and it weighed at least one hundred pounds. The coffee was hot, and no one could drink it right away, so we just stood there in ranks with a hot cup in our hands. There was an Army band nearby and instead of playing martial airs, they were playing swing music because most of the fellows would rather hear it at this stage of the game. 

After just ten minutes of standing around, the order came down to get aboard. The coffee was still hot, too hot. And so, as if another order had been given, everyone sat the coffee down just where he was standing. When I climbed on the boat and looked down, there were some four hundred cups of coffee lined up and dressed right.

Funny, now, as I look back on that incident, it remains the brightest memory of all. All the troopers were aboard now only the official command to sail held up the departure. Quarters were none too good, never are on troop ships, but the crowd was in excellent spirits. Then at 1700 hours, the 17th day of May l944, the USS Cristobal shoved off and the long journey of the 5l7th Parachute Combat team was under way, a trip that included five countries, six combat stars and "Beaucoup" Purple Hearts.

Just like the rest of them, I was asking the same question.  Where to? The sailors were queried time and again with always the same answer. We've been everywhere. We can't tell you, because we don't know. As for me, I only had a hunch. The ship had, by this time, joined four others as they were approaching the anti-submarine net.

The process of flashing identification signals required very little time and the gate was lowered for the convoy without a hitch. As the convoy passed, all the GI's aboard waved at those 'stay at home' sailors who, by this time, were considered rookies by these veterans of two hours sea duty! The sun was sinking fast, but there was enough light to see the escort carrier winking at us from the distance, and sufficient to see America fading away in the west. No Statue of Liberty to wave goodbye to, just a common, ordinary port in Virginia. But it was the homeland and aboard the Cristobal, not one but all the soldiers on board watched America pass into darkness. Among those youthful paratroopers there were some that had a lump in their throat. Before long, it had disappeared.

Once on board, they packed us into every nook and cranny. As a wartime voyage, it was not unpleasant. To avoid the monotony, I volunteered on the first day for the sunrise scrub-the-upper-deck patrol and enjoyed the beauty and the exercise. Sea-going sunrises were, I found, every bit as beautiful as Wyoming's morning routine. 

One shocking event saddened the whole battalion and overshadowed for the moment any potential danger from enemy action from above or below the surface of the sea. Three sergeants, all of them members of the original cadre that 'welcomed' us to Camp Toccoa, broke into the medicine locker. The alcohol was clearly labeled POISON: UNFIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION! They went to a dark corner of the office, broke out the can of grapefruit juice and had a great party. All three were dead within hours. There was shocked silence during the burial ceremony and a deep sense of disbelief as the bodies went over the side one by one. 

One serious submarine threat occurred as we approached Gibraltar, but the destroyer screen comforted us. A few days before Gibraltar the engineers had to stop the engines. No other vessel was allowed to share our fate. All proceeded apace. Within moments we were well behind the convoy and were surrounded by a silence broken only by the sound of the modest waves breaking against the hull of the ship. After drifting for an hour or so we finally lost sight of the convoy, but then heard and felt the welcome pulse of the engines.

We caught up with the rest of the convoy before darkness arrived, and felt just a tad superior to those other ships who had experienced no such danger. 

ARRIVAL AT NAPLES

We touched Africa, then pulled into the harbor at Naples . . . and the real war, my war arrived. All of us were topside as the San Cristobal pulled into the harbor. The sunken ships, the damage to the docks and warehouses attested to the efficiency of the regular nighttime raids by the Germans. Though waning in numbers, there was still a Luftwaffe presence in this part of the world. Since it was late in the day, we didn't pause when it came time to get off the ship.

Lugging all of our personal possessions, and the cartons of smokes handed to us as we prepared to leave, we disembarked in record time. It should be noted that our personal gear's weight peaked at that point in time. From then on, throughout our stay in Europe, the size and weight of personal gear grew smaller and smaller and smaller. 

Our unit quickly assembled on the dock and marched a few blocks to the train station. Within half the distance most of the cigarettes handed to us, most of which had been stuck in the top of the back pack or musette bag, were picked off by the wily urchins who ran along with the formation. We were defenseless against such attack. Both hands were overloaded. They attacked from the rear at a speed we could not match. It was a terrible slaughter! We survived and were soon encamped in the crater of Mt. Vesuvius, our point of assembly.

Several days of backbreaking work ensued as we unloaded and uncrated all the gear and weapons and ammunition needed to fight a war. And then it was off to the front.  

BOARDING THE LSTs

We boarded LST's for Anzio, only to have the vessels rerouted to Civitavecchia. We landed and moved smartly into position. It was a brief and furious introduction to warfare as practiced by those stuck in Italy. But for the artillery teams, or at least to those who intended to be directly involved in battle, it left us with a feeling that we weren't quite in the thick of things.

Oh, we fired a lot of rounds and took a fair amount of fire, but we were too far from the target of our rounds to give us a sense of direct participation.  At this point, it became clear to me that I needed a change in direction as far as my military career was concerned. Combat experience convincingly demonstrated to me that being a plotter at an entrenched gun battery is not quite the same as being at the other end of the chain, at the scene, at the spot where the targets were identified and directions given to the battery by phone or radio.

Since I couldn't transfer to the infantry, I had to join them as part of a forward observer team. Without pull, rank or friends among the management, I could do no more than make a plea to my battery commander. We were not close friends, and I was not quite sure just what he might do! Maybe that's why I wound up in a forward observer section within a few short days, a most satisfactory assignment. 

In early July, as I recall, we were pulled out of the lines and moved to Frascati, the home of a celebrated Italian wine, a town pretty much devastated by the armies of at least two countries. Nobody, Italian or American, much cared because it was also known as a center of much Black Shirt activity and support.

The Germans and Italian Fascists had been very active there. There happened to be a large ammunition dump in one of the large natural caves near the lake. A couple of us discovered it and began a series of small, test explosions. Then, one fine Sunday afternoon, we blew the whole damned place up! Great noise and shock waves upset the town no end. We chose not to run for office in that town!

But our recreation was at an end for my leg flared up again. Hurt in the crater, damaged again in our combat tour, it became enlarged and very painful. So, I had to travel into Rome for treatments each day for a few weeks. Tough duty! Whatever they did, it worked and bothers me now only when standing too long in one spot. 

My brother-in-law to be, a Captain in the Air Corps in the toe of Italy, knew of my presence in Italy and tracked down our unit. We spent about 36 hours together and toured the Vatican and the ruins. Ed was the only hometown contact I had during the entire time overseas. So each hour was enjoyed to the fullest extent. 

The rumor mill expanded its activity each day and soon predicted that we would be jumping into Southern France. The rumor hardened into fact and things became very serious. Test drops were made to make certain our door and bomb rack loads were packed to sustain us against the forces soon to be faced.

While we were double-timing from one task to another, our Air Corps neighbors were having their fun. Our squad tents seemed to attract fighter planes whenever we were out of the area. Their target was not the tent but the rope between the tent and the stakes! Yes, flying with one wing within two feet of the ground, between the rows of tents, at speeds at or around 300 MPH, the pilots were trying to cut the ropes with their wing tips. I guess the first one who dropped a tent to the ground won the gold cup or something. I don't know that I would have believed the story had I not seen it happen . . . and seen a picture to confirm it. This was the same airbase where one of the fighters took off and pulled straight up into the wing of a C-47, the only mid-air collision I have ever witnessed. Both somehow made it safely to the ground. 

JUMPING INTO FRANCE

Time slowed down as the magic date approached. The sand table model of the drop zone was prepared and viewed by all hands. Equipment was checked and rechecked. Assignments were finalized and we waited and waited until the evening of August 14th. Suddenly, the training was all over. My watch seemed to quit moving for there were no more formations, no more foolishness because there was nothing else to do except wait for the trip to the planes.

Trucks came rumbling into camp and within minutes we were on the way to the airbase.  There was a long wait, during which we could not loosen or untie any of the parachute straps or remove any of the equipment. All we could do was sit on the runway near the plane. Our getting down and up was about as graceful as a hippo on dry land.

Finally came the last words from the battalion commander, the walk to the plane door, awkward steps up the short ladder and into the seats along the sides of the plane. The doorload was shoved in the door, the static line attached, the load positioned and we were ready to go. The engines coughed a bit, then started and our plane taxied into position and waited for the final order to go. Within moments we moved down the runway, struggled for a bit of speed, lifted the tail and finally made it into the air. 

I was where I wanted to be, close to the center of the action. Sitting close to the battalion commander, in the lead plane, we would soon go out with the doorload when the green light flashed. Our flight cruised for what seemed like many hours through a black night with only an occasional flare from below to keep us in touch with the surface of the earth, flares presumably from the convoy carrying the ground troops toward our shared destination. 

Our wristwatches glowed in the dark and we watched the minutes melt away. After a very slow start, the minutes picked up speed and, all of a sudden, somebody said we were five minutes out and the red light flashed on. We checked our equipment as best we could, then checked each other's gear. The door load was nudged a little closer to the outside world and, with a minute or so remaining, we were as ready as we could be. Nothing was visible below, just pitch black night.

But if the pilot and navigator have it right, the drop zone will be 600 feet beneath us in no time at all. Green light! Out goes the doorload at 0435. Out I go. Wham! Twice the normal shock. No lowered flaps for this drop! The moment arrived and my war was now in full bloom.  Airplanes gone in seconds.

Silence and blindness during descent. No gunfire. Good sign. Whack! On the ground, chute harness off. Where the hell is the doorload?  Rows of vines get in the way. Sporadic gunfire. Not close. People sounds. Password worked. More people, but no doorload. Dawn cracks. Up and down the rows. No sign of it. Must get to assembly area. Come back later. Machine pistols. Too close. On to the road. Dozens of troopers now. Very little equipment yet.

The ragged drop scattered the regiment all over the place.  As the morning's light began to help in the search, equipment and men began to show up from all directions. Ripe tomatoes and grapes, seen as obstacles during the night, were now seen as the best source of food and refreshment. One assembled howitzer now in tow, stomachs filled, we began to feel like a real unit, even though we were not close to the planned drop zone. But we were at least mostly together in the wrong one!

The search for equipment gathered more fruit and by 0700 we were moving into position. Our observation post was on the first hill rising out of the valley and the process of clearing the way for the ground troops was off and running. Directing fire was difficult because we had no knowledge of the location of our guns.

The solution took time and ammunition but, once registered, our fire controlled the valley floor. Two additional events during the day added strength to our force. First, a glider battalion flew in during the early afternoon. Sitting well above the valley floor, we had the best seats in the house!

Oh, I'm so glad I jumped instead of arriving by glider! In theory, the glider touches down skids to a stop, goes up on its nose, then settles back down to the ground with every person and all equipment intact. The theory worked about half of the time. It failed when the glider hit a tree instead of the ground, obviously. Theory failed again when the glider hit the ground at the wrong angle and the body broke up rather than come to a screeching halt and doing the trip up on its nose. To the spectators it looked like the casualty rate was extensive but we never did hear a reliable count. Fortunately, the enemy in the valley was under control by the time they landed.

Later in the day a parachute battalion (the 555th? Or 556?) came in for a jump. What a great sight it was. The planes were precise, the jumps perfectly executed. Just before they came in I had gone on around to the north side of the steep hill we were using as an OP in search of a better location. As I turned around to watch the jump I saw that one trooper was going to hit near me. As he came down I ran over to make sure he was okay. I said, welcome. He was sure I was with the Waffen SS and took off over the hill at a very high speed. Not a word was spoken!   

Within a few short days the ground troops arrived and drove through our position without ceremony or error, and our unit then turned south to fulfill part two of the mission. The plan entailed a march down through Grasse, a neighborhood endowed with a smell appropriate to the perfume capital of France.

And then east to and over the French Alps (Alpes Maritimes) to the high mountains overlooking the Italian border. This seemed like a reenactment of Hannibal's march, except we lacked the elephants. Troopers pulled, carried and pushed all the gear over the mountain range. There were a few conscripted mules that helped with the heavy howitzer pieces and big mortar base plates.

But nothing helped those who lugged the 50-pound radio and battery packs. At the high altitudes, toward the end of the day, stops happened every few hundred yards. Food was scarce as our supply of grapes and tomatoes dwindled.  At one point, someone in our group caught an old rooster, but no one knew a single thing about cooking.

So, recalling my heavy experience in the kitchen in Cheyenne, I took charge, ordered a bit of scrounging for a few vegetables, and picked feathers and singed the body and then began to boil the devil out of the dismembered old bird. It boiled, I added anything that looked, felt or smelled like it would add something to the food value or taste of the final dish. In the end, it turned out to be very tasty, more than enough to satisfy a small group of hungry stomachs. There were no leftovers, despite the slight (read intense) toughness of the chicken. After such a glorious repast, the remaining miles to summit were easy.  The caravan dropped down to the valley, then followed the river leading up to Col de Braus, the pass over the top of the next range.

Once in Col de Braus we stopped and settled in. The observation post was a rock cairn on top of a very steep mountain; the living quarters a cave at the level of the highway. I spent two weeks in the cairn, observing Sospel and the surrounding valley, then received a pass for two days in Nice, then back to the cairn.

There is no way to describe the culture change between the two locations! Two weeks on the mountain, a pass to Nice, and so on.   Duty in the cairn required a lot of fire direction as German traffic moved back and forth across the valley and up over the next mountain on the road to Italy.

We often called up naval gunfire as well. The destroyers off the coast were very helpful because they had far greater firepower than we. Directly in front and a bit to the right of the OP, there was another hilltop. This was completely fortified and virtually impregnable, and effectively blocked the road going east toward Sospel.

We surely tried to break up the pillboxes buried in the stone and it was my constant target. At first light, every day, I would search for signs of movement or entry and, usually, would fire a few rounds into the area to keep things quiet.  Finally, they figured out where I was and the Germans responded with their artillery, but they couldn't quite get to the top of the mountain.

Some bright guy decided they would do better with 60mm mortars. The next morning as I was about to climb into the pile of rock, four mortar rounds landed within a few feet of me, but the force of the explosions blew away from my position. Lucky me. Now forewarned, I moved in and out of the OP with great care. Next they bracketed the cairn and kept trying to drop a shell right on the top of me.

Suddenly this war became very personal, between me and that damned fortified mountain across the saddle-shaped ridge. The mortar fire became a daily ritual and their aim continued to improve.  The exchange would usually be over by 10 or 11 in the morning so I thought I could get on with firing at more distant targets. The mistake was almost fatal.

I was looking down in the valley, the big binoculars hanging from my neck. Bang! A 60mm shell arrived and hit the top corner of my shelter. Rock and steel went whistling past my head as I ducked, with almost the same speed as the mortar shell! I waited five minutes, and then decided to take a look. I reached for my binoculars. Something wasn't right and as I brought them up for use I was stunned to see that the top third of the glasses were gone, sheared off as cleanly as if done with a jeweler's saw. Neither my jacket nor my chest was touched.

Close! Too close for comfort, so I moved my OP to the top of a more distant hill. There, up in the snowbelt, I could lay down interdiction fire on key bridges and intersections and keep it up every few minutes all night long. The mortars looked for me but never came that close again.  The Germans then withdrew and we plunged down the mountain to Sospel, then up to the top of the next range. There we overlooked Italy and were ready to move ahead when we were suddenly relieved and sent to a sort-of rest camp on the coastal plane near Cannes. It was now early December and the mornings in the Cote de Azure were colder than the devil. Nobody knew at the time that it was good training for events to come.

A dentist visited us shortly after we settled down. I had a pair of cavities, the remedy for which was to extract the teeth not fill the cavities. Thus, two very important molars disappeared, the absence of which caused me much pain and expense in later years. But, at the time, I thought I was the lucky one because, as I was waiting my turn I watched the extraction of a wisdom tooth.

Tech Sgt. Richardson, a good friend, had a jaw that didn't want to give up the tooth so the dentist stood up on the handles of the portable chair and, with the additional leverage finally managed to get it pulled. Poor Rich was battered and bruised and had but a few aspirin to take care of the pain.

ON TO SOISSONS

After the few days of rest, dentistry and decent food, we were packed on to a train and spent the next four days enroute to Soissons. The freight cars were the same that carried troops in World War I, or so it seemed. But we survived because we were looking forward to the first serious rest for over five months. We arrived, as I recall, on the 15th of December. One day was spent turning over heavy weapons to ordnance . . . and cramming in a little sightseeing.

The cathedral and the champagne vineyards were high on the list. And then the Germans cut loose their big attack, the one that led to what we now call the Battle of the Bulge.   Within a short period of time the generals decided how to stem the tide.

The 101st Airborne was ordered to anchor the south side of the advance, the 82nd the north. Simple strategy and since the two divisions were both south of the Germans, guess who got to their position first? They went to Bastogne, the 82nd headed north. Now assigned to the 82nd, we boarded the trucks late in the afternoon and rode and rode, first this way and that, then that way and this.

Trying to get to a changing destination in the middle of a dark night, driving without headlights is no trivial task. In the back of the open 6X6's, we were at or near the freezing level. We stayed there and bounced and froze, stopping only occasionally for an urgently needed relief stop. No food was available so the K rations-on-ice were the order of the day and night, at least for those who thought to pack one.

Sometime in the middle of the second night we were unloaded and told to get ready to attack at dawn, if we could get there in time. So we hiked, struggling to keep awake and get our bodies warmed up from the exercise. Those who couldn't walk and sleep at the same time soon learned, for that was the pattern for days to come. Move at night, attack at dawn . . . and try not to get buried in the snow, shot or otherwise disabled.

Thus began the sixty-plus days of snow, cold and danger that was the ultimate test of physical and mental endurance. I survived. Yet, as I look back, the pain, fatigue and stress, and wounds, are as remote and unreal as the taste of the half-frozen K-rations that kept us barely fed but alive for the duration of this dreadful period. There were times when it seemed best to give in to the constant pain, to take whatever escape route available. Few did. I didn't.

There is no describing the fatigue, the cold or the numbness. We became robots, moving out at night, ready for the next day's attack, looking for the weak spot in the German lines that would allow us to cut a vital cord, chewing on the frozen cheese or Spam from the K-ration used that day. 

After about one week we were joined by a part of the 7th Armored Division. We went to their combat command headquarters for a briefing and a general discussion about communication. We finished and, since we could not return to our OP until dark, 3 or four of us went up to the farmhouse attic. Somebody took out a deck of cards and, to pass the time, we started to play Hearts. After about an hour we were getting ready to leave when all hell broke loose.

Suddenly, without a sound, a giant 8-inch mortar shell crashed through the roof, through the floor no more than three feet from my chair, then on through the room below, through the rear wall of the house . . . then exploded. It blew up in the midst of the seven or eight people from the 7th who were huddled near the rear of the house so as to be protected from snipers. The shell had been set with about a one-second delay, enough to spare the lives of the three upstairs but take the lives of those below. It was close enough to score one more notch on the barrel. 

Snow and cold pursued us whether we were in the woods, on the roads or in the village. There was no escape. One memorable morning, we attacked and ran into heavy machine gun and small-mortar fire. But, even pinned down, the location of the fire was easy to find and I quickly adjusted fire on the target. I requested all guns to fire several rounds each. Nothing happened. I told the guy on the other end of the radio to fire for effect. And again nothing happened. Irritated, I asked for the battery commander and asked him, with impatience showing, why there was no action. He said they couldn't at that moment because of some priority or other, but he would give me one round from all guns after I readjusted the fire. A few other words were mumbled and I went back to targeting the battery. “Keep firing for effect,” I said. Four rounds landed in the target area, one from each gun. Nothing else happened. I called again and got the same kind of answer. And then it dawned on me. The battery didn't have any ammunition. They were at the minimum level and simply couldn't fire any more. And, of course, they couldn't tell us the facts over the radio. The rumors were true!

The Germans and logistic snafus had reduced our supply effort to a dangerously low level and we were now paying for it where it really counted. We stayed pinned down until dark.  Within 48 hours, the shortage began to ease. As the famed Red Ball Express began its incredible non-stop runs from the ports to the front, supplies bounced back to normal. And we returned to our usual pursuit.

But for one moment, we understood what is was like for the Germans who by then were running out of gasoline and ammunition and who were still many, many miles from the supply depots they needed to capture. In the end, we had the easy part of the logistics scenario.  For almost a week we were in a blinding snowstorm. No airplanes were seen or heard because they were all grounded.

Finally, the snow stopped, the temperature plunged even further and the planes came. Thousands came, every one in the Allied arsenal flew thousands of feet overhead or came in at low level and attacked targets nearby. We watched in awe as the Luftwaffe attacked the B17s. Some planes began to lose altitude, others trailed smoke, a few blew up in flames. One memorable view was the burning wing of a B17 descending gracefully to earth in a perfect spiral. Smoke poured out of one end, the propellers turned lazily as the wing caught up and passed several open parachutes from other planes.   The Germans failed to make much of a dent and from that day forward their size and the vigor of their attack declined.

Whether they were running out of fuel, planes or pilots, we know not, but were quickly erased as a threat.

A few days later, up on the ridge above Malmedy, I saw the last of the Luftwaffe. A jet screamed by my OP at about 300 feet elevation. The sight stunned me and I could see the face of the pilot for one brief second . . . then he and the Luftwaffe were gone forever.

At the same time, the Germans on the ground were losing far more than they gained and, finally, the attack ground to a halt. Now we could get serious about breaking out of the box. We moved to Bergstein, a small village near the Rohr River. It was a hazardous location. There had been a terrible tank battle here and there were carcasses everywhere. Every square inch of the place was covered by snipers and mortars, which made climbing out of our cellar OP a very dangerous occupation.

We finally chose a convenient tank as a latrine . . . until they dropped a mortar shell right through the turret and pulverized the poor GI who climbed in a few moments before.  Our observer group kept the batteries active with a heavy attack on machine gun emplacements, mortars and moving troops. We set up timed interdiction for the night, just to keep the pressure on.

During this heavy expenditure we learned the obvious lesson-the ammo shortage was over and we could keep going as long as we had something to shoot at. And that was no problem!  Each night of the first week in February, we moved east of the village and down to the river. Our goal, climb down the steep bank on the narrow trail through the woods and get across the Kall River.

But it was flooding and we had no equipment to bridge the flood. Besides, we had to crawl very slowly through a minefield in a single file, on a narrow path, down a very steep hill.  Each night, once we started to move, the Germans lit up the sky with one flare after another and kept us pinned down with heavy gunfire and rifle grenades.

On the night of February 7th one of the grenades came over my left shoulder and hit the ground in front of me. Most of the blast went away from me, but there was enough going my way to take a few nicks in my arm.  The day turned into a big one. Early in the morning, after being treated at the aid station in the basement, I went back up to the ground level center.

Amidst heavy mortar fire at my observation window, the binoculars picked up the sure signs of German flight. About one thousand yards ahead of us, just beyond the open pasture, the woods were alive with bobbing helmets, all headed for the river. Trucks and armor were parked, unmoving, obviously out of gas. It was turkey shoot time. I called up all the guns I could command and, observing from an awkward angle atop a pile of rubble, started firing and didn't stop for hours.

I fired with great confidence because I knew the precise location of OP, targets and guns. Accuracy was a given and I rolled fire up and down the target area with deadly impact. When, finally, there was no point in continuing I stepped back and fell flat on my back. My legs were paralyzed from the long hours of immobility. I just lay there, exhausted, and slept without realizing that my war was over.

At night the relief division headquarters arrived. There was no discussion, we happily gave them Bergstein and all of its assets and turned west in the morning and withdrew from the front and headed for rest.  The unit plodded slowly toward the rear, yelling and waving at the rested, bright-eyed, guys that were moving forward to replace us. We guessed they had not yet been in combat because several asked about what kind of souvenirs might be available up front. Some of us felt an urge to give them the benefit of our priceless experience, words from Olympus. But they wouldn't have listened any more than we would have on the first day in combat in Italy.

So we moved on, quietly, giving in to an occasional weary smile and wave, anxious now only for sleep and warm food and a bed roll. In the event, we got all of that and, for the first time in two months, a shower and a change of clothes, a shave and money. We cared little about the money at the time except for the poker players who, after 60 days of enforced idleness, began to catch up in earnest. And, though I did not know it at the time, my war was over.

PARIS FOR R&R

A few days later, the first passes to Paris became available. There were six for the battalion so a big drawing was held. For the second and last time in my life, I had the luck of the draw. About an hour later, as we were waiting for the truck, Lt. Weller found me and slipped a brown bag into my gear. It was his long overdue liquor ration, a priceless piece of currency, that bottle of Johnny Walker, and a wonderful gift. Come to find out he had also put me in for the Purple Heart and Bronze Star on the same day. He was a gifted leader.

The pass, suffering a bit from 59 years of age, gave me the privilege of arriving in Paris at 1300 hours on 14 February, and the responsibility to depart Paris at 1400 hours on 17 February. He will report to SEINE SECION, LEAVE REGISTRATION CENTER, 11 Rue Scribe, on or before the dates noted.

The long, cold truck ride seemed a small price to pay for three days in the big city. An unopened bottle of scotch, tucked safely into my Eisenhower jacket underneath the awkward GI overcoat, help shorten the trip. We made big plans for its use, even though none of us had a clue as to what Paris offered the likes of our ragtag bunch.

The truck pulled up in front of the Red Cross building where we would find out where our billets were. I jumped over the tailgate of the 6X6, landed on the cement walk. I stopped, but the bottle didn't. It crashed to the sidewalk and splintered into a thousand pieces and a million drops! Our big party was history before it even started. 

But, aside from wasting the first day trying to explore all the bars in Paris, we had a wonderful two days of sightseeing, eating and sleeping. We said hello to Napoleon, looked at lots of art, The program for “Samson et Dalila”, the opera, informs us that Suzanne Lefort played Dalila and Jose Luccioni sang the Samson role. It was a pleasant evening. At the end, life seemed almost normal again. We headed back to the unit with serious misgivings.

The ride in the 6X6 from Paris back to the unit was almost unbearable. First, all conversation focused on the upcoming spring thaw and the deplorable conditions in our future. With all that snow, a fast thaw would be a disaster. Such conversation was bad enough, but I was also sick as a dog. My temperature had been on the rise all day and every part of my body sagged and ached for a bed in the cozy corner of a room we wouldn't find at the end of the trip. 

We arrived late that evening. The 517th was preparing to move to a bivouac near an airbase, a clue easily understood by all who gathered there. But I paid no attention, for the next morning I was a basket case. I checked in with the medic and was taken to a field hospital without delay. They looked at me and sent me off to the nearest major hospital, an air force unit at St. Quentin.

My first concern, and theirs, was that the fever came from an infection in a wound or from one of the assorted bumps accumulated during the Bulge. They couldn't tell and I offered little in the way of assistance.  Off to bed in a cozy center of a large ward went I, and medicated, dropped off to a very long and deep sleep.

They couldn't find any one thing to blame it on, so the major made a general diagnosis of 'combat fatigue and run down physical condition.' By that he meant that I had been in one helluva war for some sixty days, that I had precious little sleep and less food and no warm food or beverage for the entire time.

Even a 20 year-old body ultimately reacts to that combination. A week's rest and special diet was prescribed. My body and mind enjoyed the week but found little in the way of recuperation. Some temperature remained and my strength remained at low ebb. So, do it again!

Another week of rest and nutrition was ordered and I started in once again.  About three days later, the two paratroopers in the hospital were ordered back to their units. Time to cross the Rhine, we thought. But, shortly after we arrived, we were told it was a drill and we were to return to the hospital. Then, the second week came to a close. A conference must have been held somewhere below my fourth floor suite (read, cot) and they decided that the source of my problem traced directly to my tonsils.

Okay, back in Cheyenne, Dr. Phelps had told me years before that my tonsils would have to come out some day. So let's go.  I went to some doctor's office. He said hello, gave me a shot in my neck that completely deadened any feeling, made a fast clip, seemed to make a quick stitch and told me to go back to bed for the rest of the day, enjoy my liquid diet and so forth. No more than ten minutes or so elapsed for the entire procedure.

Simple, I thought.  I walked up to the fourth floor, found my bed and laid my head on the pillow. No sense of pain bothered me yet, so I dozed off, lying flat on my back. Awakened with a jolt, a nurse ordered me out of bed and on to a gurney. They whisked me to the other end of the floor where a doctor quickly re-sutured my throat. I was about to drown in my own blood because the stitches broke loose during the climb up the four flights of stairs! The nurse, a true angel, just happened to be walking down the ward's aisle, looked my way and knew something was amiss. I never saw her again to say thanks. 

By the end of another week I was making progress when the call came once again. All paratroopers to their base! This time, no drill. I arrived in about one hour, was given the usual sixty minute look at the plan, loaded all my gear and was ready to go. The order to cancel the effort came before we headed for the airbase. Back to the hospital, again!  Several days passed, quite painful ones for me, because infection followed the unfortunate surgery. And, once again I was struggling to feel up to par.

And the call came again. I went as quickly as possible, but with a new sense of foreboding, a feeling not before experienced. Somehow I suddenly realized that all of my chances had been used up and the jump across the Rhine would be the last act in my young life. This captured my consciousness and became an unshakable conviction. My endless optimism faltered and could not rid itself of this heavy weight.  

We suited up, loaded the weapons and ammunition and radios and headed for the airplanes. C-47's covered a large part of the airfield but the route to our plane was carefully marked. As we worked on the door loads, I suddenly realized that others in my stick of veterans were feeling exactly as I did. There was no conversation, but we had, over the months of working together in times of great stress, learned to read the signs.

And the signs emitted unmistakable messages. But, as veterans do, nothing hindered the progress of the mission. Engines here and there started, a few planes began to move as we sat silently facing but not looking at each other across the center of the plane. We waited in silence, and waited, and wondered about the other side of the Rhine.

The announced time came and went. Five minutes passed by, perhaps ten or fifteen before we realized that something was amiss. Necks craned out the always-open door of the plane. A jeep was seen racing toward the lead plane. Then, without a word from the crew, the engines shut down. The pilots knew. No radio silence was required, for the Remagen bridge across the Rhine was ours and news that the 82nd Airborne was not going to jump across the river was suddenly about as interesting and as secret as yesterday's newspaper.

Off came the gear, back into the jeep, back down the road to the hospital. This time the treatment began to work and after a few weeks, after many afternoons wandering around the countryside in wonderful spring weather, and about the time the war in Europe was over, I was fit as a fiddle and ready to get back to the 517th.

But they had moved far away and it wasn't that simple any more.   Now, as an unattached combat veteran, I was subjected to the system called the Repple-Depple. More accurately, this was the Replacement Depot system and, under certain circumstances, it worked very well. Example: infantry private “X” was wounded in a battle in December; fully recovered in March, he was no longer the property of his original division or regiment; which by now was probably miles and miles away, anyhow.

Now the property of the SYSTEM, he was to be sent to whatever unit had received the highest priority from headquarters. Thus, the wounded veteran was torn from his combat family and friends and thrown into a brand new environment where he had to begin again.    I didn't like this one damned bit, but even though the war was over in Europe, I couldn't do one thing about it.

So off to the Depot I went. This was not a highlight of my experience in the army. Most of the guys there weren't worth knowing. But after surveying the crowd, I met one officer that seemed to know his way around and seemed interested in my case. Or, I should say, in our case, because by now there were three of us from the 517th and all had the same intense desire to get back home.

Luckily the officer was a doctor and, since I had to check with him every five or six days (they wanted to make certain that the fever did not return), we became fairly well acquainted. Even luckier, he was a friend of the base commander.  After what seemed like at least a year, perhaps as much as three or four weeks, he was able to get the right orders cut and we were on the way. No stopovers in Paris, or any other place along the line, we went straight to Nancy in eastern France to rejoin all our buddies there. We were bound to have a good time before we all headed for Berlin as occupation troops.

Imagine our surprise to find that the unit was a mere shell and we were like children coming home from school to find a house devoid of furniture, people or toys. Friends and familiarity were gone! The great division had already taken place and those who didn't have enough battle points to remain in Europe were already headed for LeHavre to await boats for the trip home, thence to Japan.

I hadn't seen, let alone known one in four of the people now in my old unit. At first, I thought it was some kind of joke or dream, and that I would soon wake up and find Ward and Brown and the others laughing at my foolishness. But there was no waking up, no joke. The unit had turned into a large bucket into which poured paratroopers and even glider troops from far and wide.

They, too, were confused and lonely and, while we made new friends and acquaintances, the relationship lacked the cement of those forged in the battles fought together.  The organization was asunder as well. With no need for a forward observer, this sergeant was suddenly made acting sergeant major, the major-domo of NCO's, the office manager of the battalion.

My immediate assignment entailed preparing the move to Berlin. Within a very short time, a few weeks at the most, I wanted to get out of the job at the earliest possible moment. As soon as we, as the advance party, landed at Templehof in Berlin, then drove to our billets, I was even more certain.

I wanted nothing to do with the job or the barracks or the parade ground, or the white gloves and scarves. I wanted out in the worst way. But I had absolutely no idea how it might happen.  

The second day's mail contained a notice from American Headquarters which solved all of my problems. Without bothering with the official verbiage, the notice asked that anyone with radio announcing experience contact so-and-so immediately. AFN (American Forces Network) was ready to go on the air but had no experienced announcers. My name found its way to the appropriate authorities instantly. And, since our regiment hadn't even arrived in Berlin yet, there was no point in posting the bulletin on the as yet undesignated bulletin board.

Within two days, I was detached from the 82nd Airborne Division and assigned to AFN Berlin.

THE NEW WORLD

The move to the other side of Berlin was no more than a short afternoon jeep ride. Abandoning the stern, monotone German barracks we soon arrived at a large modern mansion on Podbielskiallee. Max Schmelling, the German paratrooper and boxer of note was the owner, or so we were told. It was a most pleasant sight but I was totally unprepared for the unimaginable change that took place once inside the gate.

As we parked by the door, someone rushed out and grabbed my barracks bag as though I was checking into the Ritz. Once inside I was whisked to my room, my private room, which was outfitted with comfortable furniture. The bed was turned down showing off white, ironed sheets and pillow cases. The bath was clean and stocked with an ample supply of towels. Before I had an opportunity to enjoy the room, they announced dinner.

I found the room and viewed a large table covered with a white, crisp table cloth, accompanied by a folded napkin and an array of silverware the likes of which I had never seen before. We were then served a splendid meal. While it might not have qualified as a five-star restaurant, its quality seriously outranked any military meal I had ever had before.

And, by this time I had consumed something like 2500 of the military's meals. I thought that the meal was a great banquet in honor of the assembled staff members. We were, after all, together for the first time. But, no, this was the way it was going to be.  Surprisingly, its quality and attractiveness even improved as the food supply expanded in freshness and variety. This surely was a dream.

Here I was, a 20 year-old buck sergeant, just out of the mud, snow and misery of a war, a guy whose finishing school was paratrooper training in the sand hills of North Carolina, a product of the worst depression in history, an unsophisticated kid who didn't know which spoon to pick up first or last, living, all of a sudden, as a member of some royal family. Always a fast study, I still found it a bit difficult to adjust to relaxing in a room containing a genuine Corot, an assortment of outstanding watercolors, a Bechstein grand and shelves full of leather bound collector's books, many of them first editions. 

The biggest hurdle was the evening meal. Every night a banquet! But even that became routine in a very few days. We spoil very quickly! Fortunately, there was work to be done, lots of it. With the transmitter in place and turned on, we needed to fill the empty hours with programming.  While the program material inventory was scarcely overflowing, and while the AFN network feeds to Berlin were modest in scope, we were an inventive group.

By scrounging around for records and talent we soon had a normal schedule offering a decent amount of news, popular and classical music, sports and guests. I helped with the broadcast of the Army's European football championship from the famed Olympic Stadium where Jesse Owens once ran. Another day, about halfway through my stay, saw me host a broadcast concert by the Dagenham Girl Pipers. The group consisted of factory workers from Ford Motor Company's plant in the United Kingdom. And they were a splendid group of pipers, though bagpipes should never be allowed in a living-room-turned-studio!  

I also narrated a film history of the 82nd Airborne Division in one of the huge studios of Berlin's film center. But mostly it was records and chat about going home, the latest news, long hours at the control board, and then fine meals and conversation. There was always talk about the bright future for us in the radio and entertainment world. This sparkling vision was enhanced early in our venture because we had very special visitors for dinner one evening. The presidents of CBS, NBC Red and NBC Blue networks dropped in on us for a short visit and dinner. For me it was a memorable occasion.

We had pork chops that evening, and they were rather tough. I was trying to slice a bite-sized piece off the carcass when, all of a sudden the chop reacted to the knife's pressure, slid off the plate and landed squarely in the middle of the table. My network career was no doubt terminated before it began!

Within a few weeks of, my arrival, I met and hooked up with the only other paratrooper connected to the station. Don Murray, a refugee from the disbanded 17th Airborne Division, arrived in Berlin and was promptly assigned to a motor pool near the AFN station. He became a regular and the two of us soon began to prowl about the city on “official” business in his jeep.    

Outside the station, we discovered a big secret. Right or wrong, almost every doorman and guard at every surviving facility in Berlin thought the AFN badge indicated that the wearer was a foreign correspondent. This opened every door, even to officer's clubs, an unimaginable invasion of alien turf if there ever was one.

But after one or two experiences, Don and I gave it up, thinking that we didn't really want to fraternize with those with whom we had not previously fraternized! Besides, there were other more important benefits to this slight misunderstanding. Tickets! Entertainment was limited in scope but, if we wished to go, we got the best treatment available.

Perhaps the most interesting to me was a concert. The refurbished, Berlin Philharmonic, excluding those who were to undergo expulsion for extreme Nazi behavior, returned to the scene in the only undamaged movie theater in Berlin. The brass from the four-powers wanted all the tickets, of course, but a few foreign correspondents were assigned excellent seats. And we witnessed a historic concert, the Berlin orchestra led by a British Negro conductor. He led a splendid orchestra through a marvelous program, one that lingers to this day. I still have the rather scant, poorly printed program.

As I look at the other programs I saved and stored all these years, I'm rather amazed at the quantity and quality of the entertainment. Aside from the four football games I helped broadcast (82nd Airborne vs. 3rd, 36th and 84th Infantry divisions and the 1st Armored division), we saw “The Male Animal”, ‘Sadlers Wells' “La Boheme” and two Berlin Philharmonic concerts (no German composers, thank you).

I also broadcast boxing matches one night and helped the 325th Glider Infantry put on a show called “El Rancho Berlin”, and narrated the film history of the 82nd Airborne. Unfortunately, I have no idea where the film might be . . . and I surely collected no royalties!

Outside the station though, away from the major events, there was a very dark and, ultimately, depressing side of the city. As we first arrived, I stared in awe at the ruins below as we descended into Tempelhof airfield. It was such a dramatic sight that I completely forgot that it was the first time, after 25 flights, I had ever landed in an airplane! 

Driving through the city was merely a continuation of the same desolate scenery. Every floor in every building collapsed, spewing bricks out toward the street after filling up the bottom half of the empty structure. A city without a roof is a sight to see. No part of the city appeared untouched by the Allied bombs and the Russian guns. There was no escaping the constancy of rubble and, after a month or so, the Allied soldier had to feel less and less like the conquering hero and more and more as witnesses to a major human disaster in the making.

The city was awash with dazed, wounded, hungry, lost and homeless German soldiers, mostly veterans of the carnage on the Eastern front. As winter neared, women and children did little but scavenge for food. Fresh fruit or vegetables were extremely scarce unless a friend or a family member still lived on a farm outside the city and were willing to sneak their way into Berlin during the wee hours.

All the survivors sold anything and everything for cigarettes at the gigantic black market in the Tiergarten. Cigarettes became currency and often were the only funds able to purchase even scraps of food.   The American soldiers had the cigarettes, all they could smoke and many more. We paid about a dollar a carton and they could be sold for $100 (in US currency) and up within seconds of entering the Tiergarten. 

Ah, where did the currency come from? The USA, in an act of utter kindness, gave the Russians the printing plates for $5 occupation bills. The presses never stopped!  Russian peasants disguised as soldiers, and vice versa, pillaged every remaining habitable building and carried away train loads of toilets, bath fixtures, kitchen sinks . . . anything that was shiny, even though they had not the slightest idea what the appliance did or how it might be used.

Interestingly, the Russian government sponsored all of this activity for they wanted to import every usable factory, all the machinery around and, in the process, gave every soldier a monthly quota of space on an East-bound train. Each soldier also had at least two wristwatches, purchased or stolen. And, were the biggest buyers of American cigarettes for personal use because there was no other good source.

As the days shortened, the pleasures of Berlin faded fast and I was pleased to be ordered to the Channel Ports in mid-November. There was some thought of staying. AFN offered civilian status and handsome monthly salaries, the option of Berlin or Frankfurt, but the lure of the USA outweighed any such promise by a country mile. Besides, there were other pressures. In a letter dated 7 November 1945, my mother, never one to hide her feelings, let me have it! ”Your letters of October 28th and November 1st came today. Good service! As a disinterested person I'd say that anybody that stays behind in Berlin as civilian employee and miss the voyage with-and-as-one-of-the 82nd Airborne Division is plumb foolish. Only, of course, I can't be a disinterested person in this case. But the house at 2012 and its 4 occupants, not to mention two other people at Golden (Colorado) are pining to see and hear you and to get a look at that battle jacket in the original. Surely photos fail to do it justice! Now, make up your mind and come home quick-like!”

What could I do in face of such threats but return home quick-like? Three of us were given a jeep for the journey and plenty of time. The route took us through Frankfurt, Luxemburg, on to Paris for two or three days and then to Camp Lucky Strike outside Le Havre.

The Paris stay was memorable. We had an over-abundance of cash, mostly represented by occupation dollars, which we knew we could neither carry nor mail home. It had to be turned over to MP's as we checked in at the cigarette camp, or so said the official bulletin. So we tried to spend it all. Dinner at the Ritz cost $20 each, a fantastic luxury. But they served a fabulous meal, even though we knew rabbit was the meat used in the entre. I don't remember what the rooms cost but we didn't let it threaten our fun.

After seeing everything from the Opera to Napoleon's tomb, we finally had to head to the ship. As we left the hotel, we discovered the jeep was out of reach. A massive parade was underway and no pedestrians were allowed to cross the boulevard. Finally, we understood all the directions given us and realized we could make it via the Metro tunnel. Off we went.

By late afternoon we arrived in tent city, unloaded and turned in the jeep at the motor pool. The weather had deteriorated with each passing mile, the weather that would be our constant companion for the five-day stay in the tent as well as the trip home. It was so cold that at night that the little stove in the center of the tent was stoked until it was red hot all the way up the chimney to the very peak of the squad tent. No fire danger, someone said, and it did appear that the passage through the top of the tent could put up with any amount of heat from the pipe.

The game of hearts-no gambling, just a vicious cut-throat game--entertained us for there was no other diversion. And we played until the wee hours of the morning in order to avoid thinking about being cold and damp and to keep stoking the little old stove.

At last the orders came. Off to the dock we went and soon came to the spot where we had to declare weapons, loot, whatever was in the baggage. Not one question was asked about money. No one had to surrender a single dollar to the authorities even though their funds sharply exceeded the amount allowed in the cash book we all carried. We'd blown hundreds of dollars needlessly! Such is life in the military.

After being informed of our schedule we were able to send a cable. I have the original. ’DEAR FOLKS DEPART LEHAVRE DEC THIRD ARRIVE CHEYENNE AS CIVILIAN 22ND ALL IS WELL. LOVE  JIM’

Departure time arrived at last light. This Liberty ship was roomy but had no ballast, no cargo except the troops aboard. Even the few guns had been removed to lighten the load, so the ship must have towered above its normal waterline. A decent meal was served down in the galley area and most went to sleep without delay.

In fact, it was the next-to-the-last full meal served. It was a short nap because, long before daybreak, we ran into a "100 year" North Atlantic storm that pounded us with gale force winds all the way to New York. Breakfast was a disaster because there was no way to hold trays, plates or silver on the table.

Everything wound up on the floor creating a slippery rink, dangerous even for the most careful passerby. No more meals were served. Sandwiches and fruit and coffee were available to those few who didn't get seasick and were foolish enough to venture forth. The rest remained in bed for the entire voyage.

My job was a simple one. I copied the news from the BBC in London and typed up a stencil so a few copies could be mimeographed and distributed to key locations around the ship. What fun. Typing away, I would look down at the typewriter and realize the carriage was going the wrong way. The typewriter was not made for 35-foot waves. Neither was I but I never did get seasick, just bruised.

It was truly punishing to walk, to lurch around the vessel and difficult to do without being thrown against the steel bulkheads or doorjambs. The storm was an awesome sight, day or night. I would go up on deck, find a sheltered place and watch the bow of the ship go up, up, up to the top of the wave and then head down to the trough.

But night was even more startling. I would wend my way into the forward gun turret, now empty of guns, and watch as the lights from the mast illuminated the great show. I could only feel the rise up the wave, but the crash to the trough was a spectacle. The bow of the boat would dive into the next wave and throw tremendous amounts of water up and out of its way. Caught by the wind, the water cut across the deck with the force of a bullet. I was safe and dry, but the cold drove me in after a few minutes, and I would stay away until the next night.

The storm persisted and the suffering continued until the ship arrived in New York Harbor ten days after departure. Everyone went up on deck as we entered the Narrows, but we damn near froze to death in the bitter wind that welcomed us.

Finally, shortly before dark, the Statue of Liberty loomed into focus, and we knew for sure that we were home. The ship docked somewhere in New Jersey. They ushered us immediately to Ft. Dix. Before the night was over, most all of us were enroute home for Christmas. They promised safe delivery in time for the holidays and were as good as their word. I was ushered out of Fort Logan on the afternoon of December 21st, my pockets full of separation pay. “No thanks” said I when asked if I wished to sign up in the Reserves. 

I immediately went to downtown Denver and searched for a place to sleep. Finally, the Brown Palace put me up for the night in what must have been their last available room. I booked a seat on a Western Airlines flight to Cheyenne for the next morning, then went to the bar and on to dinner. Before dinner, I entered into an endless discussion with a discharged Naval officer who had served with and wanted to promote Harold Stassen as the only hope for the country. Welcome home!  My war was over and the future beckoned.

Jim Mortensen