436th FA Battalion

SLIP

Yeh, we used to get together after discharge. Then he moved out West & we weren't big letter writers so we lost touch.

Here's a pic of George before he enlisted:


Bill

 

SLIP

After I missed out on getting into the 10th Mtn I said the heck with it and waited till I was drafted (couple weeks after D-Day).

Bill

 

SLIP

After a long train trip from NYC ended up in Ft. Sill, Lawton, OK -- FA Basic Training. Loved the Army -- was just like being in the Boy Scouts, but bigger and more fun. Especially liked being out on the parade grounds where they taught us how to march all the fancy complicated moves, 'by the right flank, ...Haarch!', 'to the rear, .... Haarch!', etc. . Most of the guys in the battery were Southerners -- mostly farmboys -- didn't know their left foot from their right foot. It was all old hat to me. I felt very superior . (That didn't last long -- when we were doing the long marches, and morning calisthenics -- they outdid me regularly -- what a comedown!)

Everything was going well for svl weeks ... and then the rude awakening: first day of bayonet practice. They had us lunging at those suspended punching bags. And when the Sarge told us "after sticking it in his belly make sure to TWIST your bayonet!" That's when I got sick. That's when I got serious. That's when I started thinking about my mortality.

Bill

 

I really liked the artillery - 'cause it was technical. I liked all those dials and calculations (that's when I decided to apply to OCS [Officer Candidate School]).

Then came the first day of live ammo. Here's the story on that one.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
FLYBOY TEX
I.
It was July 1944, about a month after D-day, on a hot desert day at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, a major training camp for the Field Artillery. We had been training for several weeks using dummy or empty shells on our cannon, the 105mm howitzer. The 105 uses a shell about 4 inches in diameter, 21 inches long, weighing maybe 25 pounds, and filled with high explosives. Today was to be our first day using live ammunition. The howitzer is serviced by a 10-man crew, each with his own specific job to do in a standardized routine. Over the course of the training session we each take turns in all the 10 positions.
One of the most important jobs falls to the Number 3 man. He is the one who rams the 105 shell into the breech block at the back of the cannon barrel. The breech block is a massive piece of steel a foot square, with a 4-inch hole in the center. #3 lifts the heavy shell, and developing a swinging momentum carries the shell around in an arc and then slams it home into the center of the hole. Then he holds it there with his fist until the #2 man closes the breech block door ... and the team gets ready for the order to fire.

Now we get into some nitty-gritty. The shell is designed to detonate when it's pointy nose cone is maybe 3 feet from its target, needing a mere few ounces of pressure to fire off. To give us an idea of the destructive power in each shell our training sergeant explained that if one landed in our area it would vaporize our entire artillery battery: 4 howitzers, each with its 10-man crew.

Next he spent a minute describing the safety pin that was built into each nose cone. It was positioned inside the side of the cone during manufacture at the munitions factory. As long as the pin was in place there would be no premature detonation of the shell's HE, or high explosive, charge. He further described how, because the inside of the howitzer barrel was lined with spiral grooves, or 'rifling', as the shell was fired out of the long cannon barrel, a hefty spin was put on the shell. And the centrifugal force of this spin sent the safety pin flying out the side of the nose cone, as soon as it left the barrel. Thus at this point the shell became 'armed,' and when the nose met its target 1000s of yards away it did its dirty work.

Then the sarge paused, slowly looked us all over, and said, "Now every 5 thousand shells or so, 'Rosie, The Riveter,' back in the munitions factory is daydreaming about some movie star, or didn't get enough sleep the night before, and ..... forgets to install the safety pin."

Then a somewhat longer pause...and, "Now there's 10 of you on each gun crew. As you know you'll each be rotating through the different jobs each position has. But when it's your turn to be the Number 3 man you better not forget that the lives of all the rest on your crew and the other crews nearby could depend on how you ram that shell into the breech block. YOU DON'T WANT TO TOUCH THE NOSE TO THE FACE OF THE BLOCK --- YOU WANT TO DEAD CENTER IT RIGHT INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE HOLE. Right?" 10 heads nodded in vigorous assent.

Finally Sarge, slow and deliberate, said, "3 months ago, in a training battalion before yours, here in Fort Sill, a #3 man rammed his shell into the side of his breech block....and the entire battery disappeared." Then he just walked away. Don't know if he was B.S.'ing us, but we sure quieted down after that.

II.
Now every one of us in the Field Artillery knew how lucky we were to be 'Redlegs' -- it was just eenie meenie minee mo at the Induction Center -- we could have ended up in the Infantry -- who had to march wherever they went (we got to ride in the artillery trucks), who were always in the front lines (we were almost always in rear echelon), and who's life expectency was radically shortened compared to ours.

But we had one guy in our outfit who had a different spin on his life. He was about 6-foot-4, lanky, with deep brown tan setting off his dazzling white teeth in what had to be a face more handsome than Gregory Peck and Tyrone Power put together. He hailed from the Lone Star State and was appropriately nicknamed "Tex." He had been a commercial pilot in civilian life, and his most fervent dream when the war started was to become a fighter pilot. However, they weren't taking big guys in for that duty -- couldn't fit into the tiny fighter cockpits. He tried pulling all the strings he could ... to no avail, and finally ended up being drafted....into the Artillery!
But his ambition was yet to be thwarted. During the few weeks we had all been together training not an evening went by when he wasn't making phone calls, always conniving to get a transfer to the Air Force. Results? Zero.

IIIA.
So here we were...live ammunition day. We each took our turn running through the positions, including #3. You can bet we were VERY careful the way we rammed our shells into the breech. Finally it was Tex's turn. He went over to the ammunition stack, picked up his shell, cradled it in his arms, lined up behind the breech block, swung his arms back ready to ram it home ..... and then he stopped short, with those pearly white teeth in the widest grin he'd ever displayed. He spanned that grin around to each and every one of us .... and then DELIBERATELY RAMMED THE SHELL INTO THE SIDE OF THE BLOCK!!!

A deathly silence.
The whole world, and our heartbeat, had suddenly screeched to a halt!!!
Each of us looked at each other.
Nobody said anything.
Then the sarge gave the order to rotate our positions.

IIIB.
A short 15 minutes later and it was Tex's turn at #3 again. All eyes were upon him, as he picked up his shell. He reared back, stopped, flashed his panoramic smile at the crew, and SLAMMED THE BREECH BLOCK AGAIN!!!!

Finishing off our rotations some minutes later, the training session closed down, we closed up our howitzers and went off to finish the training day doing other drills. There wasn't much said about what happened earlier in the day. Also there wasn't as much of the usual banter that was part of the GI lifestyle. I don't know what passed through the minds of the others, but I did some deep thinking that day.

IV.
The next morning we all lined up as usual in the battery square before breakfast, in our dark green unpressed fatigues, for roll call and duty rosters. And then we saw him. Tex was off to the side, spick and span in his Class A uniform --dress khakis, with his packed duffle bag standing beside him. He wore the biggest grin on his face, and waved a rolled up pack of papers in his raised right arm. "Hey, fellas, this is it....got my orders....I'm going off for flight training....I'll wave to ya'll as I go flying by someday!"

What he had in his hand were his orders to report to Forward Observer Flight School. They flew little L-4s -- single-engine Piper Cubs. Their job was as close to suicide bombers as the American military has ever produced. They flew at low altitudes, putting along at maybe 60mph, going over our front lines, and sometimes ahead of the front lines -- so that they could observe the enemies' positions and radio back to Fire Control that information. Their life span in combat was measured in hours. For Tex it was Heaven on Earth.

V.
And what did this story mean to me, at age 18? It was a big wakeup call. Up to that point being in the Army had been kinda fun --- it was more like being in a grownup version of the Boy Scouts, which was the biggest thing in my life as a teenager up till then. .......... I learned that day for the first time in my life that my destiny was out of my control -- that my life depended upon somebody else's judgment and action. That realization has colored my every life decision since that day 64 years ago.
+++++++++++++++++++++++

Bill

 

SLIP

Oh did they EVER! There were only 2 of us from NYC (Ted Theobold and I) -- more on that later .

Bill

 

Fascinating!It's really interesting to read how these canons were used. I've always wondered why there weren't more 105mm vs the German 88mm . I guess it was cheaper to get the 75.

 

Yeah, they were cheaper, but mainly they were small enough that a mule could pack them up those steep mountain trails. The 88s were pretty compact, so they worked OK in the mountains. So why didn't we Yanks produce a 90mm? Good question. Which leads to another question I asked svl years after WW2.

The occasion was during a discussion with an ex-Marine -- we were kind of buddies (altho he never let me forget I had been a mere mortal and he had been a MARINE ). I asked him, "Pete, I could never figure out how we won the war, 'cause I saw so many really STUPID things that came down the chain of command. How come we won?"

"Simple, Bill ... we were fighting against a military MORE STUPID than we were!"

Bill

 

SLIP

Tnx for the heads up -- makes a lot of sense. I'll try to get the habit of doing that. Slow learner.

Bill

 

Thanks both of you for these explanations. I never thought mules could carry these canons through the mountains. A 90mm would have been an excellent compromise. I figure it would have messed up the Gothic line quite a bit. The question is would such a design have been ready on time? I think the allies expected to rush Italy faster than they actually did and thought the 105mn would be pefect once they would have reached the plains of the PO.

 

SKIP

Yeah, they didn't carry them, they dragged the 75s behind them.

Bill

 

okay, got a better picture now. I was trying to figure out how on earht they could take the whole thing appart , fix it again... Good you helped me out with that enigma. So they were dragged around and almost immediately operational. Makes sense now. The 88 mm must have been quite a counterpart though. Those things were pretty sturdy and even if they were harder to drag around, the Germans had a defensive line which was theoretically prepared in advance. let me guess, they were hidden somewhere on top of a hill so that the allies had to climb and could not reach them with the 75.

 

OK, back to Basic at Ft. Sill. Altho later when I got to my line outfit, the 436, we never marched anywhere (always rode in the trucks), during Basic we MARCHED everywhere. 5, 10, 15 miles, with full pack (which was still easier than the Infantry, 'cause we only carried M1 Carbines -- a lot lighter than the Infantry's Garands).

Now I had "3rd degree bilateral pes planus" (doctor talk for real bad flat feet). They never put that down on my induction physical.

[Mini-story:

Upon discharge, at Camp Beale, CA, April 25, 1946, the doc there told us to put down ANYTHING we could think of that gave us trouble during our service -- "never can tell how it might help you." So I told him about my flat feet. He looked at my feet, then my service record, and said, "You're right ... I'm going to recommend a service-connected disability for you on that basis." I could tell the doc was p*ssed that we were getting out and he was still in uniform .

So what became of all that? Well, I got a 16% military disability out of it -- paid my way, along with the GI Bill, all through med school. Of course they finally blew the whistle on many of those borderline cases -- but I had already got my education paid for.]

Back to those long marches during Basic. Altho both my feet were flat, only my left foot gave me trouble. It was tough. Marching, after a few minutes, triggered constant severe pain in the left arch. The pain would last throughout the march no matter how many hours we hiked. How did I manage it? Well, back then you just 'managed' things like that. Took your lumps. No questions.

What made that a little easier was watching the kid across the street in the next training battalion over. His left arm was completely flail -- it just dangled in the wind. His left leg was warped and shorter than his right. He could hardly get around. Would take him a full minute to go 20 feet. Did he get a medical discharge within a few weeks, because of an obvious slip up in the orders? No way. HE WENT THRU ENTIRE BASIC that way. Incredible.

Finally a few years ago I figured out what had happened (I told you I'm a SLOW learner): we were drafted right after D-Day and they were taking anybody in as long as he was still breathing. But the key to this whole thing finally dawned on me: Some local draft board member had a son, or a nephew, who was eminently draftable -- and wanted to save him from serving -- so they picked this polio-crippled kid instead, 'cause they knew he'd never end up in combat.

Also the kid probably felt great about the whole experience -- he was in the Army and doing his share. (Shakespeare: "All the world's a stage ... and we are but players on it.")]

Bill

 

SKIP

Yeah, but even if the Yanks were on another hill across a valley the 88s could get you, because of their over-range. At least that's what I recollect George telling me about Italy.

Bill

 

SLIP

Yeah, that may be ... but then how would they get those 75's up a hill, human power? See if you can check that out in one of your books.

Bill

 

Incredible. There was something similar under the Napoleonic rule. Among all the drafties, one lucky guy would not be selected to go to the front. The recruiters would organize a public lotery in each village. In fact the local bourgeois would then offer a big sum to the "lucky" bastard who would take the money and go to the front instead of the rich kid.