Chapter Seven, The Army: 1942-1946

As I sit down to write about my army experience, the rush of bittersweet memories causes my fingers to pause on the typewriter.  I remember as though it were yesterday--feelings of bewilderment after my induction, the sounds of the Pacific surf washing up on the beaches of Camp McQuaide, the pine-scented grounds of Baxter General Hospital in Spokane, the concerned faces of Italian prisoners of war at the news that I had been transferred to the infantry, the bone-tiredness of endless marches and field exercises, the sharp commands and the smell of gunpowder at firing ranges during hot Missouri afternoons, the rise and fall of a troop transport at sea, the fears and anxieties that accompany the snap of bullets, the whistling of shell fragments near one's body, the sight of dead and dismembered bodies on the ground, the shock at seeing friends killed and wounded, the obscene shapes of bombed and shelled buildings, and French civilians rummaging through army garbage cans for food.

I am also uneasily aware of the phantom of my former self--a young, dirty, unshaven infantryman, helmet strap dangling; field overcoat opened; pockets and pack bulging with books, ammunition, hand grenades, and K-rations; carbine slung over one shoulder; several cans of 30 caliber machine gun ammunition at his feet, reading with a sardonic glint what I am typing.  And behind him are the faces, living and dead, of my former comrades at arms.

While at the Brigham Young University, I did my best to get into a variety of officer training Programs without success.  Each time I was turned down because of my vision.  Even when drafted, I found out that I could not qualify for any kind of a commission.  I was condemned to be drafted as a private.  As a result I entered the army with a very negative attitude.

I was drafted into the army on October 27, 1942, through the Murray Draft Board.  This draft board was very unpopular in our community.  With reason, it was considered to be anti-Mormon and especially anti-returned missionary.  With other draftees, I was trucked to Fort Douglas.  My arms aching from what seemed to be innumerable immunizations, I was soon outfitted with more clothing than I had ever possessed in my life.  Instructed in the niceties of army life, I soon became an expert at making army-style beds, properly folding clothes into footlockers, in the care of personal equipment (especially fire arms), and in army methods of mopping barrack floors, standing guard, and K.P.  I saw many realistic films of army life, combat, and the dangers of close association with young women.  While enduring a long series of I.Q. and skill tests, I encountered Sergeant Oliver Smith, a friend from B.Y.U., who asked me if I would like to join him in the induction service at Fort Douglas as a clerk-typist and spend the war years in Salt Lake City.  Very foolishly I told him that I wanted to travel.  Classified as a clerk-typist on limited duty, I was promptly shipped off to Camp McQuaide, a coastal artillery base on the California coast between the town of Watsonville and Santa Cruz.

After an interesting train ride through Utah, Nevada, and California, I arrived at camp and was assigned to the medical dispensary as one of two medical assistants to the doctors in charge.  The assistants at the dispensary around 7:00 a.m., cleaned the building, filled medicine bottles, checked supplies, typed requisitions, and made out reports.  When the doctor arrived at 8:30 a.m., the dispensary doors were thrown open to a long line of soldiers on sick call.  One assistant interviewed the soldiers--typing down names, serial numbers, and units, as well as symptoms of complaints.  The other assistant helped the doctor examine patients and write down prescriptions and instructions.  Men with communicable diseases, serious injuries, or with temperatures of 100 degrees or over automatically went to the hospital.  Soldiers with no signs of illness were scolded by the doctor, who reported them to their unit commanders.  The rest--treated for their various aches, pains, bruises, cuts, hangovers, and colds--were medicated, instructed to stay in their barracks for several days, and if not improved to report back on sick call.

About once a month the dispensary immunized troops going overseas.  Long lines of naked men were given shots in arms and buttocks as fast as they could be injected.  The attendant would grab an arm or fold of flesh, shoot the needle in, eject the contents, pull the hypodermic back, put on a sterile needle, and repeat the process.  On hot days, one or two soldiers might collapse, causing soldiers to faint all down the line.  A bucket of cold water quickly revived them.

My life at Camp McQuaide soon fell into a definite routine.  I arose at 5:30 a.m., made my bed, cleaned and mopped the space around it, ate breakfast at the mess hall, and read until it was time to go to work around 7:00 a.m.  Going off duty at 5:30 p.m., I often went to the camp library to check out books and to read papers and magazines.  Then I might go to a base movie with friends, play an occasional hand of poker in the perennial poker games, or go for a long walk on the beach to study the marine and beach wildlife and to collect shells.  It was a pleasant existence, as army rules and regulations were ignored in the medical corps.  On weekends I went to various USOs in neighboring towns for the Saturday night dances and usually attended church on Sunday.  I became part of a group of soldiers from the small town and farms of the Midwest and the South.  I disliked the profane, aggressive behavior of the boys from the larger cities.  Two soldiers--Jess Bumgardiner, a Lutheran, and Marshall Sheldon, a country boy from Montana--became very close friends.

For my first Christmas in the army, I hitchhiked to the home of Aunt Melba, my father's sister, in Los Gatos, California.  Her husband S. J. Gallagher, was a prosperous lettuce-packer.  They had two boys then in high school.  Not knowing what an ill-starred family they were, I enjoyed the holidays.  A few years after the war, Aunt Melba was badly burned in a kitchen fire.  Unable to accept the chronic pain and facial disfigurement, she committed suicide.  Her husband, in shock, disappeared into Mexico--not to emerge for many years.  The boys, thrown upon their own, became vagabonds, unable to adjust to the collapse of their family.

Shortly after Christmas I was transferred to the base intelligence office.  The office consisted of a lieutenant, myself as typist and file clerk, and a network of soldiers in various base units paid small stipends to spy on their fellow soldiers.  Intelligence files were kept on all soldiers born in Germany--especially those who had served in the German army, on men whose careless comments about the war or government caused them to be reported to our office, and on soldiers whose activities created doubts about their loyalties.  Agents reported by writing to a box number in the Watsonville post office.  A summary of our activities was forwarded to higher echelons about once a month.  I was puzzled, bored, and contemptuous about the importance of our efforts.  Because of my attitude, I was soon transferred out of intelligence and wound up as a ward attendant in the camp hospital.  As punishment, I experienced long periods of night duty, which enforced my chronic hostility to the army.  However, I was able to use the night hours to study.

Some time in January, 1943, a Sergeant Graham called together the Mormon servicemen to form a religious organization and hold services on base.  We gradually came to form a close group, spending our free time together.  On weekends, we were usually invited to nearby Mormon homes.  One of the Mormon servicemen, Gilbert Wall from Watsonville, became another close friend.  I might add that I continued to associate closely with my non-Mormon friends, also.

My life at Camp McQuaide came to an end on May 16, 1943.  On that date, Gilbert Wall, Jess Bumgardiner, and I became part of a medical personal draft transferred to the newly-opened Baxter General Hospital in Spokane, Washington.  For several weeks we cleaned windows, painted rooms, scrubbed floors, unloaded supplies, and installed hospital equipment, preparing the hospital for the reception of wounded soldiers from Kiska and Attu.  I was then assigned to Receiving and Disposition, and Gilbert to Pharmacy.  The wounded began arriving on June 24, 1943.  The silent, bandaged figures, still wearing battle clothing, were assigned to wards.  The soldiers were cared for at Baxter until they could be sent to military hospitals closer to their homes.  My particular assignment was to type up their files and then call their parents and give them information about the arrival of their sons and the nature of their wounds and injuries.  I was deeply touched by the broken voices and expressions of thanks in many different dialects around the country. 

On our first free day, Gilbert Wall and I hunted down the local Mormon bishop, Brother Albert Morgan, who invited us to church and mentioned that a club, the D and C Club, had been organized among L.D. S. servicemen in and around Spokane.  By joining the club, Gilbert and I became part of an absorbing Mormon world.  Differences in rank did not exist within the club.  Many young L.D.S. women had migrated to Spokane in search of employment.  They also became active in club-sponsored social activities.  Under the charismatic, loving direction of the sponsoring family, The Bardsleys, the D and C Club played an important role in the lives of L.D.S. young people in Spokane.  As I was able to exchange work assignments with Seventh Day Adventists friends in my office, I had most of my Sundays free to attend church.  Mormon families were extremely kind and made sure that every L.D.S. serviceman ate Sunday dinner in a Mormon home.

I soon developed a comfortable existence at Baxter General Hospital.  My work load was light.  I worked an eight-hour shift with freedom to come and go as I pleased.  Army regulations were seldom enforced.  Living accommodations and food were excellent.  I enjoyed an active social life.  There were charming L.D.S. girls to date.  As a result of the D and C Club, I got to know many local Mormon families extremely well.  I am still grateful to the Conrad and Bardsley families for their many kindnesses.  I was virtually adopted into the Conrad family.

Through my friendship with Bumgardiner, I participated in the weekly activities of the Lutheran U.S.O. and made friends with Lutheran servicemen and young people.  At this U.S.O., I came to know a librarian at the Spokane Public Library who granted me the privileges of a resident library card.  I began a systematic program of self-education and read almost everything the library had in history, natural sciences, geography, philosophy, and in Spanish, French, Italian, and Latin American literature.  While at the hospital I helped to train elements of a newly-created field hospital preparing for overseas duty.  Several times I was invited to join the hospital staff, but refused.  I constantly pestered the personnel office at Baxter to transfer me to Latin America, where I could use my Spanish.  I could have spent the entire war in Spokane among congenial people in an attractive environment, had it not been for my foolish obsession with Latin America.

On September 4, 1943, I was assigned to assist a major conduct a wounded soldier from Baxter General Hospital to Fitzsimmons General Hospital in Denver, Colorado--a very plush hospital.  Once the soldier was delivered, I caught a crowded train for Salt Lake City and spent a ten-day furlough with my family, whom I had not seen for over a year.  I visited the families of my friends in the military service, dated old girl friends, and caught up with family news.  On September 13, my sister, Sarah, was rushed to the L.D.S. Hospital for an emergency Cesarean operation.  Her baby, Marilyn, survived the event quite well, but Sarah did not recover as fast as expected.  I, therefore, secured an additional ten days' leave.  Returning to Baxter General Hospital, I was notified towards the end of January, 1944, that I would be transferred to the Quartermaster Corps and stationed at an Italian prisoner-of-war camp in Clearfield, Utah.  I could hardly believe my good luck, but little did I know that I had put my foot on the road that would end in combat in France.

At the quartermaster depot, I supervised the work of a group of Italian prisoners of war assigned to clean and to recondition used army clothing.  We got along very well together.  I could understand their Italian and they my Spanish.  The work was easy.  Again, I worked an 8-hour shift with freedom to come and go after work.  I spent much of my time among the Italians, talking about the war, international events, and Italy.  I went home almost every weekend.  Most of my friends were away, but I encountered an old girlfriend of mine from B.Y.U.--an Hawaiian girl by the name of Ruth Needham.  As she was an excellent dancer, we spent many Saturday evenings together at the Rainbow Randevu in Salt Lake City.  While visiting my sister, Sarah, and her family in Provo, I met a Ruth Call from Colonia, Juarez, and dated her on my trips to Provo.

In Ogden, I ran across an old missionary companion by the name of Roy Barton, who lived in Roy, Utah.  I also met a cousin, Bruce Clark, from Georgetown, Utah.  The three of us attended many ward events in Ogden, danced at the White City, and had some fine times together.  Although I missed my friends in Spokane, I enjoyed being so close to home and hoped to wait out the war there.

But, alas, alarming rumors came to us from the Italians.  Their status was changed from prisoners-of-war to allied labor units.  We, their supervisors and guards, were to be transferred to new infantry divisions in the process of formation.  Being classified as a clerk-typist and interpreter in limited service, I did not believe the rumors.  But the Italians insisted upon giving me impromptu lessons in the techniques of fox hole digging, advancing under enemy fire, night patrolling, and German psychology.  Then one, sad day, we were issued helmets, firearms, and combat gear.  We began to spend more time at the firing ranges and in training programs.  Finally, towards the end of April, I received a fifteen-day pass without requesting one.  I knew that we were soon shipping out to an unknown destination.  But I enjoyed my fifteen days.  Several close friends, such as Donald Selin, were home on leave.  We dated together and had many good times.  I also hiked to the top of Mt. Olympus and wandered through the fields and woods of Holladay.  The war seemed far away.

On June 1, 1944, shortly after my return to camp, a group of apprehensive, unhappy soldiers (including myself) were shipped to Camp Adair, Oregon.  Upon arrival, I was assigned to the machine gun squad, Company F, 276th Infantry Regiment, 70th Infantry Division.  I mentioned my limited duty status to the assigning officer and was told not to worry about it.  I pointed out that I had bad eyesight.  The officer soothingly replied that they would give me four or five pair of glasses in case I lost a pair.  When I mentioned my second degree flat-footedness, the officer had a special pair of combat boots ordered for me.  My days of play-acting as a soldier had come to an end.  Most of the men in our newly-formed division had been transferred against their will from other branches of the services as abruptly as I had been.  The level of education was quite high and griping reached new heights of eloquence.  Some officers and non-commissioned officers coming in from other divisions had combat experience.  The officers in general were what we referred to as 90-day wonders--enlisted men who had gone through a 90-day training course.  There were a few newly-graduated West Pointers to stiffen the division.  Although I was the only Mormon in my squad, there were several in the company and a number in the division.  We soon found each other.  One Bill Johnson in my company became an especially close friend.  On our Sundays off we attended church in Salem, Oregon.

Training began in earnest.  From Monday to Saturday night we drilled, marched, endured calisthenics, disassembled, assembled, and fired weapons.  We dug numerous fox holes, assaulted hills, and went through one squad and company problem after another.  For weeks I lived in a daze of almost total exhaustion.  In spite of my resentments against the army, I developed pride in my infantry skills.

Squad and company training having ended in mid-July, the division entrained for more advanced battalion and divisional training at Fort Leonard Wood on the outskirts of the Ozarks in southern Missouri.  To get there, the division rode long, slow freight trains through the Rocky Mountains and Great Plains.  Stripped to the waist, the members of my squad read, played card games, watched the scenery, and interacted with the civilian population en route.  The trains stopped at least once a day in a small town and the entire division ran through the streets for exercise.  As we traversed the country, we cheered the girls and accepted many presents of cookies, cakes, and doughnuts thrown into the car by civilians.  We arrived at the fort on a Friday night, and I promptly put in for a weekend pass.  Finding out that the nearest Mormon branch was 80 miles away at Springfield, I caught a bus for the town and checked into the U.S.O.

Much to my surprise, I encountered my old friend, Marshall Sheldon, who had also been transferred from the Medical Corp to the Infantry.  We had an excellent time at the Saturday night U.S.O. dance.  The next morning, I attended church and found Mormon friends in attendance, such as Bill Johnson.  We were all invited to dinner by the Nichols'.  Brother and Sister Nichols had seven charming daughters.  I promptly made a date with Nora Jayne for the next Saturday night.  I dated her for several months.  She married a Mormon boy from the division who was killed in France.  I saw her later at the Brigham Young University.

The training at Fort Leonard Wood was intensive and serious.  We trained as companies, battalions, and then as a division.  We marched miles through the incredibly hot and humid Missouri countryside.  We assaulted an endless number of positions under live rifle, machine gun, mortar, and artillery fire.  We practiced night attacks, patrolling, and skirmishing.  At times the training got rather brutal.  A boy in our company was killed by a mortar round falling short.

I still remember one 35-mile forced march with full field packs and weapons.  For the first ten miles we marched along at a fast pace, singing such songs as the "Beer Barrel Polka" and "I've Got a Sixpence."  But as the temperature climbed, men began to fall out of ranks from exhaustion.  During the last ten miles I staggered along semi-conscious, repeating to myself, "I won't fall out, I won't fall out."  I made it to the end of the march, only to collapse in my bed too tired to eat or to shower.

As we were moving through the brush one day in extended skirmish formation, a mortar round fell short into our midst.  Our combat-experienced sergeant ordered us to hit the dirt just before it exploded.  Another time we moved off a hill minutes before an artillery round went off.  Several times, while wiggling along the ground under machine gun fire, I felt fear and had to roll over on my back to keep from jumping to my feet and running.

As part of our training, we were shown actual combat films that, in their realistic portrayal of fighting in North Africa and the Pacific, sobered us.  The statement that light machine gunners live about 30 minutes in combat impressed the machine gunners greatly.  In our training we were incited to hate the Germans and Japanese.  I rebelled at the attempt to indoctrinate me and as an antidote, subscribed to a number of liberal and intellectual journals, such as the Atlantic, Harpers, Nation, New Republic, Politics, P.M., and the Socialist Call.  I suspect that my subscription list drew me to the attention of division intelligence.  But these journals and books from the camp library helped to preserve my integrity and sanity.

By September, 1944, the division passed all squad, company, battalion, and division tests with flying colors.  Training slacked off and we were give more passes than ever before.  Sensing that we might be shipped overseas in the near future, I boxed up all my personal belongings and sent them home.  Most of the men in the division were given 15-day passes on September 30, 1944.  On our return we were sure that we would be on our way overseas.

Leaving the camp, I rode the bus to Kansas City and stopped for two days.  I visited the Temple lot and other church sites in and around Independence, Missouri.  As I stood on the Temple lot, I thought of the persecution of my ancestors and hoped that I might be as faithful and constant under temptation as they had been under persecution.

Arriving home on October 4, I found that none of my friends were in town.  I did not feel like dating and spent the time with my family, not knowing if I would every see them again.  I hiked up Mount Olympus and spent hours just walking through the fields and orchards of Holladay.  When my leave ended, I rode the train to Kansas City, staring moodily at the landscape.  From there I traveled to camp by bus.

Upon arrival in camp, I was temporarily transferred to divisional personnel, where I worked as a typist to bring personnel records up to date.  I enjoyed the work, as it freed me from the dirty, hard work of preparing divisional equipment for shipment overseas.  I went to Springfield, Missouri, on weekends to attend U.S.O. dances and parties with my non-Mormon friends and church activities with other Mormon servicemen.  Here I made friends with Ralph Wickstrom, a Mormon boy from Utah who was later killed in France.

Finally, on November 18, the division entrained.  The moment the train began to move eastward, we cheered, knowing that we were bound for Europe rather than for the Pacific Theatre.  When the train stopped, we unloaded at Camp Miles Standish on Cape Cod.  The weather was extremely cold and we suffered from living in tents.  With little to do, I went for long walks through the fields, woods, and along the roads in the Cape, feeling uncertain and fatalistic.  I also visited Boston several times, toured all the historic sites, and attended U.S.O. dances and parties.  Here I encountered Richard Madsen, an old high school friend, training to be a chaplain at Harvard University.

Towards the end of November, we were trucked at night to Boston Harbor.  As we stood in formation on the cold docks waiting our turn to board the U.S.S. Westpoint (formerly the U.S.S. America), a Red Cross band played "I'll Be Glad When You're Dead, You Rascal, You."  We filled our pockets with Red Cross doughnuts and milk cartons.  After standing in the cold for hours, we finally boarded the ship and went down several decks to a large compartment filled with tiers of bunks from the ceiling to the floor.  Once assigned bunks, some began to play cards and throw dice while the rest of us made our way topside to bid farewell to the United States.

The ship sailed at dawn, unescorted.  Rumor had it that we were on our way to North Africa or to Italy.  Once we had explored the ship, there was little to do but watch movies, gamble, and stand in the eternal chow lines for poorly prepared food.  In order to avoid the lines and eat better, I volunteered to work several hours a day in the officer's mess and quickly noted and resented the improvement in food.  Several of us found a secluded niche on the top deck of the ship in an isolated corner by a lifeboat, safe from the prying eyes of officers, sailors, and non-coms.  Here we spent hours talking about the past, the present, and speculation about our uncertain future.  We were, at times, caught up in the sheer beauty of the ocean, the glint of the sun on the waves, the ever-changing colors of water and skies, brilliant sunsets and dawns, the incredible night skies alight with innumerable stars, the free-flying seabirds, and the occasional porpoises racing the ship.

As the weather turned warmer we suspected that we were heading for the Mediterranean Sea.  Suddenly one morning, we passed through the Straits of Gibraltar.  We spent a good part of one day observing the famous rock, the curving shores of Spain and Morocco, and the numerous fishing boats that flocked around the ship.  Every so often American fighters zoomed low.  At night we docked in Marseilles.  The harbor was filled with sunken ships and the docks were severely damaged.  Trucks picked us up and as we rumbled through the darkened streets, Frenchmen coming out of bars threw bottles of wine into the trucks.  Towards dawn we were unloaded on a hillside overlooking Air, Les Amilles, and the Rhone Valley.  We pitched our tents, cleared our weapons, and set up housekeeping.  After every meal, French women and children came to pick up the remnants.

With little to do, we roamed the nearby country in small groups with arms over our shoulders.  We had been informed that French militia and occasional German snipers were still in the region.  I was quite impressed by the care that the French took of their lands.  Every arroyo was terraced to hold water and to prevent erosion.  The stone homes with red tile roofs surrounded by grape vines and trees were attractive.  I surprised to find out that, through Spanish, I could communicate with the local people and spent hours in bars and cafes in nearby small towns, talking to the local residents about the war.  They hated the Germans and the American Air Force, who were not always careful where they dropped their bombs.

Although most of Marseilles was off-limits to American troops, we were permitted to visit the central zones.  The streets were filled with prostitutes, beggars, soldiers of many nationalities, and black marketeers, who offered what seemed like large sums in French money for almost any item the American soldier had.  Every soldier received 1 full carton of cigarette a week.  Not smoking, I sold my cigarette and accumulated a tidy sum in French francs--money that was almost worthless.  I liked the people and their rather cynical sense of humor.  I made friends with some Spanish refugees working for the American military, who told me about the Civil War in Spain.

We remained on that hillside for several weeks.  At night we heard German Reconnaissance planes flying overhead.  Then one morning, we packed up and boarded a French train made up of the famous French 40 and 8's--space for 40 men or eight horses.  The train moved very slowly up the Rhone Valley with lookouts posted on top of the cars to watch for enemy planes.  I quite enjoyed looking at the French towns that I had read about, as well as the well-kept farms, the rural villages, and the occasional chateau.  In almost every community, the area around the railroad station had been bombed.  Burned-out locomotives and railroad cars lined the tracks.  We saw little evidence of combat until we reached Thionville.  From there to Bramath, we observed burnt-out American and German tanks at road crossings at in town streets, damaged artillery pieces, and abandoned bits of American and German equipment.

Our train stopped during the night at the town of Bramath.  As we detrained, one of the men lit a cigarette.  A French conductor standing nearby quickly pulled the offending cigarette from the mouth of the soldier, exclaiming that the Germans were only a thousand meters or so in front of the station.  We assembled our equipment as trucks came up with blackened lights.  I heard the officer in charge of the convoy comment to our company commander that the roads were mined and some casualties were to be expected. Fortunately, we arrived safe at our destination.  As the trucks drove down the road through pine trees, I could hear our familiar friends, German reconnaissance planes, droning overhead, accompanied by anti-aircraft fire that sounded like doors being slammed hard in the sky.  Towards dawn, we reached our destination--a large building facing a square in Bischweiller.  Our gun covered the square from a large window.  The town was filled with American troops, tanks, and artillery.  Germans were dug in on a hill not far from the community.  During the days that followed, I struck up conversations with the local civilians who knew English and found that they did not like either French or Germans and that they did not like us any better.  We were told that there might be German infiltrators or French militia snipers in town and, therefore, we stayed in our building after dark.  Artillery fire muttered in the hills outside of town, but the war still seemed distant to us.

Several days passed when an officer informed us that the Germans had captured American tanks and crews of a certain armored division.  English-speaking soldiers were infiltrating American lines in these tanks.  We were instructed to fire without awaiting orders on any soldier seen with that divisional patch on their shoulders.  Twenty-four hours later, a sentinel awakened us at dawn with the news that a tank column was moving through the square operated by men with that specific patch.  We were swinging our machine gun around to fire upon them when a sergeant ran into the room, yelling, "Don't fire!  Don't fire!  They are American!"

We enjoyed several weeks in Bischweiller, but one evening trucks picked up our company at night and transported us to a section of the front in the forested Vosges mountains near the town of Hurtgen.  The weather was extremely cold and snowy.  The members of my squad, including myself, dug a large squad room in the earth and roofed it with timbers and metal from nearby bombed-out buildings.  We were even able to outfit it with a piano.  For several weeks we lived quite comfortably.  The only evidence of war was the continual mutter of artillery, squadrons of bombers and fighters flying overhead, and the passing of ambulances loaded with wounded along a road in front of our position.

About a week later we were ordered to abandon our comfortable positions.  We loaded into ducks (amphibious vehicles) and traveled slowly up a road behind tanks and mobile artillery.  As we moved, our attention was caught by noises of aerial combat above our heads.  As we watched the duels, our driver suddenly drove into a clump of pines.  When questioned about it, he said that German fighters were notorious for suddenly disengaging from dog fights and strafing troops on the road.

The ducks dropped us off near a river bank.  As dusk came on, we relieved troops dug in along the river.  Our machine gun squad occupied a well dug-in bunker covering a ford in the river across which German combat patrols passed.  Strands of barded wire decorated with tin cans containing gravel and booby traps surrounded our position on all sides.  Behind us a battery of heavy artillery fired incessantly through the days and nights.  What with the noise of the artillery and of strafing American fighters, neither we nor the Germans on the other side of the river ever got much sleep.

We had rather ambivalent feeling towards our own air force.  Glad that they commanded the skies, we cursed them for the occasional German fighters that strafed our positions.  We were glad to hear the constant bombing of German positions on the other side of the river, but were scared that they might bomb us.  The American air force during World War II was notorious for bombing and strafing its own troops.  To keep them up in the air, we fired on any plane, American or German, that swooped down over our positions.

We also hated our own support troops, such as the medics, quartermaster, and communication troops stationed behind the lines.  We believed, with some reason, that they waylaid supplies destined for the front line troops.  We envied them their soft, easy life; their safety from danger; their better food, clothing, and personal equipment.  We treated them contemptuously, raided their supply warehouses, stole their vehicles, and scrounged everything from them that might be useful at the front. Several times I was detailed with others to accompany officers to divisional headquarters.  While waiting, we located quartermaster depots and liberated quantities of warm winter clothing that we distributed to members of our company.  On another occasion, we found a bakery and departed, loaded with loaves of bread, cakes, pies, and biscuits.

Front line infantry believed that the whole world, including their civilian leaders, their generals, and their divisional officers, was engaged in a conspiracy to get them killed.  Sardonic, cynical, and believing in little, the infantry in Europe during World War II fought well as a matter of pride in themselves and in their units and to stay alive.  They knew that soldiers never left the front unless killed or wounded.  There was no point system to go home, the war had to be won.  Nothing mattered in the world except one's own company and battalion.  Survival depended upon combat skills, intuition, and one's friends.  Whatever happened, an infantryman with pride in himself never let his friends down, even though it meant his own life.  The bond between soldiers in combat is tighter than almost any other human relationship.

We had been told in training that we were the best fed, best trained, and best equipped army in the world and we believed the propaganda until we encountered the Germans.  We were disillusioned to find out that the German army was more democratic than our own.  It was more combat experienced and better in the use of camouflage.  The Germans maintained excellent combat discipline, but they lacked the aggressive elan of the American soldiers.

The Germans used smokeless powder.  Every time we fired a weapon, the smoke gave away our position.  Every fire fight was dominated by the sounds of a German automatic rifle called the "burp gun".  We had nothing comparable.  Their light machine guns fired faster than ours, did not weigh as much, and had barrels that could be changed much faster and easier.  The German 88 artillery piece was superior to any close support artillery we had.  But, on the other hand, our rifles, hand grenades, and heavy machine guns were better.  But what really turned us into profoundly disillusioned, cynical soldiers was the superiority of the German tanks.  The Germans also had far more winter clothing and better winter boots than we did.  German prisoners (at the moment of capture) lost their watches, boots, and white winter capes.

Most American front-line soldiers in our sector of the front wore heavy, brown army clothing that not only stood our against a snowy background, but encumbered their movements.  At the time, I wore a heavy set of winter woolens next to my skin.  Then came two pairs of khaki pants, surmounted by two heavy, wool shirts.  Over these I pulled on a pair of windbreaker pants, a heavy sweater, a field jacket, and finally a heavy, ankle-length brown woolen overcoat.  My feet were shod in two pairs of heavy white woolen socks and a pair of shoe packs (rubberized, high-top boots), in which one's feet were never warm.  We were quite bitter over our inability to secure warm, light-weight camouflage winter clothing.

A few days later, our battalion left the river bank and cautiously moved up through forested hills near the town of Hagenau in V-shaped skirmish formations.  It was here that we underwent our real baptism of fire.  As we moved along the ridge lines, we were met by bursts of German artillery, machine gun, automatic rifle, and rifle fire.  Just as our mortars and artillery found the range, the Germans pulled out.  And as we moved through the German positions, we were hit in turn by German mortar and artillery.  It was in these seemingly endless series of fire-fights that we began to lose men.  Once we came under intense shell fire and the shells were falling where we lay, I jumped to my feet and yelled, "Let's get the hell out of here!", and dashed out of the impact zone, followed by the entire company.  I learned two important lessons: one, that I functioned fairly well in combat and, two, that in times of stress, men will follow anyone (regardless of rank) who seems to know what he is doing.

In these endless, forested hills, the front was very fluid and unstable.  Both the Germans and ourselves patrolled aggressively.  Combat between patrols caused many casualties.  In one patrol in which I participated, a close friend of mine was hit by a German rifle bullet that penetrated his helmet in front, circled his head between the helmet and helmet liner, and exited close to where it had gone in, leaving a red groove around his head.

Snow fell constantly and the weather turned very cold and foggy.  We moved up hills, dug in close to ridge lines, moved up behind tanks along winding, twisting roads, attacked and were attacked.  We never knew for sure where we were or what the purpose of our movements was.  Both the Germans and we were broken down into companies and battalions that moved through a hallucinated, forested, hilly landscape treacherous with land mines and booby traps, trying to kill each other in an Indian-type warfare.  I rapidly learned to pay close attention to the sudden movements of birds, the sounds of animals, the significance of snow suddenly falling from tree branches ahead, and to scrutinize the ground for tell-tale signs of booby traps and land mines.  The Germans did not behave like defeated soldiers.  They were first-class fighters.

It was during the fighting in the forest around Hagenau that I first saw men killed and wounded.  I was deeply disturbed and appalled at the fragility of life.  But, in time, I became calloused and fatalistic.  I came to believe that the bullet or shell with my name on it would find me no matter where I was.  No one could escape his "rendezvous with death".  Because of the cold, my hands and feet began to crack and bleed.  No one shaved.  To wash, one had to melt snow in helmets, and there was seldom time for that.

As winter wore on, we continued to fight numerous inconclusive skirmishes with the Germans.  We were aware that the Germans had broken through our lines further to the east in their Ardennes offensive.  Almost half of our divisional strength was went to reinforce the bending American lines.  Supplies and ammunition became less plentiful.  Casualties began to mount and I started to lose friends whose deaths depressed me greatly.

On Christmas day of 1944, we were dug in just behind a ridge line over-looking a small, nameless Alsatian village.  On the day before Christmas, I had watched Alsatian children skating on a small pond as American and German shells sighed over their heads.  The war took a holiday on Christmas service in the village church.  Removing our helmets, we stood in the back of the church, arms over our shoulders, listening to a German language sermon we could not understand, but were touched by the spirit.  As the people left the church, some of them deposited gingerbread men in our helmets.

The war began the day after Christmas.  As the days passed in a blur of firefights, we moved slowly towards Pfalzburg.  As we moved through the streets of the town behind our tanks, the Germans shelled the town, setting trucks and buildings on fire.  Several of us jumped downstairs into the basement of an abandoned house.  We could hear the firefight raging outside the town and watched a tank battle through a narrow window.

The next morning we occupied the town and pressed on under heavy fire towards the ridge line overlooking the town.  As we climbed up a hill, several German soldiers, hands raised high, stepped out in front of us to surrender.  They were but boys, 15 to 17 years old.  We had several embittered soldiers who swore that they would never take prisoners.  But even they could not kill children.  Sending the prisoners back, we continued our advance.  Dead German and American bodies lay here and there in the reddish snow.

Feeling that my prospects for surviving the war had about run out, I prayed earnestly that night in a foxhole that my life might be spared.  The next morning, I joined a skirmish line moving through the woods.  Artillery fire increased in intensity and an exploding shell knocked me down.  Dazed, I stumbled to my feet and continued up the slope.  My knees were badly twisted and a bit bloody.  As I passed a medic treating a soldier shot through the shoulder he told me to stop.  He looked at my knees and told me to get into the jeep with the other soldier.  For me, the fighting had ended.  The medical jeep drove us back to an evacuation first aid station.  It was extremely cold and I had not eaten during the day.

A small group of wounded soldiers sat huddled around a wood burning stove.  Hungry, we searched our clothing and found a few K and C rations.  We forced off the lids, put the rations on the stove, and ate their contents with our fingers.  A young nurse coming into the room took one look at us and fainted.  It was then that I realized how dirty, filthy, unshaven, and bloody we were.

I was evacuated to the 236 General Hospital at Epinal where I remained for two weeks.  I found it extremely difficult to sleep in a bed and could not recognize myself when bathed and shaved.  A tank crewman with bandages over most of his body laid in the bed on my right, and on my left was a soldier with multiple machine gun wounds.  Wounded soldiers in the wards talked freely to each other about their combat experiences, but we closed our mouths whenever medical personnel came into the room.  Much to my surprise, I was awarded a purple heart.  All the work in the hospital was performed by German prisoners of war.  Oddly enough, there was more rapport between them and us than there was between us and the American medics.  I learned at the hospital the one of my best friends, Wickstrom, had been killed.

After two weeks of therapy for my constantly aching knees, I was placed aboard a hospital train that traveled very slowly through France.  Unfortunately, we traversed Paris at night.  I had no idea where the train was going, but suddenly realized from the hedges that we must be going through Normandy.  I could not help but think of the many men who died in these hedges and in the destroyed towns we passed through.  The train stopped at Cherbourg and we boarded an English hospital boat.  Once assigned to a bunk, I hobbled to the deck and stood looking across the harbor filled with sunken ships to the destroyed town.  The early dawn was cold and foggy.  I stood there, dressed in pajamas and a hospital robe.  I felt colder inside than I did outside.  I was filled with guilt at being alive when so many friends had been killed, and at being there while other friends were still moving through the hills in the Vosges forests.  Suddenly, a beam of sunshine penetrated through the mist and warmed my skin. The sun appeared, the mist vanished, and the little waves of the English channel glinted in the sunshine--the first sunshine that I had seen for weeks.  I suddenly realized that I was alive, my prayers had been answered, and I could now dream of going home.  I remained on deck throughout the crossing, watching the channel, the coming and going of battleships, and the numerous planes overhead.

We landed at heavily battered Southampton and transferred to a hospital train.  I enjoyed the marvelously beautiful English countryside and marveled at the mean and ugly industrial towns.  The train stopped early in the morning at Whitechurch, Somerset.  I looked at the men unloading the wounded and then looked again intently.  I suddenly realized that I knew some of them.  They were personnel from the 82nd General Hospital, the same groups that had been in training at Baxter General Hospital.  When they saw me, they laughed and told me that they had got me in the end.  I received excellent treatment at the hospital.  The doctors and therapists worked on my knees, told me that I would need therapy for sometime, and that for several years a knee might suddenly slip out of joint.

I was at the hospital for almost three months.  Gradually my knees improved.  The swelling vanished even though I could not walk very far.  I spent days in therapy exercising my knees and receiving heat treatments and soaking in warm, agitated water.  I was quite shocked when, one day, my old friend Ross T. Christensen walked into my hospital tent.  As a chaplain's assistant, he managed to secure a three-day pass for me.  I obtained a complete outfit of army clothing and was bundled, limping, into an English bus headed for Liverpool.  

I had not seen Ross for several years, so we had much to say to each other.

Once in Liverpool, a taxi delivered us to the Liverpool branch of the Church.  The church hall was filled with English girls and American, Canadian, English, Australian, and I believe, Dutch servicemen.  Ross introduced me as an Argentine member of the Church who had volunteered for the American army, and who spoke very little English.  The girls swarmed around us.  They talked to Ross in English, who then translated their comments into Portuguese.  I replied in Spanish to Ross, who translated again into English.  Needless to say, we were the focus of attention.

The next morning, a Sunday morning, we attended church services.  Ross presided at the sacrament meeting and asked me to speak.  I spoke in English, as we had both forgotten our little charade of the night before.  The words "he speaks English" spread through the young people.  When the meeting ended, they twitted both Ross and myself.

On February 24, 1945, I was transferred to the 168th General Hospital located in the historic town of Warrington, England, for further therapy.  As the doctors encouraged me to use my knees as much as possible, I went for long walks through the moors, hills, and dales of central England.  I hitchhiked to nearby cities such as Birmingham, Manchester, Chester, Liverpool, Wigan, Wallacy, and Preston.  I quite enjoyed the tremendous human diversity of war time England, with troops, civilians, and refugees from all parts of the world.  I enjoyed talking with them in pubs, coffee houses, and fish-and-chip shops.  I developed a deep respect for and admiration of the British people.  However, I did not like the rigid social class differences--I noticed that the working class and the upper middle class had quite distinct cultures.  I also disliked the lack of comfort in the domestic life of the British and the incredible ugliness of their larger cities.  While I was there, I bought many books, subscribed to several English intellectual journals, and even became a member of the Left Wing Book Club.

On March 22, 1945, with a seven-day pass in my pocket, I hitchhiked to London.  I checked into the Red Cross Hotel for servicemen near Picadilly Circus and set out to see all of London that I could in six days.  I went on every tour available to American servicemen.  I toured 18th century London, the Tower, London Bridge, the London Churches, the law courts, Whitehall, St. Paul's Cathedral, the halls of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park, and Buckingham Palace.  Street by street I explored central London and Westminster.  I was really impressed by the tremendous park system enjoyed by the London people and by the horrible slums.  I managed to visit the mission headquarters of the English mission and met the mission president, Hugh B. Brown, whom all the servicemen and English people loved.

Shortly after my return, I was declared fit for limited duty by the hospital medical staff and transferred to the notorious 10th Replacement Depot.  The commanding officer, a Colonel Killian, was a vicious, sadistic individual who delighted in abusing soldiers under his command.  The camp was divided into two sections--one section for soldiers awaiting reassignment and the other for military prisoners.  Discipline was harsh and military rules and regulations enforced to the smallest detail.  I had forgotten just how arbitrary and totalitarian the basic structure of the American military was.  Military prisoners were brutally treated.  I was delighted to be there for only a few days.

One afternoon, an exuberant air force colonel called together all the ex-infantry in the camp to inform us that we were to be transferred to the air force.  We received the news with sullen silence rather than with the enthusiastic cheers that he expected.  If we had had our druthers, most of us would have returned to our infantry patches.  We refused point blank to do so.  Fortunately, the air force compromised with us.  We were permitted to keep our divisional patches on one shoulder of our jackets, provided we wore the air force patch on the other shoulder.  Within the air force, the ex-infantry became an irritating, closed group, refusing to salute air force officers or to freely associate with air force personnel.

Upon leaving the replacement depot, I was assigned to a Bomber Air Base near Preston, England.  After attending truck driver's school, I became a truck driver, driving all over central and southern England.  I found driving on the left an exciting challenge.  The English roads then were quite narrow, with many right angle turns through the numerous villages.  As we were frequently given the day off at the end of our runs, I got to see a good part of England.  My most startling experience as a truck driver was the discovery of groups of Spanish prisoners-of-war held by the American army.  They fought for the Spanish Republic during the Spanish Civil War.  Seeking refuge in southern France, they were drafted into labor battalions by the Germans and later captured by the Americans.

I had long wanted to see Edinburgh, Scotland.  Securing a seven-day pass, I took the train to Edinburgh on July 12, 1945.  I enjoyed traveling across the historic and interesting lands of northern England and of lowland Scotland.  Edinburgh is one of the most dramatic and lovely cities in the British Isles.  I visited all the historic sites, including the impressive castle.  I made many friends among the friendly Scots.  Food was more plentiful in Edinburgh than it was in England.  Towards the end of my stay, I stopped to listen to a speaker near the principal church in the city attacking the United States.  I heckled him vigorously.  Much to my surprise, he stopped, stepped down from his stool, and invited me to address the crowd, which I did for some thirty minutes.  He heckled me in turn.  We were having some enjoyable exchanges when I noticed several M.P.s working their way through the crowd.  I suddenly remembered that American soldiers were not to become involved with British politics.  I jumped down from the stool and started to run.  The members of the large crowd standing there locked arms, trapping the M.P.s until I was well away.  I left Edinburgh with a firm desire to return.

The European war ended on May 8, 1945.  I still remember the lights coming on in the British cities for the first time in many years.  The city nights assumed quite a different aspect.  The English people celebrated in a constrained way the ending of years of strain and tension.  There was little of the exuberant excitement that marked the ending of the war in the United States.

Shortly after the end of the war, I got into a bitter argument with a sergeant over my constant Sunday assignments, and shortly was transferred to a small air base near Thetford, England, there soldiers working with gas masks loaded leaky, poisonous gas bombs into trucks for disposal in the ocean for punishment.  As my knees began to swell, I went on sick call and was excused from labor.  I explored East Anglia with its flat fields, marshes, and sparse villages.  I enjoyed wandering around Thetford, Bury St. Edmunds, Coventry, Ely, Norwich, and other English cities.  But gradually I began spending most of my time in the university town of Cambridge.  I enjoyed the colleges of the university, and attended lectures and plays whenever I could.  I patronized the book stores more than my financial resources permitted.  I thought of taking my discharge in England and enrolling at Cambridge.

During my stay in England, I was part of another Mormon social system composed of Mormon servicemen, whatever their nationality, and English members of the Church.  A network of Mormon servicemen covered all the military camps in England and even extended into German prisoner-of-war camps.  Under the direction of President Hugh B. Brown, church groups were organized in all the larger military bases.  However, many Mormon servicemen such as myself preferred to attend English branches of the Church such as Wallacy, Preston, and Liverpool, that had attractive young ladies.

A very strong and affectionate relationship developed between American servicemen and the British members of the Church.  Almost every member family in England adopted one or more American soldiers or, in some cases like the Fosters in Preston and the Fyfes in Wallacy, entire companies.  Through the soldiers, the English members of the Church secured access to goods not available in England.  As few American soldiers liked canned fruit juices and vegetables, mess sergeants were happy to have Mormon soldiers pick up two or three five-gallon cans to supplement the rations that soldiers, invited to spend a weekend with an English family, were permitted to take with them.  Clothing, candy, cosmetics, and other goods could be secured at the army P.X.s.

Many English branches sponsored Saturday night dances, picnics, and other social activities.  Such activities attracted Mormon servicemen and English young people from all over central England.  There were usually four or five soldiers to each English girl.  Our social groups visited such English resorts as Blackpool.  We also toured the castles, museums, art galleries, cathedrals, and other historic sites that were open.  Most of the English girls married American servicemen or migrated to Utah after the war and married there.

When the war ended in Europe, the American servicemen did everything but mutiny to pressure the American government to send them home.  The rapid dismantling of the large combat-experienced armies in Europe was but one of the many bad policies of the time.  At any rate, on September 24, 1945, I was notified that I had accumulated enough points for a discharge.  I was sent to a base near Bury St. Edmunds for processing.  Along with many other troops, I then went to Southhampton to board a troop ship, the U.S.S. Anderson, for return to the United States.  

The crossing was very rough and lasted about ten days.  Shortly after we passed the Azores Islands, we were hit by a hurricane that drove us almost to Brazil.  As we approached New York, most of us were on deck to see the Statue of Liberty rising slowly above the horizon.  Upon landing we were trucked to a camp in New Jersey.  That night I called my family to let them know that I had arrived in the United States and secured a three-day pass to visit my brother, Paul, laboring in the mission office of the Eastern States Mission in Philadelphia.  We spent a day together. Upon my return I was put aboard a very slow troop train that traveled across the United States, dropping off soldiers.  Reaching Salt Lake City, I was discharged.  I encountered my friend, Oliver Smith, who was now an officer.  Joining the reserves for financial reason, I picked up my discharge bonus, had the ruptured duck sewn on my Eisenhower jacket, and became a civilian again.  I almost danced and sang all the way home.  But my family, alas, no longer lived in Holladay.  During my stay in Europe, the family had moved to a large home on the northeast corner of Third Avenue and N Street.  The family, in moving, had disposed of my collections of fossils and Indian relics and my large, highly-valued roll-top desk.  Even my high school papers had vanished.  My adjustment to civilian life was complicated by having to live in a strange neighborhood.  I missed the rural fields, orchards, and pastures of Holladay.

My first act as a civilian was to register for unemployment relief.  Then I went downtown to buy scarce civilian clothes.  At the time, it was difficult for civilians to buy clothing; but when a discharged soldier appeared in a store, clothing appeared as if by magic.  Then I went out to Holladay and found that all of my friends had survived the war.  We had many good times, talking about our military experiences.  Among us we had served in most branches and theatres of the service.

Some thirty years have passed since I was discharged from the army.  I disliked it from the first to the last day and have prayed that no son of mine would ever experience military service.  I successfully resisted the efforts of the army to modify my personality or to change my political, intellectual, or religious values.  I developed a greater appreciation of Mormonism and a stronger testimony of the gospel.  I learned the importance of friendship.  I can never forget how kind and tender-hearted tough combat infantrymen were toward each other.  I still miss, after all those years, the tight bonds of comradeship that I experienced in the infantry.  Thus, in spite of myself, my military experiences profoundly affected my life.  I still possess the sardonic, mistrustful, and cynical attitudes of an infantryman towards all governments and towards all those in authority.

For years I slept very lightly at night.  Any sound in the house or yard would bring me out of bed.  Airplanes flying overhead or loud sounds triggered off a desire to seek cover.  For over ten years I suffered from a recurrent nightmare.  I would be sleeping next to my wife in a warm bed during a cold winter night.  A loud knock at the front door awakened me.  I put on my clothes and, opening the door, found my old company commander standing on the porch.  In his arms were combat clothing and equipment.  Looking at me, he was say, "Knowlton, the furlough is over."  I returned to my bedroom, kissed my sleeping wife, and without saying a word, put on the clothing.  Loading my carbine and slipping it over my shoulder, I stepped outside the house and assumed my place in my squad.  Moving out of my street, the squad would take its position in a long line of infantry moving up both sides of the street with tanks, self-propelled artillery, and trucks traveling up the middle.  The night sky was luminescent with recurrent flashes of artillery and shells were exploding near the road.  Always we were moving north.  As the order came to scatter in skirmish formation and to prepare for assault, I would awaken, shivering with cold and covered with sweat.  It took me many years before I felt integrated into civilian life, if it could be said that I have ever fully integrated.

There was much about American military and occupational policy during and after the war that I regarded as murderous, brutal, stupid, and silly.  I could not accept the deliberate bombing of civilian targets by the Allied air force.  Studies after the war showed that these bombings killed hundreds of thousands of people and did not weaken the German war effort.  I believed then and believe now that both the German and Allied air commanders should have been tried as common war criminals at the end of the war.  The policy of unconditional surrender that prolonged the war, that cost thousands of lives, and that brought the Russians into the heart of Europe was stupid beyond belief.  So was the brutal turning over of Russian refugees in Europe to the camps.  The policy of non-fraternization that prohibited American soldiers from establishing any friendly contacts with the German people was incredibly silly.  The deliberate starvation of the German people at the end of the war was heartless and criminal.

I disliked the army from the day I entered until the day I left.  I despised the entire military caste system and had little respect for most officers and non commissioned officers I served under except some in the infantry.  I became somewhat of a "barracks lawyer".  I could not conceal my attitudes from my officers and sergeants but I never gave them an opportunity to come down on me.  I obeyed all army regulations.  But I always had a substantial library of books, even at the front, I also subscribed also to wide variety of liberal and socialist and intellectual journals.  I am sure that my subscriptions brought me to the attention of army intelligence.  Throughout my army career, I remained a civilian in uniform.  I was also constantly working away at university correspondences.  I barely masked my contempt and near insubordination with a punctilious performance of my duties.  I paid a price in lack of promotion and in many unpleasant assignments, but at no time did the army ever manage to crack my veneer except in combat and there it was cracked wide open.