Grace Under Fire Read online

  You get to thinking about the future. The idle period of waiting is nerve wracking. Everything is ready, there is just the period of absolutely nothing to do—that is nothing to do but sleep, read, play cards, and there are always crap games going on with fabulous stakes because no one is thinking about the value of money. Small groups squat around and talk about everything but the impending crisis. The new replacements are outwardly unconcerned, making flippant remarks. The few remaining veterans of the Salerno battle are more thoughtful and quiet—but less calm. They figure their number is about up. Some of their buddies fell at Alteville and the Solo River, others got theirs storming Hill 1205 or San Pietro. They remember entire platoons and even companies wiped out at the unforgettable Rapido, cut down by “screaming meenies” and mortars or drowned horribly in the icy waters. A few more friends fell in the break through from Anzio. Velletri, Rome and Grossoto decimated the originals until the veterans who landed over eleven months ago in Italy are few—and thoughtful. Now we are to strike somewhere else—soon!

  We’re not yet on the boats. But I know what it will be like. I remember so clearly from the last time; iron folding cots, four tiers high and jammed so close that you can hardly pass in the narrow aisles, especially with your life belt on. Down in the holds its dark and hot and smelly with sweated unwashed bodies. There is the warm sickening stench of food. The boat is so crowded there is always a line eating and the heavy air is mixed with all sorts of odors—none of them pleasant….

  The energetic chaplains are busy holding services all hours of the day on the various dock levels. Fellows are trying to catch up on years of neglected religion in a few days. And it can be done—and is! The Catholics have Mass, Communion and Confessions while the Protestants preach little, pray much, and sing the favorite hymns of the Church. And then there are Jewish services for members of that faith. At all these sacred gatherings there is a sincerity and informality that makes for a better and greater fellowship and gives a deeper sense of the intangible value of friends, home, and the eternal verities of life. Were the world to live in this rare state of grace there would be no wars. In those services we all wish we’d lived better, been more complimentary and less critical, written home more lovingly and more often, etc. We are finally face to face with life; tho reality of it is so tremendous an effort….

  I don’t pray, nor do I want others, to pray for my safety or return. That is not of prime importance. In life we too often emphasize the wrong things. We don’t put first things first. We become satisfied with the good and don’t press on to the best values in life. No, safety isn’t the ultimate goal. But true examplary conduct is. What is important is that whatever does happen to me I will play my part as a man and do absolutely nothing that will shame my character or my God. To me the supreme words, the finist and highest commendation in the whole wide world is, “Well done thou good and faithful servant. Thou hast fought the good fight, thou hast kept the faith. Enter thou into the kingdom of Heaven.”

  Sorry if I seem to be getting dramatic. Don’t mean to. I fully expect with God’s Holy Will that I shall come through. Wanted you to know my reactions preceding this greatest of all invasions. Lets hope and pray that the lives lost will be worth it; as if any price can pay for a life. I want to get home; we all want to go home and though it will mean never for some, for most this will mean a much closer path through time to those whom we love and who love us so dearly.

  Must crate the typewriter now. Was lucky to have it this long. Its late in the morning now and most of the fellows are down on the beach. Will join them and have fun and who can tell might start a seeming spontaneous song service. And so I bid you adieu. Christians never say goodbye. Sooner or later we all meet again.

  Bicky

  Another young soldier fighting in Europe, Private First Class Albert Kishler Jr., kept in touch with a close friend and former neighbor, Adrian Nader, who had joined the Navy but had not experienced ground combat. In a letter written to Nader over a two-day period (December 17 and 18, 1944), Kishler described what goes through a man’s mind when the bombs and bullets actually start to fly. (A “BAR,” alluded to in the letter, is a Browning Automatic Rifle.)

  Dear Adrian,

  I received your November 19th letter yesterday in my foxhole and read it while the 88’s and burp guns played over our positions. Your description of the Leyte invasion and the battle afterwards was most interesting. We also have seen quite a bit of action during the past two months. I’m with the Ninth Army north of Aachen and believe me we’ve really been pushing the Krauts around.

  We too operate behind smoke screens but not as a comfortable range as you. Jerry can and does throw a lot of lead at night and whenever smoke blinds him. The SS troopers are true fanatics and there’s no resting when they’re around. It takes bayonets, guts and death to convince the Nazi that he’d better turn tail. The Poles, Austrians, and Czechs make good enemies but the German matches you trick for trick and guts with guts.

  December 18th, Sunday

  Sunday—God’s Day. The man who said that there are no atheists in foxholes had hit the nail on the head. When the sun goes down and darkness steals in, life to the infantrymen becomes nothing more than a gust of wind. The nights are long, fifteen hours and cold and you are invariably dug in the middle of a sugar beet field—Germany is all beet fields, orchards, and towns. To get back to the foxhole, there you are—a grenade in one hand, more handy, and your other hand fingering your BAR—it’s you and good old Mother Earth and God. And when the time comes that you leave that hole and charge across several hundred yards of enemy territory with machine guns burning, 88’s and mortars thinning your numbers, God is never forgotten. To us, death is no distant unknown….

  Several Sundays ago, just after we had completed one of our toughest battles, the Chaplain preached a sermon that I shall never forget!—“Our God is eternally just. Our God is eternally seeking. Our God is eternally loving.—It’s easy to die but it’s difficult to go on living.”

  We are on the road to victory, but we are leaving a blazing trail. The “Battle Hymn of the Republic” and the 23rd Psalm are my constant companions on the Road, and home, Mildred, and peace my dream. “The wheels of justice grind slow and fine.”

  The candle’s going out; more later.—

  Albert, Jr.

  Kishler would ultimately be wounded twice in battle, but he survived the war.

  In a Letter to His Parents, Lieutenant James R. Penton Profiles an Individual He Encountered Who Embodied True Faith in Action

  Despite the main shortcoming of letters sent through the mail—mostly, that they can take weeks and sometimes even months to reach their destination—handwritten correspondences have their own unique value. For one, they offer recipients a tangible connection to their loved ones, who can hold the actual paper that their sweetheart or child or parent also touched. They can also be embellished with drawings and other artwork, and it is not uncommon for troops to include an illustration or two in their letters home. Twenty-seven-year-old Lieutenant James R. Penton, who served in France with the 612th Tank Destroyer Battalion, 2nd Infantry Division, enjoyed drawing sketches of interesting people and places as he and his fellow soldiers pushed their way toward Germany. On September 3, 1944, Penton sent the following letter to his parents back in Philadelphia after being deeply moved by the sight of a woman who was the very epitome of grace under fire. (The unusual punctuation is in the original.)

  Dear Mother and Governor:

  In the “Reader’s Digest” there’s a monthly article entitled “The Most Unforgettable Character I’ve Known,”—or something of the sort. Well, not so long ago I met an unforgettable character myself…..

  My guns were in position in a small farmyard in the recently-wrested town of Vire, along the crest of a beautiful ridge,—and but a stone’s throw from the rubble-dusty-haze rising above the warm ruins of the cities’ downtown business section. There was no “Business As Usual” in Vire that night,—only
“Nazi-Tactics as Usual” as the Butchers of Spirit and Property harassed the town from afar with artillery shells aimed at no one spot in particular. My platoon crept into town as dusk merged into darkness,—barely moving at all in the tortured streets so as to keep down dust---and resulting enemy observation.

  And as the sun of early morning dissolved the fog, yawning faces appeared from the depths of holes in the ground, and the boys were moving about comparing notes about the night before. Considerable interest was shown in the truck,—which had suffered three gashed tires, a perforated radiator, and other numerous shrapnel holes. In the light of day I noticed a sprawling, peaceful convent to the immediate rear of the position—with its courtyard and spires almost miraculously untouched. And while I sat there,—in the protection of a bank, gazing at the convent and listening to the melodious chiming of its bells intermingle with the hideous wail of Jerry 88’s,—a solitary nun made her way deliberately through the yard, a bucket of water in one hand. It was a shock to hear her address me in perfect English, show identification papers, and learn that she was caring for the livestock in the absence of the terrorized farmer and his family. And that’s the sum and substance of my story. All morning long, as the whine of Jerry artillery overhead kept the rest of us in our holes, that nun moved serenely and placidly about the skeleton of the burned-out barn,—and around the bodies of dead, bloated cows;-----milking the swollen cows, feeding and watering the chickens, collecting eggs.

  “The Nun of Vire,” by James R. Penton

  And I know that our most argumentative and skeptical atheist was duly fascinated and impressed by that display of the power and force of that Sister’s faith——and complete fearlessness……It was not the sudden, stimulated and short-lived courage which drives a man to risk hot lead on a daring dash to aid a buddy, to me, it was far more than that….. It was the picture of a mellowed and complete faith,—it was serenity of mind and soul amidst man’s savagery of arm and spirit….. That nun hadn’t spent two years of training, and “battle-conditioning” and crawling under gun fire….. but her poise and expression and dogged pursuit of someone else’s domestic duties in the midst of that inferno was something we will all remember;—as we will the quarter-hourly chiming of the convent bells, as if in patient, long suffering defiance of the high explosive shells which ripped the city….. And as I sketched the nun,—some of the boys glanced over my shoulder…There was no title on the paper,—but every one immediately recollected…

  Well, there is nothing new to say. We seem to be doing things rapidly here in France,—but don’t expect that daily collapse…These Germans are either crazymen or madmen,—and the fact that they are being cut off into little “pockets” does not prevent their generals from driving them to the long drawn-out slaughter…..

  Do not worry when I don’t have time to write. You know in the army—“no news is good news.” Love to all, Jim

  More than two months after writing this letter, Penton was shot through his right shoulder. “Well, how’s this for my first southpaw letter?” he began a brief, surprisingly positive message to his parents on December 23. “My right arm is in a plaster of Paris cast,—I’m in Paris, too—France…. I’m O.K., though, and will soon be in England. Don’t worry over me. Love to all, Jim.” After returning to the States, Penton recuperated fully and continued to draw and paint.

  Combat Nurse June Wandrey Offers Her Sister Betty Her Impressions of the Vatican—and the Pope

  Twenty-two years old when she enlisted in the Army Nurse Corps, June Wandrey was five-foot-two with, in her own words, “finely honed muscles that were dynamite ready.” (She signed one of her first letters to her family back in Wisconsin, “Your littlest tomboy.”) Beginning in March 1943, Wandrey served for more than two and a half years throughout North Africa and Europe as a combat nurse. The work was dangerous, often exhilarating, sometimes tedious, and, at times, even had its humorous moments. In June 1944, Wandrey went on leave to Rome and had the opportunity to see the Vatican. The visit, which she described in a letter to her older sister, turned out to be quite memorable.

  6-15-44 Italy

  Dear Betty,

  Today was my turn to go to the Vatican; I wore my dress uniform with a skirt. I went with our Catholic chaplain. Two Catholic nurses from another hospital joined us as we were crossing the Piazza S. Piedro. The Swiss Guards wear the most colorful garb, big black tam-o-shanters, blue and black leg-o-mutton blouses, and knee breeches. They carry staffs. The men who guard the Pope have helmets with plumes, spears, and multi-colored garments on the same order as the Swiss guards. They are the Papal colors of the early Roman Empire. There were thousands of GIs at the audience with the Pope.

  We stood in the front row. The Pope stopped right in front of me. He’s as small as I am. I gave him a big smile and he extended his ring to me to kiss. Methodists just don’t go around kissing old men’s rings as you well know, so I didn’t. If one thinks of the sanitary aspects of that antiquated custom, it’s repulsive. Instead I extended my hand to him, gave him a happy, hearty handshake. We chatted briefly. I told him I came from Wisconsin. Also about the great fishing there and put in a good word for Father Nurnberg. Are he and Mom still discussing religions? The Pope blessed a rosary and gave it to me. I’m going to give it to Mrs.B. when I get back. It isn’t safe to send things home.

  Perhaps I rattled his Papal cage, but I meant no disrespect. His position I salute. The Catholic nurses on either side of me wanted to hit me over the head after it was over. They were burned up because he didn’t speak to them and wasted his attention on me. They broke out a package of cigarettes and started to smoke in the Vatican. To me that was a sacrilege. The Vatican is a wonderful, incredibly beautiful building made so by the paintings and sculptures. The Judgement Day is magnificent. There must be a thousand rooms in the compound. I think even an atheist would be moved by the Holy nature of this place.

  I have an infected finger from a jab with a dirty needle in the OR. The sulfadiazine I’m taking has made me absolutely sluggish and it doesn’t become me.

  Love, June

  Wandrey returned to the United States in 1945 after receiving a total of eight battle stars for campaigns throughout North Africa and Europe.

  June Wandrey

  Gabriel Navarro Expresses to His Son Porfirio, Who Has Been Fighting in the Pacific for One Year, How Proud He Is of His Son’s Service

  &

  The Mother of a U.S. Soldier Named Leonard Cesternino Tells Her Son About a Dream She Had That They Were Together Again

  &

  In a Letter to His Dying Mother Back in the States, U.S. Army Chaplain Walter Hanley Thanks Her for Being Such a Good and Loving Parent

  Two months before D-Day, Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower wrote a private letter to his wife, Mamie, reflecting on the human cost of the war. “[I]t is a terribly sad business to total up the casualties each day,” he wrote,

  …[and recognize] that back home the news brings anguish and suffering to families all over the country…. War demands real toughness of fiber—not only in the soldiers that must endure, but in the homes that sacrifice their best.

  The sentiment is a timeless one, and troops serving in all conflicts recognize that their families in the States bear the brunt of war as intensely as anyone in uniform. But while the spouses, parents, and other relatives on the home front live in a constant state of anxiety, there is, intermingled with their apprehension, a profound sense of pride in their loved ones for serving their country. Gabriel C. Navarro, a first-generation immigrant from Mexico who was residing in Houston, Texas, articulated the feelings of many parents in the following letter to his son Porfirio, a twenty-two-year-old corporal in the Marine Corps. The letter was written on June 7, 1943, which marked the one-year anniversary of Porfirio’s entry in the U.S. military.

  Porfirio Navarro (right), and the letter by Gabriel Navarro to his son

  It has been one year to the day that, courageous and optimistic, full
of faith and love of country, you left our side to join the armed forces of America. The forces of Democracy and Liberty.

  Twelve months of absence, during which time our thoughts and my paternal affection have followed you step by step across an ocean full of dangers. I arrived with you to that land which has been destroyed by the machine-guns of the Japanese. I followed your steps into the tangled and inhospitable jungles, and my imagination saw you, determined and valiant, defying death on all sides, and ready to defend until death your flag of stars and stripes…. My heart stops beating when I think of death extending its wings over your head. My great love of humanity cries to me for acceptance and resignation toward the possible sacrifice of your life, so long as this sacrifice is not in vain….

  The courage and enthusiasm which you demonstrated upon leaving us to answer your country’s call, which needs the help of its children, filled me with satisfaction and pride. And you may be sure that your mother, who gave you life, also covers you with benedictions and prayers, just as your mother country covers you with its flag, which now waves immense and glorious upon that land which you are helping to conquer.