 
Memoirs of World War II

Behind the scenes of the US Army Campaign in Europe

With a Soldier's Salute to Mariette

who inspired the letters without which these memoirs could not have been written

Daniel B. Badger

1915 -2012

Published by Daniel B. Badger Jr.at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Daniel B. Badger Jr.

Contents

Preface by Daniel Badger Jr.

Foreword

Overseas to England

Winter and Spring 1944 in England

Plymouth - Preparing for the Invasion

On to D-Day

The Normandy Campaign and Cherbourg

Breakout from Normandy & On to Paris

Paris is Delivered

On into Belgium

Into Germany and Aachen

The Battle of the Bulge

On to Cologne and the Rhine

On to Leipzig and Victory in Europe

Epilogue

Preface

In early 1997, at the age of 82, my father brought down from the attic a box containing over two-hundred-and-thirty-five letters that he had sent to my mother, Mariette, while serving with the US Army's VII Corp during World War II. The first letter was written in July 1942 from Rochester New York, where my father had begun training with the army's Counter-Intelligence Corp (CIC). The last letter was written from Paris in June, 1945 -- shortly before he sailed for New York from Cherbourg.

Throughout 1997 my father reread his letters and composed his Memoirs of World War II, quoting extensively from the letters, and supplying additional detail from his prodigious memory.

For any American soldier who participated in the landing on Utah Beach, the liberation of Paris, the Battle of the Bulge, fighting across the Rhine at Cologne, and the final surrender of the German army, these were defining experiences of a lifetime. My father's experience of these events, however, was intensified by having lived in Paris with his family from the age of 5 to 16 (1919-1931), having spent holidays in Normandy, having attended school in Switzerland from 1925-1931, and having summered in Munich in 1933.

The time living in France, Switzerland and Germany, and the resulting fluency in French and German, made my father highly useful to the CIC – primarily as an interrogator of captured Germans, and a harvester of intelligence in liberated French and Belgian towns and villages. Among the Americans who sped into Paris behind General deGaulle's convoy on August 25, 1944, he was surely the only one whose most pressing personal business, as soon as there was time for any, was to search out Parisians he had not seen for fifteen years -- the nanny who had taken care the family, and his father's two closest friends and colleagues from work.

The sub-title of the Memoirs, however, is "Behind the Scenes of the US Army Campaign in Europe." Readers will quickly find that my father's real purpose was not to tell how it felt to be a part of great moments in history. It was to tell personal stories, about the joys, anxieties, boredom and vicissitudes of daily life at the front with comrades in the CIC unit attached to the VII US Army Corps; his devotion to my mother (they married in September 1942); the suicide of his much-loved brother (in January 1944); the birth of his first child (February 1944); and much else.

Dad and his comrades loved to sing, so if you want the lyrics to "Ma Normandie", or Frank Loesser's "Skirts," the French Foreign Legion's "Madalon," the Whiffenpoof Song, "Lili Marleen," Kurt Weill's "Lady in the Dark," "Secrets" from the Yale Song Book, or Ronsard's "Sonnet Pour Helene," here you have them.

By the end of 1997, my father had covered hundreds of pages in yellow legal pads with his barely legible manuscript. He then sent them off to my sister Diana, who painstakingly created the Word document from which this e-book is sourced. My father's original dedication page included "a tribute to my daughter Diana who made my scrawl and letters come to life in these pages," and "a grandfather's greeting to Diana's daughter Alexandra Maria who may remember me only from what she reads here."

A happy postscript: readers of the Memoirs will be in no doubt that my father's letters to my mother were reciprocated in equal numbers. But in commenting on the letter he wrote to her on May 22, 1944, my father says in the Memoirs, "During this period of anxiety Mariette's letters sustain my spirits and restore my soul - alas, all of those letters have been lost in the course of my wanderings." But a year after my father's death in December 2012, when my parents' house had been sold and we were emptying it, my wife found the other side of the correspondence in a large box, buried beneath musty blankets in a chest in the attic.

Another volume may be forthcoming.

\--Daniel Badger, Jr

April 2014

Foreword

This is a chronicle of events which held the world's attention from December 1943 until May 1945. During that period hundreds of thousands of American troops crossed the Atlantic to England, mobilized and trained there for the invasion of France, landed on the beaches of Normandy, captured the port of Cherbourg, drove on through France to Paris, then on to Belgium; held back the Germans' last dying struggle at the Battle of the Bulge in the hills and forests of the Ardennes; and finally held up at the Mulde River (a tributary of the Elbe) in Germany. There our Allied armies met the Russian forces driving west, to conclude this historic drama with the unconditional surrender of all German fighting forces on May 7, 1945.

I was in the midst of all this. I landed on D-Day at Utah Beach and I worked and played in the major centers through which our VII US Army Corps pushed east - Cherbourg, St. Lo, Rennes, Paris, Liege, Aachen (Aix la Chapelle), Cologne, and finally Leipzig.

The story is told here mostly for the eyes and ears of my children and grandchildren, as well as a few other family members and friends who have encouraged me to record what I remember of those events. For those younger generations World War II is only history, but for me and my contemporaries, at home or abroad, that war is still a living reality. Of course my present day recollection is confined to a number of the more memorable episodes; yet it is surprising to me how many of the details remain in the recesses of my memory, even 52 years after the events. The reasons are these: much of what transpired was so extraordinary that no passage of time could erase the imprint; and more importantly, Mariette carefully preserved the 235 letters I wrote to her from overseas, and the rereading of those epistles has vividly brought back the reality of what took place from day to day so long ago. Thus a major part of what is written in these pages comes directly out of those letters, with my contemporary narrative interspersed between passages from the letters. This should give assurance to the reader that there is a minimum of fabrication in the text.

Many details of my various exploits are recounted in these pages, but you may still wonder what I and my fellow soldier boys were really doing as we moved about in the war zones. Here is a brief explanation, although as I look back I have some question marks myself.

On December 20, 1941 - two weeks after Pearl Harbor, I enlisted in the US Army Counter Intelligence Corps (CIC). I had just turned twenty-six. The mission of this branch of service was to provide security for the fighting army units in their sphere of operations. We would be attached to the headquarters of a tactical unit - Corps or Division - and do our best to insure that military operations were not impeded by subversive activities, infiltration, or sabotage. This meant we would follow the fighting men's advance as closely as possible into the combat zone and learn what we could about conditions there - the attitude of local authorities and the civilian population, the availability of assistance from them, the condition of utility installations, etc... Thus we would in effect be the first army personnel to have any meaningful contact with the native citizenry after combat troops had moved in and through the zone.

So what kind of training had been given us before we assumed these responsibilities? This varied greatly. I will briefly trace the course of my own indoctrination. The first six weeks after enlistment consisted of "basic training" at Fort Jay on Governor's Island (off the foot of Manhattan) - marching drills, assembling rifles, shooting practice, and of course some KP (kitchen police) duty. About thirty of us CIC candidates trained together, and upon completion of our course we were all given the rank of Staff Sergeant. Following basic training I went back into civilian clothes, and spent about five months in the large CIC Field Office at 20 Broadway, New York, doing routine investigations of other CIC candidates from their cradle on.

It was during that period - on Memorial Day 1942 at a Manursing Club dance in Rye, NY - that I was swept off my feet by one Mariette Arguimbau, whom I then pursued with haste and ardor until she succumbed, and we became engaged by the end of June.

In July I was assigned to the Rochester, NY Field Office, then sent to Chicago for a four-week course, conducted mostly by FBI personnel, in finger printing, casting foot prints, detecting sabotage and arson, and shadowing suspects. From Chicago I went right to Greenwich to claim my bride and we were married on Sept 12. After a four-day honeymoon in Washington, CT we returned to Rochester where I continued with investigations of CIC candidates until May 1943. Back to New York until September, same routine. By mid-September my orders came down for overseas deployment, though I did not yet know over which seas. After a two-week leave in Nantucket I bade Mariette farewell on the ferry dock, though we had several more precious days together between training camps before the final farewell in New York at the beginning of December.

In fact, although Vinny, our first born, was well on his way by then (born Feb. 20, 1944), Mariette became quite a camp follower. She bravely travelled to Baltimore to Washington and to Greenville, PA so that we might snatch a few more bittersweet days together, pushing back the hour when our separation would be the long one - or perhaps forever.

The first stage of preparations was at Camp Holabird outside Baltimore, where I learned to ride a motorcycle, drive a tank, and repair a jeep engine. It was there we were told which theater of operations had been chosen for us, and I was overjoyed to learn that mine was to be England and Europe, instead of the Pacific. From Holabird we were assigned to Camp Ritchie in the hills of Western Maryland, where for two weeks we were taught to fire automatic weapons, brandish bayonets, kick opponents in the groin and navigate by compass over hill and dale on cold dark nights. Next came Fort Belvoir outside Washington for a course in de-booby trapping, crawling on our bellies under machine gun fire, and instructions for encoding secret messages in our letters home from POW camps.

This completed my training phase in the US, and from here on I was moved into staging areas for the transatlantic expedition. First was Camp Reynolds in Shenango, western Pennsylvania where I learned to stand guard at night and build coal fires in the early morning. The final stage was at Fort Hamilton outside New York, where I received the allotment of clothing and supplies which were to carry me through to the end of the battle against Hitler.

Late at night on December 4, 1943 (Mariette's birthday) I boarded a troopship and we sailed the North Atlantic in convoy for 14 days until we reached Grennock (Port of Glasgow, Scotland) on December 18, and then on to London. Shortly after arrival in England I was chosen to attend a two-week British counter intelligence training course at Smedley's Hydro, a converted watering resort in central England. There I lived and worked with our British counterparts and heard from them what their men and officers had learned through four years of war about the German army and the Nazi political structure. Many of the instructors were veterans of the British Eighth Army in North Africa. Later I was to attend a large British interrogation center outside London where all men and women arriving on the shores of England from the continent or North Africa were quizzed at length about their prior life, how they got to England and what information they could give us concerning the enemy-occupied areas.

The training phase of my army career had lasted off and on for almost two and a half years before I was called to Plymouth on the southern coast of Devon, near Cornwall. VII Corps headquarters had moved there in April 1944 for the final stage of planning the invasion. I was given the task of preparing security operations for the port of Cherbourg in Normandy, which I did with the help of Michelin and other tourist guidebooks, geography books, and a good supply of maps, photos and other intelligence data supplied by the G-2 staff. All critical installations were identified and pin-pointed - telephone centrals, police headquarters, government offices and port facilities - and the mission of securing each of them was assigned to designated squads of two or three men. The plan was impressive and foolproof on paper.

This history of World War II in Europe has now been recorded for the ages in books and on film. We have read and seen how the paratroopers, the infantry and the engineers fought and fell on the Normandy beaches, on the road to Cherbourg, and in the snow-covered fields and forests of the Ardennes (Battle of the Bulge). I was there too, and I can only be thankful that I came through unscathed. Beyond that, I was about the luckiest GI of the European theater for the role I was given to play and the lifestyle I enjoyed from England through France, Belgium and Germany. My command of the French and German languages allowed me to assume a key role in many of our operations, and I was one of a very few in our detachment who could talk and listen to the people of the regions we went through. Among other blessings was the fact that we operated and lived more or less independently from the constraints of an army on the move - we did not live in tents or barracks, but for the most part we procured our own lodgings in farm houses, chateaux and abandoned buildings, had our own meals cooked for us, and improvised our own missions. We had one jeep for every two men, so we could roam the countryside of England, France, Belgium and Germany more or less at will. But perhaps my greatest good fortune was that our VII Corps CIC Detachment was, from Breamore, England to Leipzig, Germany, under the command of Captain (later Major) James K. Dorsett Jr. of Salsbury, NC, a recent graduate of Duke Law School and a bit younger than I. Jim steered our independent-minded band of civilian-turned soldiers with tact, good humor and firmness throughout. He instilled in us a sense of purpose as we grew in size and our operations developed in complexity.

In all this adventure was there any anxiety or apprehension? Of course there was from time to time: In my bunk at the bottom of the troopship which carried me in convoy across the North Atlantic in December 1943, four single ladder flights down from the main deck and seven feet below water level, I wondered how I would fare if a torpedo struck. On D-Day as I sat huddled for a couple of hours on Utah Beach, with shells spraying fountains of sand not too far away, I had a passing impulse to run down the beach and board one of the landing crafts for a return to safety in England. And on Christmas Eve of 1944, in a little village of the Ardennes in Belgium where we were ensconced during the Battle of the Bulge, I wondered what would be our fate if German tanks suddenly came around the corner!

The letters also reveal some of the frustration of missions half-finished as we had to move on, and the longing for home and loved ones which accompanied me everywhere on my meanderings. But as I look back on those wartime days the anxious moments are far overshadowed by the exhilaration and even glory of the moments when we felt and knew we were playing our part in history. So now on with the story.

Overseas to England

The bus from Fort Hamilton unloaded us on a Hudson River pier late in the night of December 4, 1943, and staggering under the weight of two crammed duffel bags slung over our shoulders, we embarked on the troop ship. She was about 25,000 tons - the Shelby Castle - a converted British cargo ship which in pre-war days had carried beef and other loads between England and South Africa. In true British fashion our officers, including Jack Heminway (whom I had roomed with at Le Rosey School in Switzerland in 1926), were separated from us enlisted men - they to travel in the upper deck crew quarters and we in the cargo holds now divided into four floors of compartments fitted out with three tiers of bunks. My 3 x 6 x 3 ' bunk space was at the bottom of the ship, with access four flights up to the main deck by a set of single straight ladders.

Letter to Mariette Jan. 31, 1944: "We were packed in there like real sardines, and we literally did not have anywhere to sit down during the entire trip - it was either lie down on the canvas bunk (3 tiers with about 2 ft. between tiers) down in the hold 7 ft. below water level, or stand on deck. After dark we weren't allowed on deck, so we had to huddle around on the floor. Fortunately our particular outfit was assigned to blackout duty on deck at night and this helped to make things somewhat bearable. Yet we weren't as badly off as many, for at least we had 12 square feet of bunk space. Many of the men slept in flimsy hammocks stretched about the gangways and mess tables, some slept on the tables, some slept under them, and some slept on the gangway floors and on the stair landings - no mattresses. Only two meals a day, and though quite eatable in quality, all were served in 2 or 3 large pots, thence onto our mess kits, so that in the end corned beef stew and cheese and jam and apricots were well mixed together. Interminable waiting in line for washing mess kits in a bath tub with cold salt water. (Ever tried washing greasy dishes in cold salt water? We also washed our necks and shaved with the same facilities.) Three quarters of the trip a big swell kept us pitching and rocking - many were on their back the whole way over, but I managed to keep everything down and stay on my feet all the way. No excitement that we knew of in the way of encounters. Many beautiful moonlight nights, and scenes like out of some Tyrone Power movie - "Atlantic Convoy", etc. Terrific poker and crap games down in the holds. (It's said that $1200 changed hands in one game, but I think that's exaggerated - I only won $1.50.)"

We sailed in a long convoy, escorted by three or four Navy vessels, and zig-zagged through the North Atlantic for 14 days. There was daylight from 10 am to 3 pm, and during most of those hours we stood on deck bundled up in our heavy army coats and wool hats watching the manoeuvers of the escort vessels and swapping stories (no deck chairs available!). At this point we didn't feel much like knights errant in shining armor setting forth on a heroic quest.

Early in the morning of December 18 we spotted the West Coast of Scotland and sailed up the Clyde River to Grennock, the port of Glasgow, where floating palaces like the Queen Mary, the two Queen Elizabeths, and countless other great ships had been launched. As the sun rose and shone on the multitude of vessels along the way it was a glimpse of the promised land for the hundreds of us aboard. On debarkation we were met by an even more welcome sight - real live American girls in trim Red Cross uniforms serving hot coffee and doughnuts to warm our innards and spirits.

From the boat dock we were trucked to the RR station, where our contingent was directed to a first class carriage. In this new-found warmth and comfort we headed south through the sunny fields of Scotland and England towards our next destination...London?

Dec. 19. 1943: "After the cattle-like conditions aboard ship (I've seen the process of ferrying Americans across the Atlantic described as the "strap-hanger" method in the English press) we were ready for almost anything when we boarded the train. After a two-hour wait on the dock, where the Red Cross canteen service fed us coffee, doughnuts, and candy, but did not produce Francey Becker (a friend of ours who had joined the Red Cross), we were directed to a first class railway carriage and provided with two seats for every man. For the first time in two weeks we had a real seat to sit on, and the sensation was so delicious that even the most decided Anglophobes had to admit we were being royally treated. We travelled most the day and saw our fill of neatly plotted countryside. Hot drinks and food were served at intervals along the way, and for the first time I actually heard a few uniformed men suggest that army life has its compensations. Even the chatter of my cohorts seemed to ring true and warm at last, and we allowed our imaginations to make very fancy plans for the future. We thought we were travelling to the big city, and spirits became considerably subdued when we learned otherwise; nevertheless, that train ride can definitely be set down in the book of Good Things, and it's given me the encouraging knowledge that I and the others can be happy with very little."

Alas, we were dropped off at a British replacement center well-removed from London.

Dec. 19, 1943: "Our quarters here are adequate but not blessed with amenities. To mention a few more of the physical discomforts, we have straw mattresses with white covers obviously unwashed since the war began, no toilet paper in the latrines (our barrack's December ration having been exhausted a week ago), no pillows, and long waits in line outside the mess hall for meals. In fact, a great deal of life is spent "queuing up" - no, that's spelled "queueing up" - whether for food, or movies, or beer at the NAAFI (Navy Army Air Force Institutions, counterpart of USO). But the post itself has a good deal to offer - movies, large Red Cross with warm library, barber shop."

On Dec. 21 I write that we are about to move out of the replacement center, and though this letter can't mention it, we now know our destination is London. The truck which delivered us to the railroad station left us on the wrong side of the tracks, and I still remember the concert of groans as we lugged our two heavy duffel bags to the other side, up and down the high overpass. We arrive in London on Dec. 22, and find our new quarters \- a distinguished apartment house in a plush section of the city - but no furniture, no heat, and broken windows - so we sleep wrapped in our blankets on the floor. But we soon find our way to the nearest US Army mess, where wholesome hot American meals are served up, and we also locate a US Red Cross canteen - hospitable, warm and cheery.

Dec. 23: "I've neglected you for a couple of days, but I know you'll forgive me if I use all my available time in London to see the sights and enjoy the other pleasures which this city has to offer. Gosh, what a city it is! I'm up here on a short visit, but in the few hours I've been around I've already decided that it may very possibly replace Paris as my favorite city. I'll wait until I find time dragging on my hands before giving you details on my doings here and the impression which bombed areas make. I saw St. Paul's Westminster Abbey, the Criminal Court, London Bridge, and part of the old city which has been severely blitzed, this morning. Yesterday I had tea with Lady Mancroft, Harry Hodgekinson's friend (not the one with three daughters - she only has two), and we got along famously. She invited me to X-mas dinner, which will consist of herself, her son, and one daughter; I shall take along some cheese which the army has provided us with, some Hershey bars which I've preserved, and a carton of cigarettes. Tonight I plan to go to the theatre, and Jack Reber and I have booked a room at the Regent Palace hotel - the first real sleeping comfort in several weeks."

The next letter to Mariette is written on Regent Palace Hotel stationery.

Dec. 25: "It's X-mas morning, but instead of going to some famous church for prayer and song I've chosen this time to sit here and think about you. I feel your absence terribly, and it's high time I catch you up on events since leaving my temporary station 'somewhere in England' and coming to London for a few days' furlough and rest cure; furthermore, I'm sure that communing with you in this way will be just as profitable for my soul as communing with the Holy Ghost, and I've already paid my due share of reverence to God by lingering in his temples and shrines. Except for the sadness of our separation, there is more gaiety in the air here than I've ever known before at X-mas, and I want you to hear about it while the magic is still strong.

"I think that one of the reasons I'm enjoying London so much is the constant conviction that you would love the life and the people here just as much as I do. No matter where you turn, the people we see seem to be 'our ilk'. In the subway ('underground') at the rush hour each face you see blends naturally with the clean plush armchair seats, even though they're not all dressed in new clothes; it's sort of like a group of characters out of a Hitchcock movie, and they all play their part with the restraint and manners which are expected of them. Perhaps a good many of them have coarse streaks beneath the surface, but their first thought is to be gentlemen in public. The same is true, of course, on the streets, in the hotel lobbies, and in the restaurants. Almost to a man they are gracious to American soldiers (and as you can imagine, don't always have that graciousness returned), and are eager to give information and directions when you ask for it. And remember, all this comes from the crowd which in New York you'd find in the Lexington subway or on Broadway and Times Square.

"The waitresses in restaurants and ushers in the theaters, being a little further up the social scale, have the same innate good breeding, but draw some extra attention because of the apparent cheerfulness and poise with which they go about their jobs. Of course, they put on more of a show for the men in uniform, especially Americans, and seem to enjoy conversing with us - even the chambermaid this morning came in and sat on the edge of the double bed which Jack Reber and I have been sharing at the hotel, to consult about our breakfast (also served in bed); but even when they're not trying to attract attention, their mannerisms are cute and natural. Then of course when you hit the better places, restaurants or hotels, the style in which you're taken care of is impeccable. There are still plenty of waiters around in white tie and tails, and the head waiters even in comparatively modest places have all the flourish of the St. Regis or Plaza at home. So far we've run into none of the 'officers only' which we feared - all the best things are available to us, and the proprietors are anxious to give us especially good treatment. I guess it's partly because they know that the American soldier in London has money to spend, but I also think they're trying to be hospitable, and feel a certain pride in showing us how well they can do things. The other day we were discussing the merits of the undergrounds, and a passenger asked us, 'Tell me, are our undergrounds really better than yours?' We assured him they were, in all respects, and he beamed, saying, "Well, it's gratifying to know that we have some modern conveniences which are better than yours."

"The privations of war are not as severe as we expected. I think the most difficult thing to get used to is the total blackout, which lasts from about 5:30 pm to 8:00 am; it curtails all sorts of night life, especially for a stranger to the city, because you have to know exactly where you're going before you venture forth - you feel that much is going on around you, and yet you can't find it. You can carry flashlights, however, (which are plentiful), and any passerby you meet in the dark can usually direct you to your destination. By now we're learning the 'feel' of things a bit, and don't stumble quite as much as the first night we arrived, without flashlight or idea as to where we were headed. We still have the jitters crossing streets, however; the cars carry only little pinpoint lights, and come upon you quickly from the wrong side - our instinct hasn't yet taught us to look first to the right. The blackout does make things sort of cozy at times, though: X-mas eve in Piccadilly Circus is like New Year's Eve in Times Square, and all the soldiers and girls in London seemed to be knocking about there, singing and carrying on with great abandon - you couldn't see, but you could hear and touch.

"Food, especially for American soldiers, is plentiful. The mess halls provide by far the best of everything - all direct from the US. Then there are quantities of Red Cross clubs throughout the city which serve all the food you want nearly 24 hours a day. The Red Cross, by the way, provides the most fantastic service for the men here. About 15 large buildings have been taken over in scattered sections, serve food, provide rooms at 30 c. a night, and also shower, tailoring, shoe shine, medical, game, banking, theatre ticket facilities. Every soldier who wanted an invitation to X-mas dinner could obtain one through the Red Cross, and could take his pick of hosts according to occupation and address.

"Restaurants have enough food to satisfy all but the very hungry, and then you can always make up by having tea and cakes in the afternoon. I lunched with Mr. Holliday of the Vacuum Oil Co. (my father's company) yesterday, and he treated us (me and Charlie Noyes) to a real feast at the Hungaria restaurant, with cocktails, wine and a large plate of roast beef. So you see, I'm making up for the privations incurred during the voyage. How I wish you were here to enjoy it with me.

"I have been informed as to my permanent assignment, but of course can say very little about it. I'm relatively well pleased with it, and I will be with men whom I enjoy being with - Jack Heminway and Jack Reber among others. I'm also pleased at two other things; one, that none of my former group of old maids will be with me; and two, that I am one of three selected to go for some special training before reporting for the new duties. We are also told that we will probably be billeted with local citizens at our new post, which will be a 100% improvement, I'm sure, over any kind of G.I. quarters we could be assigned to."

Dec. 26: "My X-mas dinner at Lady Mancroft's was every bit as enjoyable as I could have hoped. She has been bombed out of her home, and now lives in a 'flat' with her married daughter, with no maid. She and her unmarried daughter Rosetta cooked the meal, and her son Stormont, age 29, a major in the British army and bearer of the title Lord Mancroft since his father died, provided me with a generous supply of cocktails while the women slaved. He seems to know about everything that's going on, being on the Staff, and now working at the War Office, with occasional contact with Churchill himself. Gosh, if I were only going to be here longer I might learn a lot. He knew quite a bit about the story behind Eisenhower's new appointment, for instance, and I suspect he could tell me a lot more about what's in store for us. The whole family is very, very British, but is very informal and friendly, and we got along excellently. I invited Rosetta out last night, and she procured another girl to join Jim Alsdorf and Coleman Benedict and ourselves for some dinner and dancing at the New Mirabelle. The girls weren't beauties, but their conversation and manner (though not their dancing) were very stimulating, and the party was a success. I ended up having 3 miles to walk home in the blackout, though, for after I had taken Rosetta home, the buses and subways had ceased operating (at 11:30 on holidays). Taxis are scarce and in severe demand at such times.

"The city is pretty badly scarred up by bombing, but you're not conscious of it in the center of town, where I've spent most my time. An astounding number of churches have been hit, and I can recall at least four instances where the church is demolished, yet all surrounding buildings intact. St. Paul's cathedral has one transept under repair from an explosion, and another bomb exploded on the ceiling above the choir. The organ was apparently destroyed, for they use a little makeshift affair now. The real bad section is in a poor residential section, known as Cheapside & Moorgate; there you find blocks and blocks completely flattened, and can look across half a mile or so of open territory, just as though it were a city dump. The workers there must have had some time of it. There are still many people who were so shocked at the time that they continue to sleep in the cots on the platform of the underground station. Can you imagine sleeping regularly on the Lexington Ave. line platforms!They make up their bunk each night, and hide themselves from the crowd by hanging blankets as curtains over the top."

Dec. 28: "It seems like ages since I've been here in London, now that the fun is over. I'm leaving tomorrow, and although from all reports the training I'm about to receive is very good and very well conducted, I'm sad to be losing the wonderful freedom I've had here. After three or four months of being ordered about from dawn till dusk, and holding my breath over the next night's pass, it's been a real treat to be master of my own destiny for a while, and of course I hate to give it up. Right now it seems that I could go on forever, breakfasting in bed, lunching with gracious hosts, wandering about the sights of the city, and going to the theater at night. But I suppose I would get tired of it and restless soon, so that it's just as well I'm off while the taste is still sweet.

"I was again the guest of Lady Mancroft today, this time to meet her married daughter Waveney (Smith). She told me that she was named after a river in Scotland, and that she was born on Feb. 25; so I promised her that if a future daughter were born that day, we'd name her the same. She is not pretty but very lively and witty and like a fast talking English character out of a Noel Coward play. It is a pretty name, isn't it? We lunched at the Lady's Carlton Club, which Lady M. explained was open only to members of the Conservative Party.

"Speaking of Noel Coward, I've just seen 'Blithe Spirit', which was lots of fun, although I imagine Clifton Webb would be far better for the leading part. It's so difficult to get any of the boys organized for the theatre that I've had to go alone twice; tonight especially I kept thinking how delicious it would be to have you by my side so that we could discuss it all - even argue. You would be especially pleased by the English custom of serving tea between the acts right in your seats. But you wouldn't like the fact that smoking is allowed in all theatres, movies, buses and subways. Two or three nights ago I went with John Schiller to see 'Quiet Week-End'; it was truly superb, all about an English family week-ending in the country with numerous Wodehouse complications. I hear an English movie called 'Quiet Wedding' is showing in the US; it's a prelude to this, so go and see it if you can, even if you can't get tea at the intermission.

"I'm still hearing marvelous stories about the various experiences our boys had over X-mas in British homes. Of course our own outfit are for the most part the kind who would make a good impression on those they visited, and they have since been quite steady guests in many of those homes. Elmer Myers (remember the heavy bald fellow with the genial smile, called 'Ashtabula' on the train?) and Jack Reber (who is now the father of a boy) spent the day in a family with 6 unmarried daughters; among other guests were a Dutch officer, a French officer, and a news commentator on the BBC, who mentioned their names X-mas night in his broadcast to America. Maybe you'd better start listening for news of me on the short wave."

My next destination was Smedley's Hydro, a watering establishment in central England converted into a British counter-intelligence training center. My travelling companion was Tom Flood, a lawyer from Meriden, Conn.

Jan. 2: "Most of Wednesday was spent travelling, and since the British still seem to stretch their holidays several days beyond X-mas, we found the train jammed with the exodus from the city. We had to stand in the aisle for a good many hours, but somehow I didn't mind it, for I was by that time satiated with ease and comfort. We didn't arrive here till after dark, but were received upon arrival with courtesy and efficiency such as we haven't seen for a long time in military surroundings. We also found the rank of Sgt. (as well as the fact that we were guests of the British Gov't) entitled us to all sorts of comforts and privileges. The rooms are large, the beds have mattresses and pillows, there's hot and cold water in the room, and there are plenty of tubs for bathing. In fact, the whole establishment is like a big hotel, and with a few more trimmings I might almost think I was at the Vale Royal estate, which Mother will describe to you (a stately country mansion of Lord Cholmondeley where our family visited the Rimmer cousins at Eastertime in 1924).

"Most of the services are performed by ATS girls, the equivalent of our WACS. At the Sgts' mess we are waited on, and all fatigue duties are strictly the province of lower ranks. We also have our own reading room, writing room, bar and the privilege of entering by the front door instead of side. Such importance is beginning to go to my head!

"But in many ways, the conditions of life are very democratic, and all ranks, officers, men and girls joined in for the New Year's Eve dance. We first made the rounds of the pubs in town, which were mostly taken over by soldiers, and the experience of drinking with the men here was a good deal different than it might have been, say, near Youngstown (a staging area in Pennsylvania where Mariette had come as a camp follower.) When the Scotch boys lapsed into thick brogue I had trouble keeping up with the conversation, but when the turn of 'the Vicar' came to give his sermon (very reminiscent of Uncle Tat's sermon at our bridal dinner) and to give an imitation of Churchill welcoming 'our gallant American allies' to the local pubs, I was almost tempted to try a Roosevelt reply. But the beer wasn't quite strong enough for that, so I sang a verse of 'George Jones' ('George Jones had a meeting at his house last night, For to name his first born child'). Later we came back to the big house for the dance, and I was lucky enough to catch as a partner for the evening a little girl who had been quite the star of a 'pantomime' show put on the evening before by the ATS girls, a song and dance affair entitled 'Dick Whittington and his Cat' (among the songs were, 'I'm gonna get lit up when the lights go on in London' and 'Doing the Lambeth Walk'). There was no stuffiness of any kind on the part of the officers, and of course the few American soldiers were treated with great friendliness and interest by all.

"Last night being Saturday, there was more singing and dancing, this time in the town hall. But life isn't all festivity here, darling, and I'll tell you as much as I can about our work. So far there have been a lot of lectures, but they are exceptionally well delivered, and are of especial interest to us Americans who have heard about the war only indirectly. (Many of the instructors are veterans of the Eighth British Army in North Africa and fought at El Alamein.) In the evenings, after tea (there's no supper or dinner), we have a discussion period which is quite informal, and which gives us about as good a picture as we could get anywhere about the British army and the whole war from this side. I really wouldn't have missed this for anything."

We also learned much about the Nazi structure and the German army organization - which we would be dealing with when we came up against the enemy on the continent - as well as the activities of the resistance fighters in France.

Jan. 2, 1944: "I went walking this pm with an English boy here at the school. It's the first time I've been glad you weren't along because we climbed numerous steep hills to get views of the countryside, which is hilly, and jagged; I'm sure you would have balked and talked me out of the walk. Anyway, it was a lovely afternoon, and for the first time since I've been here visibility was good from valley to valley. I'll send some postcards as soon as I feel that my present whereabouts are no longer considered of vital importance to the enemy."

Jan. 2: "Please don't be impatient with my raptures, darling; it is better that I be foolishly rhapsodic, isn't it, than casual and monosyllabic. Gosh, that reminds me of one of the few unpleasant features of existence in a British establishment. Occasionally I find myself alone as I descend to the sergeants' mess for meals, and then I may perchance find myself seated opposite one of the expressionless faces in horn-rimmed glasses which the British system produces from time to time. He never says anything, and if I attempt conversation, merely says, 'Yes, rather" and looks pained at the invasion of his privacy. It's very uncomfortable. But coming down to meals alone has its compensations, for sometimes the ATS sergeants will drop in beside me, and romance is injected into the stolid meal which is served. For the most part, though, the Sgts who eat with us at mess are friendly and possess an excellent sense of humor. Those on the staff have especial flavor in their everyday talk; one of them, for instance, is responsible for the following notice on the library shelves: 'I agree it seems a rather reactionary suggestion, but how about putting 'em back in alphabetical order?'"

Jan. 5: "Tonight, darling, all I can do is say that my heart and thoughts are with you, and that if it weren't for Jock McLaucklin's birrrthday party I'd have worlds of things to say to you. But here in the sergeants' club where I came to be alone with you for awhile tonight, I find no place to stretch my thoughts to you across the Atlantic, because Jock is buying beer faster than we can drink it, and we can't offend his Scotch pride by refusing. Furthermore, Jock is reciting at length of the glories of Bobby BURRRNS and it's both inspiring and deafening. So what with all this, and the censor looking shrewdly for any indiscretions I might commit, I won't try and do more than send you all the most hearty and sincere salutations of the boys who are here. [Following were signatures of 4 or 5 of my company.]

Jan. 11: "This is the last day of the course - we have nothing left but the final address, and we're off for our new destinations tomorrow morning. There won't be much time for correspondence for the next few days, I suspect, for the trip will be an interrupted one, and there ought to be plenty of scurrying around awaiting me at my new post.

"This course, as you have gathered from my previous letters, has been one of the real highlights (and I guess about the only one) of my army career so far. From start to finish I have felt that the directing staff and the instructors knew just what they were about, and I've gained enormous confidence, both in myself and in my ability to go out and do the job we're being prepared for - it's all been down to earth practical work, and it's been taught with imagination and method. Among the instructors are some men whom I have grown to admire exceedingly, some whom I consider to be the most humorous characters I've yet met, and some who, considering the short space of time we've been here, have become very good friends. Of course, in a sense my view of the whole matter is somewhat colored by the fact that the esteem which I hold for the people here appears to be mutual. I was called in for a special interview yesterday with the major in charge of the school, and was informed that I had been the #1 man in the class (of about 80) and that I rated third among the 160-odd Americans who had previously attended. It was, of course, quite a boost to me to be so honored, especially since the work included not only paper work, but a good amount of practical exercise. Above all, it made me feel that I was back in my element after so many weeks among such as I have described to you too many times already.

"The countryside is blanketed with snow today, and reminds me a little of a Swiss village. If I get time I'm going for a walk down the river, which at many points resembles a gorge and ought to be very pretty in winter garment. But the chances are that before I get out the door someone will have come along with an invitation to go over to the pub for a pint or two of fine old brew, and then how can I resist? Especially since I haven't got my skis to make the outdoor excursion completely irresistible."
Winter & Spring 1944 in England

After Smedley's Hydro, my new assignment was to the CIC detachment of the VIIth US Army Corps, headquartered in Breamore Castle near Salsbury, in the south.

Jan. 16: "I am sitting in my boudoir, with a fire flickering on my right and a kerosene 'radiator' on my left. If I should move a fraction from my present position, I would become quite cold, but wedged between these two heaters I'm cozy and comfortable. The fire is definitely of miniature size, and when I put on the miniature logs (something like what the Seven Dwarves must have used) I must be very careful not to smother the flames altogether. My new quarters are a combination of rare luxury and severe rusticity; luxury, because I have all to myself a sitting room and bedroom with double bed, laundry and darning done by the landlady, and a garden around the house; rusticity because there's no heat in the bedroom, no plumbing of any kind in the house, and ducks and geese have the run of the yard and lawn. As you can gather, I'm billeted in a little farmhouse, very old but not too dilapidated, and the keepers of the house are a farmer and his wife, tenants of a higher landlord who normally lives at the manor. The discomforts are considerable, for the cold at night upon retiring, and even more upon arising, is bitter and penetrating; also, the distance to G.I. plumbing facilities is about 100 yards. But the spiritual comforts of privacy after months of barrack room regimentation are inestimable, and I consider myself a very fortunate soldier - so far. With a few improvements - extra lighting fixtures and some books of learning on the shelf - I shall feel like a lord in his castle, and you can be sure that I won't waste the opportunity of donning slippers and pipe, and indulging in the delightful fancy that all is right with the world.

"While I'm on the subject of physical aspects of life at my new station, I might as well add that the countryside is very lovely, that our office, though in an old moss-covered building, is warm and cheery, and that the food as far as I've enjoyed it to date, is unsurpassed in quality - but has to be eaten out of mess kits. However, we're better off that way than eating out, because our fare in any establishment other than a US Army mess hall would be similar to that of the place I've just come from, or mostly cake and potatoes. Perhaps as time goes by I'll also induce the landlady to bring me hot tea in the morning; I had a visit with them tonight and was treated to several glasses of excellent cider. And that reminds me: please send me some tea, as much as you can get into a mailable package. Tea is one of the most strictly rationed commodities here, and of course in great demand. I'm sure that if I can present Mrs. S. with a handsome offering of tea she will turn handsprings for me."

"...I think I can already say without much doubt that the boys who are here already will be a pretty good bunch to work with - none of the old problem remains. I've told you already that Jack Reber was among those assigned to the outfit, and that two of the more congenial members of Jack's original group were also with us. The remainder are old timers as far as the VIIth Corps is concerned - we newcomers have much to learn from them about the tactical side of the army, and I can see right now that there's lots to learn and plenty of mistakes ahead. But I do feel quite confident that the job in store for us is one where I'll be of considerable use, and God knows there's a lot for me to make up along that line. You mustn't expect me to say much about our officers because they are the ones who do most the censoring of our mail. You know Jack Heminway of course - he's second in command of our detachment. The CO I hardly know at all yet, but appears to be about as different as one could be - in age, background and approach - from old Ben King (my commanding officer in the Rochester, NY CIC field office)."

Of course the delivery of mail - both to and from the US - was erratic. Some took ten days, some 4-5 weeks. Some never arrived at all. There were dry spaces when nothing came for three weeks or so, and this led to anxiety or despondency.

Jan. 18: "This will be only a short one, for it's late at night and Jack Reber is sharing my double bed, temporarily (I hope). I'm feeling sad and forsaken, though, and perhaps even a short note to you will make me feel better. It's all the fault of the darn postal system - its erratic and discriminating ways. I know perfectly well that somewhere along the line there are piles of envelopes waiting for me, filled with loving words; but they haven't reached me yet, any of them, and I feel like an orphan. The grief is all the more severe because Jack, who just arrived after a 3 week flu attack in a London hospital, had 13 letters awaiting him, some of which arrived over 10 days ago, and John Schiller, who also came over with us, received eight letters today, although he never cabled his APO address home. I thought I had done pretty well in getting my address back in a hurry, both by cable and mail, but apparently something has gotten crossed up (or else your letters have been so censurable that they haven't been allowed to pass). Are you using any V-mail? Almost all the mail received by the boys so far is that type, so apparently it's quicker, although John Schiller had an airmail letter dated Jan. 7 - 10 days' trip.

"Jack's letters, of course, are full of accounts of their big event (birth of first child), and it makes me feel distant and homesick to be here while you are waiting. You must lay in a large stock of V-mail for the time of your confinement, darling, so that you can write immediately when any good ideas come to you - use V-mail just as you would postcards, and then take out large sheets of onion skin paper when you feel particularly communicative and give me the real dope on everything. V-mail can be written either by hand or typewriter, but I hope that except in isolated circumstances you will write the airmail in your own sweet hand.

Jan. 27: "Will you forgive me if I allow a little dejection to creep into this letter? It's only temporary, and by the time you receive this, I'm sure it will be all gone. It's only that I still have nothing but your short note of Dec. 30, and it's getting to the point where my hopes being dashed day after day is assuming the proportions of a battle of nerves. The worst of it is that I have to sit here while the others' mail pours in, and I get feeling like jumping up and breaking the neck of every mail clerk along the line \- Reber has received 18 letters so far, and Schiller 24 and Norvish 10, and I beat my head trying to understand what has happened to mine, since I know you have my right address. The boys here are getting V-mail written as recently as Jan. 17, and airmail as recent as Jan. 9. I'm getting more and more afraid that you haven't been using V-mail at all, and if that's so, for gosh sake use it at every spare moment, for it's twice as fast and will at least keep me out of this desperate frame of mind. I also cabled you four days ago, and asked you to cable back (it was in fact addressed to Dad to save words, but was meant for you), but the wires also seem to be dead.

"Darling, please send me the field jacket which I sent back from up near Schuster's (can't mention the name of the place, I hear). Also a pair or rubbers - we have been issued no overshoes, and everything is a mire of mud. Spent the night out in the rain last night - no fun. I love you and miss you terribly, darling, that's why I'm feeling so blue today. Hope this doesn't reach you just before the big event."

That was Jan. 27, but on Jan. 30 the drought was broken. "I've just had the nicest afternoon since leaving home, and can you guess why? I had two lovely fat letters from you, full of news and sparkle and infinite tenderness. They were nos. 9 and 11, written Jan. 9 and 14-16 respectively, and it took me from 4:30 till 6:00 to read them through twice. So now I've got 2, 6, 9 & 11 stored away in my drawer, and I feel exhilarated and relieved at being put in touch with you again. It was just like having you here talking to me, for your words are not the least bit paperish or letterish - they're just wonderful reading, and they're put together in such a way that you become terribly alive while I read. That's by far the nicest kind of letter you could write to me, my dearest, and I love you wildly for it (among other things) and I hope you get just half the pleasure out of mine that I do out of yours."

A couple of days after this the news got through to me that my brother Paul had taken his own life back in December before X-mas.

On Jan. 23 I wrote, "I now have your letter bearing the sad news - have had it since the evening of Friday the 21st when I came up to London to see Mr. Holliday. Since then I've read it and reread it so many times that I think I almost know it by heart, and I don't think I'll ever be able to tell you what an impression it made on me. All I can say is what I've already said to Mother and Dad, that it was beyond question the most understanding, sweet and lovely manner in which the tragic news could have been broken to me. I know that nothing is left unsaid, and in your few simple words I saw and understood more than volumes could have told. You mustn't worry about my having been alone, darling, to receive the blow, for I felt your presence as strongly as though you'd been there yourself, and still do every time I read your letter. I also sense what a great comfort and strength you were for the family during the ordeal, and know that you shared in their suffering with deep sympathy and bravery.

"The first inkling I had of bad news was Friday morning, when I received a telegram from Mr. Holliday - he said he had a communication for me from home and wanted to see me. That alone upset me a good deal, of course, and I think the worst part of the whole thing was the time until I got a phone call through to him at noon. He was obliged to tell me the news right then, although he hated to do it, knowing that it was your wish that I hear about it straight from you. He knew then that Paulie had taken his own life, for he had heard it from Charlie Noyes; but until I reached the Vacuum office I knew only the bare fact that Paulie was gone, and felt a burning desire to know what the circumstances were. Capt. Dorsett was most understanding, and gave me permission to leave right away and stay as long as I pleased.

"On the way up, I developed a premonition of what the truth was - I knew from Dad's letter to Alec McColl that there had probably been no accident, or he would have said so; I also knew that Paulie had been in good health when I left, and that he must have died soon after that. But gosh when I thought of the possibility that he might have taken his own life, I just couldn't believe it. I thought of the periods of unhappiness which I'd known of in his life - his maladjustment at college, at least one disappointment in love with a girl student at the medical school (he told me about this once, about 2 years ago, but I don't know her name or anything more about it), and the trouble he had with another girl in Hartford. Above all, I thought of the quietness and retirement of his existence, and wondered whether it was a manifestation of contentment or frustration. I know now, of course, but until I opened your letter I couldn't make myself think that my premonition was anything more than fantastic. It seemed that Paul was just too steady and reliable for that, and I too had grown to believe that he had really found himself in his career, and was really happy in his own way.

"Mr. Holliday was wonderful to me. We spent that night right at the Vacuum evacuation office in the suburbs, and I had all the physical comforts that man could desire. He is a delightful man, and I was able to talk freely to him, both about Paul and about other things - it was much better than that I remain alone, even though I felt you were near me. Then yesterday I came in town, lunched with Charlie Noyes, and went out to spend the night with Alastair McColl. I went to church this morning, and found much consolation there. Mrs. McColl arrived from Scotland for lunch and now I'm back in town, waiting for my train back to the VIIth Corps.

"I have no more time, darling, for I want to mail this to Charlie N. in London, before I leave. Paulie's death has been a good bit of a blow - I never knew how much I loved him, although I was always conscious of how much I admired and counted on him. I know that I've lost one of the few people in the world who would do anything for me, and I only wish I could have done a small bit for him. The only consolation is the knowledge that I would have, if I had known how, or what he needed.

"That's all I can say for now, my dearest wife. Remember that I love you and esteem you beyond words for the way in which you have carried on for me back there. You've certainly been in on your share of tragedies, but darling, we are so lucky, you and I, in having each other, and therefore having so much to live for."

There were other occasions on which I was treated to the hospitality of the Vacuum Oil Office.

On Jan. 25 I wrote: "While I was out at Ottershaw, the Vacuum Oil Office, about 25 miles outside London, the city had one of its heaviest air raids since the blitz - that was Friday night. One newspaper said that 200 tons of bombs were dropped in all on England, and that about 90 bombers flew in. The sky around us was ablaze with searchlights, and the guns were firing pretty steadily. Over the city it was almost like a big fireworks display, with clusters of shells exploding in the air and occasional flashes and glow. Mr. Holliday said the barrage was at least as heavy as anything he'd seen during the blitz, and the papers say that 13 of the raiders were shot down. We climbed to the roof to watch the sight, wearing helmets to protect against falling shrapnel.

"...In the afternoon I chased around after some clothing I was lacking, and which I found, and spent a while in Westminster Abbey, hoping to find a service, which might serve as my memorial for Paulie - but had to be satisfied with a walk through the cloister. The rest of the weekend, as you know, was spent at the McColls. Alastair and I dined at home with his aunt, and talked the rest of the evening. Then Mrs. McColl arrived for Sunday dinner from Scotland. It was a very nice weekend, quiet as I wanted it to be, and Alastair was extremely good company. I also enjoyed all the luxury of being buttled by Nears, the old family retainer - he polished my buttons, shined my shoes, pressed my pants, and folded my clothing as though it were priceless silk. He also brought me tea in bed Sunday morning (I forgot to mention that while I was at the Vacuum office I had two real eggs for breakfast, the first since leaving the States, and almost unheard of over here.) There's one very odd thing about the McColl household: 'Auntie Barbara', who I ascertained was Mrs. McColl's spinster sister, is treated almost like a servant - Mrs. M. orders her about in that fashion, sends her upstairs to fetch little things, has her take her shoes off for her, etc., and Auntie Barbara accepts the situation completely, and so does Alastair. It kind of shocked me, but maybe she is not really a member of the family. Mrs. M. had a bad cold on her return, and spent the whole afternoon saying awful things about Lady Duncan, the wife of the British Minister of Supply, who went over with Alec McColl."

Life at Breamore through that long winter had its ups and downs:

Jan. 30: "It's also fun walking through the country roads, which are about wide enough for one good sized American army truck, and are lined with hedges, and which the Yankees swear at because they're not wide like the Boston Post Road. They cuss at the beer because it's been diluted during the war and they can't get drunk on it, and they bellyache because they don't get hot water and have to blackout the windows and can see only movies which are a year old; by the time they get through, they usually end up by observing that they don't see why Hitler ever wanted the country anyway, or why the English didn't give it to him, and they're half serious when they say it.

"The local population has been remarkably patient about all this. I've talked with several down at our little local pub here, and in spite of everything, they still don't seem to have any real animosity or resentment against us, for to them it's kind of like a wild spectacle, and they're glad, in a way, after four years of privations and very little opportunity for excitement, to have some outside stimulation and entertainment. This is especially true of the girls, who unquestionably look upon a majority of these cocky GI's as young Lochinvars from out of the West, and play up to them for all they're worth. The reasons are many, and obvious (although most the soldiers think it's their charm); the girls haven't had young men around for years in many cases, and to a great number of them America is sort of the promised land of opportunity and they'd be only too glad to grab off an American husband. It's quite true that here their opportunity is definitely limited, and that they'll almost surely marry some simple lad who himself has no more to look forward to than a good steady job in the mill, for it seems to be true that ability doesn't always rise above class and privilege in England (that's sort of an adjunct to the general orderliness of life you find here - remember Harry Hodgkinson's discourse down at the fish place in Washington?). And I think the girls have gained the idea that these fellows in uniform always have had and always will have the money rattling around in their pockets which they do now, and which they throw about like playboy princes. For the average private and non-com has from $60 to $110 per month to spend on nothing except his personal pleasure - everything under the sun he really needs is provided for him in kind - and to an Englishman, especially an English soldier, that's quite a fabulous sum (and three or four times as much as now). The average client in a pub nurses a beer or two for the entire evening, but the Amer. soldier plants his 3 shillings on the counter and demands whiskey and makes a stink if he can't get it."

Feb. 5: "Would it shock you to know I don't sleep in my flannel pajamas? Actually, they get so damp and clammy just being in the bedroom all day that I hate to put 'em on at night, and furthermore the fleeting moments of time during which I go from long woolly underwear to pajamas at night, and back again in the morning, have proven too much for my feeble flesh to bear. The matutinal ablutions (I think both words are in the big Webster which Pa will lend you) are also very brief - a slap and a dash of the pint-sized pitcher of stove-heated water which Mrs. S. brings me, and a short but vigorous scouring of the clippers, and I'm off for breakfast with mess kit in hand - the shave waits until lunch hour. Between 8 & 9 I glance at the paper while we wait for the office to warm up; then commences the day's work in earnest, and I spread before me a rather impressive collection of charts and pamphlets which I strive to digest. But the human element soon breaks into the picture, sort of like when we're home together and I get going on a big book and you begin to feel neglected; only here the trouble is that we all set about our tasks in one big room, and before long somebody has to begin thinking out loud. That of course leads to discussion, and discussion with us soon degenerates into bitter clashes of personal attitudes and philosophies. That's how it was this morning, and though I would like nothing better than to let it pass over me (or under) like a gust of wind, I begin to boil inside when others assert that they are saving England from the Germans, etc., etc., and that the only thing they care about in the world is taking care of themselves. Then John Schiller, the minister's son, joins in and delivers a few moralizations on the questions at issue, and several personal taunts are tossed in by the more stupid and ignorant and conceited members of the congregation, and from then on the spirit of endeavor has received a severe setback, and until lunch time it's pretty much a matter of shoulder shrugging all around. It's the same old problem - the difficulty of translating our theoretical mission into sound practice, and a workable plan, and the new arrivals are faced with a good bit of antagonism on the part of the old timers on that score.

Sunday morning: I was interrupted by an incident last night which disturbed my mood, and I abandoned the letter temporarily. During the evening I found I had left the key to my lodging house in my room, and the S's were out; a window into the back pantry was left open, however, and I climbed in, disturbing a few things on a table, but rearranging them as they had been. When Mr. S. came in last night to wind his clock in my sitting room, he asked if I had come in the back window and I said yes and then I realized he was very mad. He said that in this country that was an offense (a little sarcasm there too, as if to imply that housebreaking was an everyday occurrence at home), that he could have me locked up for it and that he guessed he'd have to leave his watch dog in the house from now on. In other words, he seemed to look upon me as a sort of vandal who had committed a serious crime against him. Neither did he seem very satisfied with my explanation that it was purely a matter of innocent expediency, that I didn't intend to cause any damage to him, etc. I was on the one hand kind of burned up that he should have become so offended, and on the other hand regretful that my friendly relations in a spot where I spend so much time should be disturbed. I reflected that this was undoubtedly a manifestation of an exaggerated sense of personal privacy and inviolability of the home on the part of a simple farmer who owned little else, and it also occurred to me that I was suffering a little from the collective feeling towards American soldiers, most of whom wouldn't think twice about any rough methods by which they might attain their object. But I was nevertheless bothered by it. Everything seemed to be patched up this morning, however. I slept late, missed breakfast at the mess hall, and was invited by the S's to share theirs. This greatly pleased my appetite, as well as my mental unrest.

"To go back to yesterday's schedule, just to give you an idea of how a good part of my time is occupied: After lunch I went down to the motor pool in fatigue clothes, and four of us proceeded to give our jeep a thorough 2000-mile servicing - lubrication, bolt tightening, and a little engine tinkering. I have lots to learn there, but believe it's necessary to know, as I may be using jeeps a lot and on my own, and won't always have a garage handy. Then I bought a bicycle - 2nd-hand, 5 pounds, but in good enough condition to take me to the out-of-the-way villages around here, and visit other pubs besides the local one."

Of course at this time I was thinking about the coming event back home - Vinny's birth is imminent.

Feb. 8: "I feel terribly guilty, darling, for I haven't written an airmail since Sunday, and I know how much it means to you to get them, especially right now. I can only hope that the day will have come and gone by the time this reaches you, and that it won't matter quite as much not hearing from me, because you'll be sitting in bed with lots of lovely flowers and Mother & Dad hovering about you and lots of other people dropping in to pay homage, and you terribly proud of your great achievement, with all sorts of things to do that just have to be done, and all sorts of nice things to think about besides me. Gosh, supposing something did go wrong, and these words of mine should reach you in the midst of bitter grief and disappointment, would they only make everything harder to bear? Oh well, my dearest one, you wouldn't want me to be a pessimist, and stifle my enthusiasm over the coming event just because there are chances of disappointment. I know that in such an event you and I will find strength to bear the loss calmly, and find comfort in the love which we have for each other. T'ain't no use courting misfortune by thinking about it now.

". . . The more I hear about the presents and attention you're receiving, the more astounded I am at your winning ways - it sounds as though half of Greenwich were knitting blankets or painting furniture, or donating cribs for you. Have you sold your soul or something to be receiving such favors?"

On Feb. 12: I'm getting ready for a four-day furlough in London. "That furlough I was hoping for in my last letter has come through, and I'll be on my own again for four days. It's going to be very pleasant, I know, even if it's just to get back where most of the comforts of home exist. But the thing that's uppermost in my mind is what a criminal waste of free time this is when I can't enjoy it with you, and what irony it is that I couldn't have had it at Greenville. Think what it would be like if I were setting out with you for four days in London! From yours and Mother's reports on your activity, I don't think your condish would cramp our style at all. First we'd go for a brisk walk, taking in the sights along Whitehall St., and have lunch at the Hungaria where I have a personal introduction to the head waiter and could obtain a table (and roast beef) at a click of the fingers. In the afternoon we'd go call on some celebrity like Jock Whitney, or any Lord and Lady you wanted to pick out of the Register, and if we didn't stay there for tea we'd go to some big place where concert music was being played, and have a snack. Then it would be time for the theater, which begins at 6 or earlier, and we'd have c'tails and dinner quite late, with very smartly dressed waiters of course. Then I'd say let's go to a pub and pick up the latest gossip, but you'd say let's go dancing, and we'd go dancing. And of course, before retiring we'd have a nightcap in the lounge of our hotel."

The four days in London were pleasant but somewhat lonely. I was entertained again by the Hollidays, provided with a room at the American Club, and taken to see a British musical called "The Love Racket". To Mariette I wrote: Feb. 16 "Confidentially, it stank - it was an attempt to put on a musical comedy a la Hollywood with chorus girls under 18 or over 40 or otherwise unfit for national service, and the chief figure in it was a wretched little comedian who went about sucking his thumb and contorting himself and making gurgling noises - very exhausting and in poor taste."

Back in Breamore after my furlough we settled in to a rather uneventful routine, studying the geography of northern France and the layout of ports in Normandy and Brittany. I volunteered to give the gang some French lessons, and we played volleyball on the vicarage lawn. Jack Reber and I were detailed to make some security talks to infantry troops. Feb. 18 "I was hardly back from furlough than I was given a quick notice job of security lecturing to do, so this noon I was off again in the jeep and drove about an hour through wind and sleet (pretty draughty, these jeeps) until I reached my destination. This time the reception was much better than last - I guess I didn't tell you that I felt the first was pretty much of a flop, although it was hard to tell the men's reactions because their faces showed nothing. On this occasion I was definitely more in my own element, and felt much better about the whole thing. Still, I don't like it, for I'm not convinced about a lot I've got to say, and I'm no good at putting up the bluff. Still, I suppose I ought to feel flattered in being the one called upon to do the dirty work, in a way. And it is somewhat of a challenge, and I'm going to work right away in perfecting my technique." . . . "Are you missing some of the old letters full of news and impressions? If you are, perhaps it will restore my zest for discovery, and each evening instead of writing a V-letter I'll climb onto my bicycle and go on a quest for adventure, in some such fashion as the Knights of King Arthur, and bring you back a chronicle about the strange things and people I've seen. If on those quests I should chance to run into La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and she should ask me what I was doing there alone and palely loitering, I would have to tell her that my fate was like that of Sheherazade, and that I was desperately in search ofa story to tell to the Princess on the following Arabian night. Perhaps, then, if she had just an ounce of merci left, she would wave her wand so that some birds would sing and a little blood come back into my cheeks, which would be the signal for me to whisk her onto my bicycle and go visit a famous ruin which would take pages and pages to describe to you. If something doesn't happen around here soon I really will have to start telling you fairy tales - sort of an installment serial, and it would obviously be rubbish."

At this point the monotony of life at Breamore is happily interrupted.

On Feb. 22 the cable announcing Vinny's birth comes through to me. "I was away all day - a hard, cold, unpleasant day of lecturing again, way off in a godforsaken spot of English country which has been turned into an American camp, and the ride back was enough to make me grit my teeth and think how bitter war is. Mother and Dad's direct cable (night letter) was waiting for me, and I sort of grasped for the words which would tell the news the quickest. I think what I saw first was "boy" and "splendid shape", and then I paused to catch my breath before really deciphering it, and made some sounds to the rest of the fellows which indicated that I was in the midst of an exciting experience. They knew pretty much what was in the cable, for Mr. Holliday had phoned twice during the day and let it be known that he had good news for me. I don't remember having been so radiant in a long time, and all the cares that infest a soldier's life vanished like magic. After composing a cable to get through to Dad acknowledging receipt of the glad tidings, I got a call through to Mr. Holliday to get confirmation and to have the Vacuum Oil Co. take official recognition and steps appropriate to the occasion. After supper, I arranged for a gathering of the boys at the pub to celebrate, and that's where I've been until now. I wanted the event to have more public a manifestation than my withdrawal to the farmhouse sitting room to write you. And the celebration was doubly opportune because I got Jack Heminway to join us - he didn't hear until yesterday about the birth of his son, and the news came through his uncle in London, not directly." [perhaps include the paragraph in the letter that follows?, but which I'm not yet typing up]

Shortly before this event a new arrival had joined our detachment - Al Perry, a lawyer from Wilton, Conn.. Al was somewhat older than the rest of us and I can see him now on his arrival, puffing dejectedly as he dropped his two large duffel bags. He was fresh from an unsuccessful battle with his draft board, which saw fit to send him overseas over his vehement objections, and in spite of his being married and the father of two small children. Al and I hit it off right away, and my enjoyment of his company was not in the least diminished by his admission that he spent much time in earlier days at the Stork Club in New York - to the extent that he was familiarly known as 'Storkie', a name which stuck with him all through the European campaign, and for which his jeep was christened in bold white letters.

On Feb. 23 Al and I went to London and celebrated Vinny's arrival at a classy restaurant with double martinis and a two-inch square of veal with brussel sprouts, impeccably served by waiters in tail coats. Details of Vinny's countenance didn't reach me until March 8, when I wrote:

March 8: "I read the description of Vinny as given by Mother to the gang this morning, and the salient feature seems to be his 'flat, lovely ears' - at least that aroused the most jollity. To me the important fact is that he is healthy and normal, and the individual traits such as his 'nice big mouth' and 'light fuzz of blond hair' are secondary, though delightful, details. I notice he has a round 'head', which seems to be a most desirable feature in view of the numerous other shapes which one learns about in geometry; I hope, however, that this doesn't mean he carries a perfect sphere on his shoulders - I guess not, because Mother also describes it as' beautiful', and her general impression is that he's 'adorable'. Furthermore, Dad says that you are 'delighted' with him, and I know that your taste in men is most particular."

Mariette's own description of our first born is reflected in my letter of March 13: "Well, it seems that you are really satisfied with our young imp, and as I've said before, you would probably be the first to object if he were not up to par. It's quite true that the description you give so far is not entirely flattering - a drunken look and cross eyes at the sight of his father's photo. But those don't sound like very permanent handicaps, and I guess there's lots of time for the chin to grow; after all, you can't expect it to stand out until it's taken a few blows."

A few days later came Mariette's blow by blow of the event:

March 16: "I can't begin to tell you how well written your account of Sat. night was - how clear and colorful and witty a picture you gave of it all. I was so proud of it that I read some of the more amusing parts to the boys, and it was received with much applause."

The long evenings by the fire in Breamore gave me a chance to address a personal welcome to Vinny, which I have included in the Appendix. That letter was written from the new quarters I had moved to on March 1.

March 1: "I was a little ashamed of myself for being so wistful about the comforts I was giving up in the old place - closet space (no closets here, just a nail or two, and one drawer as opposed to a whole dresser at Mrs. S's), proximity to the office, shower and mess hall (here I'm a 10 min. walk from them, which, however, will be cut down considerably when I get the new velocipede I've been bargaining for - I never did actually buy the one I mentioned earlier, just borrowed it on trial to see if it was any good for getting around to the pubs), laundry and darning done on the premises (here I'm afraid Mrs. P. won't be able to do this, as she has 40 cows to take care of, and I'll have to carry it to a washerwoman.) I really shouldn't consider all those things so important, and I've resolved that from now on anything which doesn't help me think beautiful thoughts about you and write readable letters I'll not give a thought to. The new home though, now that I'm settled in it, I believe will have many advantages. First, there's the pleasant feeling that there's some life here - Mr. & Mrs. P. and their two daughters Ivy and Sybil, plus Paul Hoffman, whom I really think I'm going to enjoy living with a lot - he's the older fellow (46) whom I haven't gotten to know much because he works in the Hq. office. The P's are a good deal more jolly and flexible than the S's - no chance of being treated as a housebreaker here. I never felt very comfortable with the S's, even when I broke bread with them - had to make an effort to keep conversation going. Here the folks are sort of happy-go-lucky, and daughters lively (not pretty or seductive, darling, just good-natured and youthful - I'd say about 16 and 18). One plays the piano mediocrely, and it's rather cheery to hear it. Then there are some definite physical advantages to the new establishment which I'm not really much concerned with, but which you might like to hear about from the housewifely point of view. The dampness is far less severe - no more mildew on my books and correspondence - and the fireplace really heats the living room. There's hot water on the premises so my morning ablutions can include a shave (with kitchen sink), and there is a real water closet somewhere, though I haven't found it yet. As you have gathered, it is a considerable farming establishment, with cows and chickens instead of ducks and geese, and I hear that of a Sunday morning we are liable to be treated to eggs and milk. As it is, we are always invited for 5 o'clock tea, and 9 o' clock supper, so with our own 6 o'clock dinner at mess sandwiched in there, I ought to keep pretty busy in the evening, and stay alive. I'm heeding your admonitions, though, and hereby resolve not to eat any cake in the eve if we've had pie in the mess hall."

The upbeat tone of this passage can be explained by a happy development.

March 4: "I guess I've referred several times to the fact that I felt I was living in a 'den of wolves', and I certainly did have the constant feeling that there was an unnatural atmosphere in the personal structure of our immediate entourage. In other words, something was wrong in the attitude and spirit of all the men whom I work closely with, and it led to general apathy and discouragement. In the light of what's happened in the last few days, it's quite obvious that the greater part of the trouble lay in one man's personality and attitude, and it happened to be a man who was in a position to cast a blight upon the rest of the outfit. I knew all along that I hated the guts of this one guy, but didn't realize until now that he was so completely the cause of the whole trouble. Of course as you must have guessed, the development which has taken place is that the chancre has now been removed, and the air suddenly seems clear again. A couple of us decided that things were so bad we'd have to bring it to a head before the officers (Jack H. being one of them), and rather to our surprise we found that the officers were ready to back us up immediately and have sent the problem child packing. As a result of this housecleaning we have the further satisfaction of finding that a load has also been taken off the minds of most the other men, even the old timers who were to a certain extent infected with the poison of the old regime, and now there's a general spirit of hopefulness which promises to make our work a good deal more constructive in the future. It also means that from now on I and the rest of the newcomers will be more on the 'in' of things, and have a chance to do our part of the planning of our program."

Meanwhile, life continues tranquil at the Praters' farmhouse.

March 4: ". . . I told you this afternoon how cold I've been at night, but I must tell you a bit more about my new set-up. Last night I was out until 11:15, discussing the new program with Jack Reber, Jack H., and Capt. Dorsett, and when I came home I found Mrs. P. still up, almost as if she'd been waiting for me, and what did she do but produce two fresh fried eggs, tea, and bread and butter - it almost knocked me over, but it tasted better than anything I've had in a long time. That's just one of the astounding features of present living conditions here - the people seem to think that our comfort is of utmost importance, and will spare no effort to bring it about. Paul Hoffman and I have been given the two best rooms in the house, the best furniture, the best lamp, the new candles. I can't believe that the family is making these sacrifices entirely on account of the 15 shillings a week ($3) which we each pay, although that money means more here than at home. They don't seem to mind at all the fact that we sometimes intrude upon their privacy - for instance, we have to go through their living room and kitchen when we come in and out, and when I go down to the pantry sink in the morning to shave, I often bump into Ivy brushing her teeth, or vice versa. Then when shaving is done, I stop for a cup of tea on my way up to the room again. If I'm back here at tea time, then it's tea and cake (I've refused the cake steadfastly (so far)), and the real big treat comes at 9 pm, when Mrs. P. brings in tea and fried egg sandwiches on a tray. Then she does our light laundry without flinching too, and of course all this is on top of the milking of the cows and tending of innumerable chickens which she and her husband have to do together (the girls have outside jobs). Your tea from Macy's arrived just in time, and I presented them with a bag to see if they liked it (English are very particular, you know); they report favorably on it, so even though they bear no title appropriate to the quality of the tea, I shall bestow a good portion of the very generous supply you sent upon them, with your compliments. That's another factor in the situation - there's no idea of turning Paul or me into eligible matches for the daughters for Paul is 46, and I have informed them fully of my matrimonial and paternal status. The one thing I really regret is that I can't play the piano, for both daughters' lives would have been decidedly enlivened during the winter evenings if I had turned out to be a talented performer in that line. They pound away at it themselves with all sorts of good spirit, and enterprise, but the sounds are heavy, and the rhythm hesitating, especially when it's jazz. Gosh, I just went through the kitchen and found no less than 8 people huddled in there, including a little Philippino American soldier who comes in to court one of the girls. It just doesn't make sense, does it, that I should be sitting here in the living room in lordly fashion while the rightful owner and family grovel without? I only wish I had some talent to offer which might entertain them. Do you think they'd like my card tricks?"

On through March I continue to be content with the life at Breamore.

March 19: "Everything is still going well around here, and I am heeding your admonishment about being contented with my lot. I know that I'm really in one of the pleasantest possible spots to fight the war, and I'm quite certain that if I can't be home with you, I would rather be here than anywhere. There is a constant sparkle in the air now that makes me forget most my cares, and we spend a good part of our day out in the sunshine. It's so dry that the wells and reservoirs are almost empty - a thing which hasn't happened within the memory of man in these parts, and yet everything remains green and lovely. Al Perry and Jack R. and I took quite a long bicycle ride this aft. (Sunday), and I tried a little landscape photography. ...You can rest assured that there's never a minute of boredom in my life now. In the first place there's plenty of work to keep each one of us busy 24 hrs. a day, and since there are 12 of us working in one room during the day, I often choose to do a bit of mine at night when there's not so much distraction. Then there are occasions like Thursday night when the Corps held a dance in the mess hall (Corps hqs., of course - not the whole Corps), and we put in an appearance there for the sake of cementing good relations generally. Ivy and Sibyl were there big as life, and of course I had to do my duty, which was not as painful as I had anticipated."

March 25: "I've been out on the road all day today, driving far down into Cornwall and through beautiful country most of the way. Again, perfect weather, and I kept thinking of some of those nifty drives we used to take near Rochester when I was out on a case; but here the countryside is even more lovely, and the hills we rode over were almost like small mountains which opened up an endless variety of views. The trees aren't quite out yet, but the land itself, even in winter, makes a wonderful contrasting pattern of colors - rich deep greens where winter wheat or grass is growing, and ploughed fields of brown or red. Some of the country lanes are just like driveways on a rich estate, all lined with tall trees, and some of the roads winding up the hills are like mountain passes. Riding along in such a setting in a brand new jeep is so easy and peaceful that I felt more like on a vacation trip than on a war mission. Also, the chill is pretty much out of the air now, and even in an open car the breeze feels fresh and good, rather than damp and penetrating, as on some of my earlier trips. Tonight I feel sunburned - as if I'd been out skiing all day. Also, on the table in front of me is a fine vase full of yellow daffodils which Ivy and Sybil picked for our especial benefit. Soon as I can, I'll have to try some indoor photography so you'll know what style I'm becoming accustomed to."

I also sketch out the cast of characters I'm thrown together with: ". . . I really haven't told you much about our outfit, have I? Since I hope to send you a picture of the group which I took recently, I might as well give a brief description of each. John Reber you know: he is the youngest of all, and sort ofan All-American boy with a lot of ability as an organizer and orator, but not too much flexibility or finesse of mind. John Schiller you've heard me talk of: he's a jolly and likeable soul, full of the best intentions, but understands only about 1/4 of what's going on around him, and has the sometimes annoying habit of thinking out loud to himself, usually several stages behind everyone else. He lives scrupulously by the principles he used to teach in Sunday school. Frank Norvish was a teacher of English at Northeastern U., and possesses a smooth tongue and beguiling physiognomy, but I have certain reservations about his sincerity at times - i.e., he's a bit of a bluffer. The bluffer supreme, however, is Chick Rountree, who has stated his own philosophy as one of complete opportunism; he has lived by his belief that he never has to get anything done as long as he makes the right connections, and he's not at all unlikeable for it, and does it well; unfortunately he calls it 'playing politics'. Charlie Schroeder was an engineer by profession, and handles practical matters well, has a lot of practical ideas about how to do things, and can get along with anybody. His only trouble is that he is only as good as the men around him - knows what's wrong, but won't do anything about it - prefers to string along. Steve Neville is a new arrival - a lawyer who had his own practice, very mature, and his eyes wide open, but completely independent as to his mode of operation, enthusiastic one minute, rather aloof the next, has a little too much confidence in himself and his judgment. Al Perry, the recent arrival I mentioned earlier, is older (37), but a nifty sense of humor and constant good spirits - the kind you joke with all the time, and although he's pretty smart, likes to assume the role of Dopey most the time. He had just set up his law practice in Wilton when he was called up (in spite of having 2 children - calls it the 'Dreyfus case of Fairfield county'). Mike Varenick, 46 yrs. old, Russian and silent, is still like a sphinx to me. He speaks many languages but none well, is critical of almost everything (including anyone with youth and enthusiasm), but knows guns and automobiles and cameras and the like inside out. Elbert Jaudon is the most nondescript of all - quiet, rather wizened and unglamorous, but cooperative and dependable. Finally, there is Paul Hoffman, whom I've already described, but who doesn't really form a part of the working team, as he works in the captain's office doing administrative and clerical work. It's quite a remarkable ensemble, really. I'm about the third youngest - most are over 30 - and they're definitely, with the exception of Schiller, men who can and have 'taken care of themselves'. There are so many independent and conflicting personalities floating around that office of ours that there's always a certain amount of confusion, and complete cohesion never will be achieved. Still, it makes the day interesting. I forgot to mention Gus Zielasko, the most recent arrival (you see, I'm getting to be an old timer now); he's been through all the African and Sicilian campaigns with the CIC, and is rated by all who know him as a 'big operator'. He again is nobody's fool, and an independent thinker; he'll add a lot to our outfit through his experience, which seems to be unlimited, and he has the peculiar virtue of having experience without callousness or cynicism."

That sketch leaves out the officers - Jim Dorsett and Jack Heminway - because they spent most of their time at headquarters up the hill in Breamore Castle - and I will have more to say about them later on. I roomed with Jack at Le Rosey School in Switzerland in 1926, and in Breamore I had this to say about him: "He was brought up in the most ultra cafe society, but he is as fine and capable a person as I could hope to know - since being over here my esteem for him has grown steadily". You should know, however, that the officers at headquarters were the ones who censored our letters, and my praise of Jack may have been colored somewhat by that knowledge. It's amusing to find that in October 1944 I wrote from Verviers, Belgium, "Jack Heminway is without doubt one of the laziest men I've ever known." But this appraisal to some degree reflects my own frustration with things at the time, and Jack contributed much throughout the campaign to the quality of our detachment with his humor and savoir faire.

The leisurely pace of life just depicted is now interrupted again. Orders have come from high command that the CIC is to fan out over southern England and inspect the numerous US Army encampments stationed there - to determine the degree of security maintained against detection or infiltration.

April 1: "I'll try to tell you a bit about my trip, though I can only dwell upon the most innocuous aspects of it. During the time I was gone I think I can safely say that I did a job and lived in a style which most generals would not despise. And whereas generals have to sit in the back seat and tell Jones where to go, I was at my own control all the time (all 700 miles of it), and to me that's a far more desirable way of traveling. Until the last day the sun shone and made the air balmy so that the open sides of the jeep were welcome and my complexion acquired a definite tan. Since I've told you that I was travelling on business, I'll just have to leave my itinerary to your unrestrained imagination, but I can tell you that the countryside was uninterruptedly gorgeous, and that we were in several historic spots. Four of us were on assignment together in two jeeps, and my own partner was old John Schiller who can't drive. He was a good companion, enthusiastic and willing, and easy to get along with; his only trouble is that he's always many steps behind in his mental process and revolves the wheels of his mind out loud, grasping at the obvious to steady the confusion of each new development and repeating it over and over and stroking his chin and wrinkling his brow and nodding his head to convince himself that progress was being made and the situation under control. Poor old John! How I wish he were a little smarter, because he has a noble sense of right and wrong and a tireless urge to act according to law and morality; but he's so befogged that the cynics have a golden opportunity not only to make sport of his ways, but also the things he stands for.

"In the course of our wanderings we came across several of the gang who crossed on the boat with us, or who were with us up at Greenville. On a couple of evenings out duties were pursued out in the dark far, far into the night but on the last night we knocked off for dinner at a country inn with Jim Elliott (on the boat he was) and Cam Dorsey, whom you may remember Charlie B. described back there as "the colonel from Atlanta (he's a lawyer) who retired at 21". After that evening with Cam I think I'd class him as No. 1 character in my acquaintance. He regaled us for two hours with a history of his life which beats anything I've heard of anywhere. He's about 30, small and rolly-polly, and completely unperturbed by the vicissitudes of life because, as he says, his uncle is a judge from Atlanta and he can get by on that. I know this is all very dull, darling, until you have seen him and heard him yourself, but I was so delighted with the whole thing that it still stands out in my mind. The charm of Cam is that he's one of the unobtrusive little fellows whose golden humor and imagination is hidden way down deep, and doesn't blossom out until a small group such as ours is gathered around the fire in an old English inn after dinner, with beer and whisky to go round. If I stopped now to retell some of the personal experiences and stories he told (1/10 truth, 9/10 fiction and imagination), it would spoil the continuity of my own story to you. But some night when nothing has happened and I have to scratch my head for news to write, I'll try and tell you one or two of Cam's stories and see how much of the flavor of this inimitable raconteur I can reproduce.

"Our quarters at night were in a Red Cross club, and the one we hit was even more fabulous than anything heretofore. A double room for John and me with hot and cold running water, large single beds, and a gorgeous view from the window of what was once a swank hotel. And the service we GI's get from the stylish young matrons of the clubs! I had one turning handsprings to get some Easter flowers off to you by cable, but flowers are taboo on the wires. I did manage to send some candy today by Lloyd's Bank - wish it could have been a nice corsage darling, but candy appears to be the only thing that will keep for the long passage through the Atlantic cable."

On our return our several teams who had made separate inspection journeys met to compare our findings, and I was chosen to put together a composite report. I recall that it was rather critical of the Army's security performance, but I also know that our effort earned us a commendation from the G-2 Colonel.

By April 12 I am back in London - a guest of the British interrogation center I mentioned in the Foreword. Here is all I can say in my letter:

April 12: "I'm back in my Feinstein (i.e. civilian clothes) for a while, and this time am engaged in a job of an entirely new and different sort, long hours and rather exhausting at the outset, but definitely fascinating. It's the kind of thing that should provide a wealth of material for some stories of fiction and adventure later on, and I'll do my best to record some of it so that I can tell you what it's all about on a dull evening. For the moment about all I can say is that my linguistic 'accomplishments' are being strained to the utmost. I'm also meeting many very interesting Englishmen, and the lunch hour is spent in a little cafeteria which rings with charming English speech from multitudes of pretty stenos and secretaries. It's a very refreshing experience, after the comparative seclusion of APO 307. But gosh, sweetheart, seeing and talking to all this femininity only makes me long for you all the more; back at home station, where there are only soldiers and kind-hearted farmers and country bumpkin lasses I kind of forget what I'm missing - but here the consciousness of my own ilk and my own life comes back again, and I miss you, miss you, miss you."

As I explained before, this is where the British Intelligence Department (equivalent of our CIA) conducted exhaustive interrogations of any person who landed on British soil from the Continent or North Africa. The purpose of this operation was first to determine whether the individual might be an enemy agent; and second to learn what he or she could tell about enemy occupied areas, the resistance activities there, the rescue and escape networks, etc. My three days at the Center were mostly spent listening to a French-speaking British agent follow the story of a Frenchman who had escaped from France over the Pyrenees into Spain, what help he received along the way, how he was first thrown into a Spanish jail, found his way to Portugal, and then boarded a ship for England.

Before this refugee had finished his tale, I was suddenly called back to Breamore. I had arranged a tennis game for Sunday with Charlie Noyes (a Greenwich friend stationed in London with high diplomatic status). Of this I wrote: "Fancy me over here to fight a war, and being stowed across the Atlantic in the hold of a troopship, and ending up with a tennis racquet in my hand."

But on Saturday a call came from Capt. Dorsett to get down to Breamore pronto and prepare for a new destination where he had something special for me to do. So I packed up to vacate my little home in the farmhouse.

April 15: "In a few minutes I hop in the jeep to pick up Jack H. at the station, and then we're off across country together. I've been spreading presents about as lavishly as I could, because I've received so much for so little from the Praters. To Mr. & Mrs. I have bequeathed my bicycle, to Sibyl a brand new game of 'Attack', which I bought in London on one of my numerous visits, thinking that the long winter hours would be hard to while away - my God, I've never had anything like time on my hands. To Ivy I have presented that Sheaffer pencil I found in Grand Central one day - a noble kind of gift to make, since it doesn't belong to me. And then there are a few flashlights, soap, books, etc., which all seem to make them very happy."
Plymouth \- Preparing for the Invasion

The new destination was the port of Plymouth on the southern coast. VII Corp headquarters had just moved there from Breamore to get into high gear for the invasion. At this point I was the only man in the detachment ordered to Plymouth - the others came several days later. Upon arrival I was cleared for access to the war room, and all the top secret details of the Utah Beach landings and Normandy campaign.

Corps headquarters consisted of an assortment of Quonset huts on the edge of town. My assignment was to develop a thorough counter-intelligence plan for the port of Cherbourg, and I was given a section of one of those huts as my private office.

On April 27 I write, "Today is Sunday, but still a workday for me, and I'm snatching some time in my little private office to keep you posted on the state of my affairs and spirits. It's a beautiful crisp day, with sun pouring in through the window to illuminate the charts and maps over which I pore."

Of course I had to be extremely careful that my letters would give no hint of where I was or what I was doing. Though I confined my words to generalities I admonished Mariette on May 2: "The minute you have read these lines you will retire to a private fireplace, hold a match to the present sheets, and cause them to be completely consumed by fire, taking care to stir the ashes with a poker so that the charred remnants cannot be pieced together or deciphered."

At first I was alone, but later joined by Paul Hoffman, the CIC office secretary who was assigned to me full time for the several weeks I worked there. I was provided with all kinds of material to sort through - maps, tourist guide books, geography books, aerial photos, etc. The Guide Michelin for Normandy - maps and text - proved to be a most useful source of information. All critical installations and centers of the city were pinpointed and described - municipal and police headquarters, telephone and utility centers, port facilities and other key establishments. The plan was divided into sections for each of the 2- or 3-man teams which would perform the separate missions. In all the completed script ran to some 30-40 pages. I observed in the Foreword that this master plan was impressive, and foolproof - on paper. As I will relate later on, the best laid plans of military men 'gang aft agley', but the fact of my having been entrusted with this task gave me a welcome feeling of importance and enhanced status in the eyes of my comrades.

My special project for Cherbourg seems to have been completed by May 6.

May 6: "I'm losing my snug little office and am now installed in a large hut where confusion and clamor reign. But at least I had a couple of weeks or more of real seclusion, and was able to more or less complete the project I was assigned - one which couldn't have been done without quiet and space to spread out."

As May wore on and the weather waxed sunny and warm our activities turned more to fun and games. In the afternoons there was softball and in the evenings, poker. We were on the baseball field so much that word got around we were looking for outside competition. The VII corps kitchen staff issued a challenge, which we accepted with some trepidation. The day of the contest we realized what we were in for as they came on the field - all brawn and muscle. Their pitcher was name Olivero, and his underhand windup and delivery whizzed past our batters like Casey at the bat. The score was 28 to 6. In a letter home I suggested that I had hit three for three on our side but I doubt there is a man alive who can vouch for that story. I conclude: "We realize now that we play a gentleman's game, and that we'd better stick to gentlemanly opposition."

There was also some entertainment in town from time to time.

May 10: "The other evening an Army show came to town - entitled Skirts"and put on by the 8th Air Force. I got a few tickets just to pass the evening in a little different manner, and also to give the daughter of the house (the rooming house where I was quartered) a treat, and ingratiate her into doing me further favors (gotta have someone to do my little chores when you're away). It turned out to be one of the best musicals I've seen in ages, with lots of talent and pep and everything it takes to make a show click. The title song, 'Skirts' was especially catchy, and I bought a copy if it for you, which I'm sending under separate cover - you'll be one of the few possessors of this piece in the US."

Night after night in the army

I dream such a lonely dream

It's not that I miss the Cup Final

Or strawb'ries and Devonshire cream.

It isn't my old bike and side car

Or hikes down a country lane.

It isn't the lights of the city,

So maybe I should explain

What's on my brain.

I keep dreaming of skirts

Da-de-da-de-da, skirts

Da-de-da-de-da, skirts

Lovely ladies in skirts -

But the same ol' khaki trousers keep marching by

I've been dreaming of skirts

Da-de-da-de-da, skirts

Da-de-da-de-da, skirts

Thru a thousand alerts

But there is no silk or satin to greet the eye

So if you'd like to send me something for my birthday

And you can't decide between a cake or a pie,

Make it something in skirts,

Da-de-da-de-da, skirts

That's the shortage that hurts

As the same ol' khaki trousers go marching by.

Music and lyrics by a young Eighth Airforce GI named Frank Loesser, who later went on to Broadway fame with the musicals, "Where's Charley?", "Guys & Dolls" (I gotta horse right here, his name is Paul Revere...), and "The Most Happy Fella" (Standing on the corner, watching all the girls go by...)

May 14: "This room (the lounge in our boarding house) is used for almost everything now - last night it reached its most lively note of the present season by the introduction of spiritous beverage - a bottle of gin which Jack H. bought for me on the black market at the exorbitant price of 2 pounds, 10 shillings, a figure which I'll leave you to compute because I'm ashamed to put it down in dollars and cents. Fortunately it turned out that Miss Joyce was eager to provide a second bottle, so that there was plenty to go round, and we had a very cozy party. For the first time since our last c'tail party in NYC I assumed the role of bartender, and it was quite successful - tom collins made with the lemon crystals you sent us."

"...I've just had a long conversation with Mrs. W. (my landlady) about the bringing up of children. It came about when I stopped in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, and the subject of the two drinking sailors next door to us arose. They've been staying here since December, and apparently are able to get all the liquor they want, he being the storekeeper (noticed any increase in Bro's (Mariette's sailor brother) propensity toward liquor?). They're the kind with the disarming smile and manner, and each time they misbehave by over-drinking Mrs. W. reprimands them, and they pacify her with humor and cajolery. But the other night they had such a blow-off in their room that she had to get the Store Patrol to get some of the sailors' guests out - at 1:30 am, and now they are being asked to leave. She was asking me what I thought of guys like that who seemed so nice in appearance, yet had such a complete lack of responsibility - although they seemed to know how to take care of themselves. That gave us much food for discussion of the English and American educational system, and I tried to explain to her how so many Americans got that way. I found that it seemed to boil down to lack of discipline by parents and by schools - too much unrestrained development, and not enough direction to it. So where does that leave us with our youngster?"

All through the Plymouth interlude I am the only sergeant in our group who knows any details about the coming invasion, but as the days of spring are counted down we all know something has to happen soon. Wave on wave of bombers have been flying over us toward France day after day through cloudless skies \- the best spring weather in southern England for many years. New men arrive to augment the ranks of our detachment. In particular we are joined by lieutenant Carroll Stollenwerck (Stoney), Princeton 1937 and classmate of Jack Heminway, whom I have known back in Greenwich. Stoney is a great addition to our company, and will be a mainstay of our force through to the end of my story.

On May 20 we are given a clear hint that the big day must be approaching.

May 20: "I have been a mechanic again for a day or so, and even now I haven't yet shed my stained and grimy working clothes...It's been a relief to get away from the office for a while, even though it meant getting under the car on my back and rolling around on sharp stones to tighten bolts. That's the price you pay to have your own buggy to ride around in, but it's worth it. Is anything wrong with your limousine? If so, send it to me and I'll have it running in no time."

I couldn't say it in the letter, but what we were really doing was giving our jeeps a complete waterproofing. Every functional part of the car was encased in impermeable compound - cylinders, spark plugs, brake drums, axles, transmission, etc.; and both air intake and exhaust were connected to rubber hoses running up the side of the windshield. This was to enable our vehicles to run submerged in water for a considerable distance - so we all now knew that we might be landing in water across the Channel.

On May 30 \- six days before we embark for France - I write my last letter from Plymouth, and my thoughts go back to before the war, then jump forward to the day when it will be over.
On to D-Day

By June 2 an advance party of the VII Corps CIC detachment has moved from Plymouth to a staging area easterly down the coast. There are only eight of us, plus Jim D. and Jack H. Among those eight I can now only place Charlie Schroeder, Norbert Barr, and Gus Zielasko. Our encampment is in an open field surrounded by woods - like Robin Hood's merry men in Sherwood Forest. We all know now that we will shortly embark for the invasion, that we are to land at Utah Beach on D-Day plus one, and that the mission of VII Corps will be the capture of Cherbourg. In fact my master plan for that port is unsealed, and each man receives a copy of his intended assignment. The air is balmy, and as we relax in the sunshine the chatter is excited, then subsides for a while as each of us tries to conjure up his own picture of what it will be like. Though all communication with the outside world has been suspended, we can write letters which will reach their destinations long after we have met whatever is in store for us. My last letter from English soil is dated June 2.

June 2: "As you can see, I'm not seated at a comfortable table as I write this - my hand is just as firm as ever, but not the props underneath. But these days I have to take my chance for writing where I find it, and I hope you'll try to visualize my script in some of my more florid and fluid moments. On the whole, I don't think the wide open spaces are as conducive to my personal literary endeavor as were the oil lamp and fireplace of the Praters - even though this be springtime in the English countryside, which Wordsworth used to say was most stimulating to his own creative endeavor.

"...During every hour of every day when you'll be wondering where I am and what I'm doing and what I'm thinking of, there mustn't be any doubt in your mind about my love for you and my constant prayers that we'll be together again soon. For my part, there will never be any doubt that you are and always will be facing whatever trials may come with courage and calm, and that your eyes will be bright and tender for the sake of our Vinnie, and for the sake of me too.

With all the tenderness and devotion in my heart, dearest Mariette..."

That was June 2. On June 4 we packed up, boarded our jeeps and joined the huge procession of military vehicles from other parts of England heading toward the port of Dartmouth. What happened next is picked up in a letter from Normandy dated July 1 - three and a half weeks after our landing on Utah Beach.

July 1: "Ever since that weekend when I was abruptly called away from London, and had to abandon my tennis date with Charlie Noyes, I've known about this big invasion - that is, the plans, and only a good guess at the date. Since it's been released in the papers, I can tell you now that the VII Corps had just about the biggest part to play, and the knowledge of the plans was pretty breathtaking and absorbing. I also had a very real part to play in the planning, which is the reason for my rather consistent enthusiasm since the middle of April. I worked over maps and intelligence reports, Michelin guides, and other handbooks from morning till night, and compiled all the information and plan of action for counter-intelligence operations in the large town which we have just come away from (Cherbourg). Of course I didn't do it alone, and when you look at the size of the whole operation, that was an awfully small part. But you can understand why it was big to me after the diddling around in New York, then seeing how the armies would operate and learning what there was to be known about France from where we sat.

"Perhaps you noticed, too, that I wasn't as relaxed in writing to you as I had been, and I guess I mentioned quite frequently that it was hard to toss the words about when the problems of the present were so absorbing. We were scheduled to land on Utah Beach in Normandy on D +1, and that great unknown had a definite effect on the subconscious mind, which made me a bit tense and impatient to go - sort of like back in college days, when you'd try to study (or even write a letter) the morning of a big football game.

"From here on I still don't know how much I can tell you - it's all past history to me, but on the other hand the operation is still young. My last letter to you from England, which I hope you've received by now, was written June 4, the day before we left the marshalling area - a delightful spot in the country where we just had to sit and bask in the sun and worry about nothing at all except when we'd be moving. Only the advance guard was there: Capt. Dorsett, Jack H., Jack R., Charlie S., N. Barr, and four others, with 3 jeeps and a trailer - the rest of the detachment was to come at D +3.

"It was there I unsealed the package of documents I had been working on back in Plymouth for several weeks and distributed a copy to each of the men (except the two officers who had already seen it). All the security objectives of Cherbourg were described and pinpointed on a map of the city - telephone central, water works, police and fire headquarters among several others. Each man in the detachment had his assignments and we imagined our task force descending upon these facilities to assert command of them in the name of the US Army.

"The next day our convoy moved without much fanfare to the embarkation point, and we were squeezed onto the LCT by supper time. They're just little ships, big enough for about 20 jeeps or 8-10 trucks, and built like a miniature ferry boat. Every bit of deck space is taken up by cars, though, which meant we slept under the vehicles, and circulated by leap frogging over hoods and seats. The sight in the harbor was most colorful - a picturesque setting upon any kind of occasion, at the mouth of a river and set down between hills on either side, where Uncle Tat spent most of the years 1905 - 1909 or thereabouts (i.e. Dartmouth). But the traffic in the harbor was something, much like New London at the Yale-Harvard boat race, except that the yachts were of only two or three distinct designs, all the same color, and the passengers all wore helmets.

"As we boarded the craft, we were handed a supply of 'invasion money' - newly printed bills in French franc denominations - redeemable by the US government and hopefully acceptable by the French population for such transactions as we might engage in after we landed. Within a few hours much of this currency had changed hands in poker games, even with a ten franc limit.

"We remained at anchor in the river until sundown and sailed out of the harbor at dusk. As we emerged from the Dart River estuary, we soon spotted on the horizon, coming from east and west, a huge armada of landing craft. Before we knew it we were part of the biggest procession I've ever seen (in fact I couldn't see the end of it on either side), flanked by countless warships steaming up and down. The moon was out that night, and it was some sight to see so many armed ships so close together, sailing so peacefully. We had our life belts fastened and our gas masks right by our side, and we kept listening for planes, but we couldn't really feel that we weren't pretty safe. I slept very well under the jeep, with a camouflage net for a bed, and we steamed without stop - but never hit France, for we had gone to sea before the decision to postpone the landing had been made. I guess we must have been going in circles. At this point I began to lose interest, for the sea grew rough, and I became quite sick. I retired to my camouflage net for the rest of the day, and the spray made considerable inroads upon my well-being. We just kept on going in circles and very much up and down all day and all night - the only good thing about it was that there were no Jerry planes to bother us, but we kept wondering what the best thing to do was if they came. We were told not to use our guns because we might shoot the bridge crew instead of the planes. Next day the weather relented, and I ventured to swallow some of the egg and pork loaf and crackers which then tasted pretty good, but which I now don't even like to look at. Won't you please write to Gen. Somervell and tell him that there isn't a single GI in the ETO who wouldn't prefer good plain corned beef to the chopped egg and pork that comes in every can?

Interest in surrounding events revived after this meal, and the waves subsided; and since we knew that the morrow was D-Day we started looking around for signs of activity. By midnight I decided that we weren't due to see anything of the paratroopers' arrival, or rather flight, so I went to sleep. But at about 3 am I woke up and opened one eye, and saw one of the most amazing sights of the war to-date. It was a colossal frame of rockets and flares on the horizon, like the finale of a big fireworks display. I still don't know just what it was - the paratroopers making light to land, or the Jerries shooting at them, but it was some spectacle. In spite of this grandiose preview, however, I went to sleep again.

We all slept till about 6, and by that time the Normandy coast was in sight. (The historians tell us that what we saw then was part of the most formidable armada the world has ever known. Five thousand vessels from battleships to patrol boats and landing craft of all sizes and shapes.) The convoy had released its barrage balloons and the landing craft were anchoring in the great bay which you can spot on all the maps of the invasion (the Bay of Carentan-Utah Beach about 6 miles to the north of the town, and Omaha Beach about 12 miles to the east). The warships were firing at the coast, but most of them seemed to be a considerable distance behind us, and our own concentration of craft appeared almost as inoffensive as a regatta fleet. There was a little smoke rising from the coast, and our planes, mostly Lightnings at that stage, were zooming around overhead looking for something to pounce on, but forced to just play follow the leader for lack of opposition. Apart from that, everything seemed more or less peaceful from where we watched, and we spent the rest of the morning speculating about what was really going on around the few church towers we could spot. It wasn't until noon that we got our first report - an LCT that had landed its cargo of engineers earlier in the morning came alongside, and we plied the crew with questions. They were the usual taciturn and laconic type, and we only managed to get from them that our troops were over the sea wall, and that the landings were proceeding ok. We were still too far out to see anything for ourselves.

Almost an hour later some signals were flashed at us, there was a flurry of activity on the bridge, and our LCT started to steam for the coast. Even the army troop commander on board didn't seem to know quite what was going on, but in a little while the navy captain of the ship suggested in an offhand way that he 'guessed' we were going to land. This caused considerable consternation and scurrying, for we were expected to spend the rest of the day and night, and most the next day as spectators, and the packing of the jeeps was far in arrears. We had just barely finished the final stages of loading and waterproofing the vehicles when objects on shore began to be distinguishable. It was low tide, and the beach seemed pretty empty; there were occasional shell-bursts around it, but we assumed they must be from our warships. I was at the wheel of one of the jeeps, and started the engine to warm her up for the wade. In a few minutes the front vehicles started down the ramp - we must have been about 300 feet from the water's edge, and in 4 feet of water. A good many of the vehicles progressed only a short distance before stalling. We plunged in fast and kept the motor racing as we hit the bottom; the sound of the engine was drowned out by the water which made ripples on the windshield, and the only noise was from the rubber intake and exhaust hoses which stuck up beside our windshield. Charlie Schroeder kept the engine going by choking the hose with his hand when the sputtering weakened, and we gradually made our way to shore, with Capt. Dorsett and Jack H. shouting encouragement from the back seat.

When we hit the hard sand we still had about 100 yds to go, and in order to stick to the tracks which we saw (didn't want to run over any mines) we had to go right by a burning ammunition truck which occasionally emitted small explosions. It wasn't till then that we realized the beach was still under fire from somewhere, and then came the only really unpleasant part of the show since I've been here. When we reached the dry soft sand, the jeeps all stalled. There was no one on hand to welcome us or direct us where to go; and we knew that our Hq. was not landing until the next day - in fact our own landing had been just one of those mistakes which are bound to happen but which can never be accounted for.

Dorsett and Heminway went to look for a Division CP, and we were instructed to wait for them at the vehicles. Before long shells started whistling in, spraying fountains of sand, and we took to some foxholes on the beach, up near the bluff. We learned later that the heavy guns of the German battery at Saint Marcouf some twelve miles to the north were concentrating their fire on Utah Beach throughout D-Day and for two or three more days. I had a fleeting impulse to run down to the water and board a landing craft for the safety of England. We stuck there a couple of hours, but when the shells started whistling in about 50 yards away, we decided it was time to get away. An infantry platoon came along, and the eight of us fell in behind them. There was just one narrow dirt road leading off the beach over the bluff, and most the soldiers were crawling through it - no one quite knew what was on the other side. We crawled along behind them, and made our way inland to the edge of some woods. All along the road men had settled into foxholes - most of them men who like us had been landed by mistake, and had no mission to perform and nowhere to go. That was the worst of it - if we had had a job to perform or some objective to seize, it would have been better. But for the present we were just misfits, and were in the ridiculous position of having no other objective than to look for cover. At the edge of the woods we found a beautiful set of slit trenches which were obviously German made. We probed them carefully for booby traps, enlarged them a bit, and then climbed in to take stock of the situation. Whew! It was some relief to get settled there, for the shells were directed only at the beach, and we didn't have to duck when we heard the whistling. Our appetites flared up, and we ate some canned chopped egg.

After about 3 hours of waiting, the shelling seemed to subside on the beach, So a couple of us went back there to see what we could rescue from the jeeps. We found that two of them had been towed over the sea wall and parked by the side of the road. The engines had dried out and were running again, but some shrapnel had torn the tire on my jeep. We changed wheels, let down the jack, and found that the spare had also been ripped with shrapnel. So we drove that one on three legs up to our new nest, and towed the 3rd jeep enough to get it started, and thus brought back all our belongings. This made us feel as though half the war was won, and we settled down in our trenches for a bit of rest - with one eye open, however. There were two men in each trench; Norbert Barr and I slept alternately and fitfully in a sitting position until dawn. At first light there was a roar of planes approaching from the sea, and 3 or 4 waves of heavy bombers flew over our heads at an altitude of some 300 feet, heading inland - about 30 big planes, each towing four large gliders loaded with soldiers. It was an awesome and heartening sight, for it seemed to mean that the way was clear for reinforcements to support the ground troops beyond. It wasn't until a few days later that we came upon the heart-rending scenes of where some of these gliders had landed, many of them smashed up against the hedgerows or on the wooden poles erected by Rommel in most of the open fields - 'les asperges de Rommel' - and with hundreds of the occupants killed or wounded.

Later in the morning Dorsett and Heminway returned from their reconnoitering foray. They had been delayed by one-way traffic coming off the beach, but had located the VIIth Corps command post. We then hitched our trailers, boarded our jeeps, and headed inland from the coast over narrow country roads surrounded by flooded fields. We found our way into a small village a few kilometers inland, where a nice old lady with a clean bright farmhouse took us in, cooked our food and furnished wine. That first night we slept in shifts, but the tension of the last 48 hours had relaxed. It wasn't until later that we learned that the paratroopers and infantrymen were at that very time engaged a few miles away with German forces at Sainte Mere l'Eglise and Sainte Marie du Mont. From there on we were definitely into the second phase of this here episode, and you'll have to wait for another free evening to hear about it."

The Normandy Campaign and Cherbourg

Before continuing with this narrative I must go back to the VII Corps briefing I attended in Plymouth a week or so before the invasion. I and a number of our CIC group were detailed to provide security for the final rehearsal of the Corps battle plans. This meant that we monitored all access points to the meeting hall, and that we heard and witnessed the whole performance. All of the VII Corps brass were on hand, from General Collins to the chief of staff and the colonels in charge of G-1 (personnel), G-2 (intelligence), G-3 (Operations), and G-4 (logistics & supplies). Also arrayed there in their best uniforms were the commanders and staff of each of the five divisions which would be operating under VII Corps - the 82nd and 101st Airborne, and the 4th, 8th, and 79th Infantry Divisions. I particularly recall the presence of Brigadier General Theodore Roosevelt Jr. (son of his namesake President). He was arrayed in a snappy World War I uniform - cavalry breeches, puttees and baton. He was to die in combat on the way to Cherbourg after leading one of the first infantry waves - the 3rd Regiment of the 4th Infantry \- onto Utah Beach on D-Day. The meeting lasted over three hours, during which General Collins conducted a masterful review of the various units' roles from the Utah beachhead to the capture of Cherbourg. The other generals and colonels and majors stood up before the huge maps, pointer in hand, to explain how each of their commands would carry out their assignments. It was an impressive performance, and left us with confidence that our mission was in good hands.

The campaign for Cherbourg must be related in broad and somewhat disjointed fashion, for few details of specific events came through in the letters. Some fleeting recollections are still with me: unshaven paratroopers in groups of two or three looking for their units, or ensconcing themselves in farmhouses to wait events out; a number of dead bodies along the roadside or in the fields, mostly German soldiers and French civilians; (The second day after landing I entered the Town Hall of a village, and found the mayor dead at his desk); talking to French police and officials still stunned by the bombing and fighting; and everywhere in the fields were the green camouflage parachutes of silk left behind by the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions, and gliders cracked up against the hedgerows or the wooden poles planted in most of the clearings. (Probably some of the same gliders which flew over us in the slit trenches that morning at Utah Beach). Those defenses showed up clearly in the aerial photos I had seen back in Plymouth, but the gliders were needed at dawn to supply some heavy equipment to the paratroopers who had landed in the dark with only light weapons. The military historians tell us that 17,000 men were dropped by air back of the landing beaches, and that 2500 of them were killed, drowned, or taken prisoner.

I do recall two particular events of the first few days. A day or two after the landing, the Germans were still shelling the beach from uncaptured batteries and word came to the VII Corps that some enemy spotters might be directing fire from the belfry of a church near the coast. I and two others of our group were detailed to investigate. We found the priest and his wife in the parsonage, along with several townsfolk who had taken refuge there from the battle. The priest denied any knowledge of his church being involved, and when I climbed the tower I found no evidence of any activity there, although the platform at the top afforded a splendid view of the coast and the invasion armada. But to make sure our mission was scrupulously carried out we remained overnight with the priest and his visitors - an episode I remember as uncomfortable and embarrassing.

The other event which lingers in my memory is of another small church where a special service was conducted for the villagers to give thanks for their liberation. I and some other American soldiers in the vicinity were invited to attend. You can imagine what a moving occasion it was, especially for me who could understand the words spoken. It was there I first heard the Hymn of Normandy:

Quand tout renait l'esperance,

Et que l'hiver fuit loin de nous

Sous le beau ciel de notre France

Quand le printemps revient plus doux.

Quand la nature est reverdie,

Quand l'hirondelle est de retour,

J'irais revoir ma Normandie,

C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour.

J'ai vu les ciels de l'Italie

Et Venise et ses gondoliers.

J'ai vu les champs de L'Helvetie

Et ses chalets et ses glaciers.

En saluant chaque patrie

Je me disais aucun sejour

N'est plus beau que ma Normandie

C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour.

[When all the world renews itself in hope And winter's cold has fled far from us

Beneath the sky so fair of our dear France

When spring returns with air more soft

When nature's hue has turned to green

When swallows all have come back home

I will go back to see my Normandy

The land where first I saw light of day.

I've seen the skies of Italy,

And Venice and her gondoliers.

I've seen the fields of Switzerland

And her chalets and her glaciers

While saluting each of those lands

I would reflect: no sojourn there

Can be more sweet than my Normandy

The land where first I saw light of day.]

The slow progress of our troops' advance towards Cherbourg was a period of ups and downs for me, and this is reflected in the letters.

June 14: "If I have to be where I am, there isn't any job which I would rather have than the one I now have. The picture as a whole is too big for me to feel exactly where I stand in it, yet I can at least say that I'm in a position where my knowledge of the French people and language can do the most good. The main frustration is that I am only one man, and that what I alone can do is too insignificant to count for the millions who are involved. Yet as I settle more and more into the life of these people who have been suffering so much, I thank my star more and more that I am where I am, and can help here and there, in no matter how small a manner, to set things right again. At times like these, when the laws of civilization are for a time suspended, each individual acquires a measure of power which is terrifying and sobering. I pray God that I will learn how to use it right as this thing progresses."

June 16: "The French are treating us like kings, and if there weren't so many important things to be done, it would be delightful to relax and bask in the sunshine of the good will around us. As this thing progresses, I believe you are all getting much more information than we are about what is actually going on, for we are obliged to piece together little bits of news here and there, and just make guesses as to what they mean. Also, rumors are difficult to distinguish from facts. We have, however, been able to rig up a radio to some batteries, and get the news from London (all captured equipment, of course - half the stuff we're now using is German)."

June 18: "Two more days have passed on the beachhead, and your husband, as well as military operations, seem to be going well. We (the CIC) all have the feeling that the job we are faced with is almost insurmountably difficult and complicated, and we are like babes in the woods trying to tackle big unseen monsters. As you know, our monsters are not ones in German uniform, and the problems we have to surmount are mental and psychological, rather than physical ones that the boys at the front are encountering. There are times when our efforts have stimulating results, because our duties bring us into daily contact with the native population, and we can at least perform some good will work among the individuals involved. But there are also times when we seem to be involved in issues which are impossible to solve, and which we are not qualified to deal with - the quarrels, jealousies, and quirks of the Norman temperament. But almost all the Frenchmen around here are as a whole simple and friendly farmers, and I find that it brings nothing but confusion to try and see an absolute black and white in their midst. They're awfully glad to see us, and if we could only get the American troops to behave like friends towards them, and treat them as people who have been used unscrupulously by the Germans, we could get far more done than in trying to seek out an enemy in every person who has been the least bit corrupted by 4 years of impotency. As you can see, these are all matters over which there's limitless room for debate, and all is not smooth at all times.

"...We have settled down into a somewhat normal way of existence, and our eating and sleeping conditions are excellent. We are doing our own cooking, or rather, we have obtained the services of two women who give to our rations a considerable amount of the French touch. And besides that, we can still get a good quantity of eggs, milk, and meat to embellish the army fare in boxes. The farmers of this region are far better off than the cities as far as food goes, and since communications are cut off and they can't ship their food out, they're only too glad to have us buy it. Bread, however, which is the single most important food to the French, is very scarce and very good; we're therefore faced with an inner struggle every time the opportunity arises for buying some, for we know it should go to the civilians, and at the same time our mouths water for it. There isn't much wine in France anymore either, but so far we have done pretty well on captured spoils, and we have at one time or another had ample supplies of high and low class wine, cognac, and Calvados. We are now set up in a mansion which was German-occupied before; and plenty of furniture has been left behind to make life reasonably comfortable. But of course, we have to keep moving in this new game, and we can never tell how conditions will be at the next point. The devastation seems to be getting greater and greater as we go along, and I fear very much that we are doomed to life among the ruins for some time to come. It must sound cruel and depressing to you, and it is to us also - we just have to close our eyes to many unpleasant things."

June 19: "Our first rain today, but the news from the front is good, which of course is the only thing that matters these days. Considering the fact that we are still hemmed into a pretty small piece of France, I've been doing a powerful lot of riding around. Some of the contacts I make are pretty big time stuff, and since last writing you I've become a good deal more encouraged about our work - haven't changed a bit, have I, on this here beachhead, which is rapidly becoming more a 'base of operations' than a beachhead - first I'm up, then I'm down. But it's inevitable that there should be a lot of restlessness when everything changes from day to day.

"...There are some wonderful things here - we've already been in and out of many beautiful old chateaux and felt the romance of the history about them - but it's a no good place to be living in now. The French people, I think, are very stoic about it all. I was mad to read today in Stars & Stripes an article by a correspondent in another sector saying that the French were apathetic and indifferent to our arrival - those correspondents seem to think that even though the French people in our area are losing their wives and children and homes in the destruction of battle, they should spend their day throwing roses in our path. I've met several of those pig-headed correspondents, and not one of them can do more in French than ask for wine and butter and bread, which is so scarce. So without even being able to understand the thoughts and feelings that are in the French people's hearts, they sit down at a typewriter and write that the people are apathetic. I'm more disgusted than ever with the legion of useless officers and officials who follow around after the army, and who have absolutely nothing on their minds except to obtain the best quarters and to scavenge for the best food wherever they go."

June 22: "This is written in the kitchen of an abandoned farmhouse; we are merely passing through, and are now poised to move on further if the tactical situation proceeds according to plan. The same old feeling of unfinished work is hanging over me, for when we stop in one spot it's usually just long enough to begin to understand the local situation and get organized, and then we have to leave. Our job just can't get done that way, and yet we have to move when our unit does. Gosh, there are so many little individual matters that come up all the time which can't be solved with a big sweeping action. For instance, yesterday afternoon the MP's called up to report that a woman sniper had been arrested by some soldiers and turned over to them. Since we are supposed to check the civilians for subversive activity, they passed her off to us. I questioned her at length, and found that she had been picked up without any explanation at all, right in her home, leaving 2 small children, one sick, uncared for. It was quite obvious that there had either been a mistake or that there was some personal maliciousness on the part of someone. I checked her story with her neighbors, and found that there was no doubt of her innocence, and of course I took her back home. These soldiers had apparently picked her up because of a rumor somewhere, which they had no business to do anyway. But I'll never have a chance to go into the case any further. And that's just one out of hundreds of similar cases which are floating about, and the job of handling them is indeed a hopeless one.

"Today we're feeling very optimistic about the military situation. Cherbourg is surrounded and although the town is heavily fortified, it should be just a question of time before it falls. The German army in this sector is completely disorganized, and we are hoping against hope that the city's garrison will surrender. If they don't then the port will probably be only a mass of rubble when we take it. And apart from the military value of capturing the port intact, it would be so wonderful to have a live city to work in, rather than a dead one, as so many about us now are.

"...I did drink quite a bit of champagne last night - Jack H. and Capt. Dorsett stumbled upon a little town yesterday which had been bypassed in the battle, and where they were the first Americans to be seen. Since the town hadn't been damaged, the population was in a most enthusiastic frame of mind about everything, and presented them with 4 or 5 cases of that sparkling wedding wine.

"But the sad side of today's picture is that all hope of capitulation at Cherbourg is gone, and our artillery is now pounding it full blast - it's a terribly depressing condition.

"I've got a big day ahead of me - am being lent out to do a little French spouting for another outfit which is having some trouble with the population. How is your French coming? Hope you're studying at least 2 hours a day!"

June 27: "These people have so much to get off their chests, now that they are free to speak, and the occasion is so rare when they find an American who understands them that they sort of overwhelm me. Sunday was the high point - it was the first Sunday around here after the Germans had left, and the stocks of wine & cider & brandy which had been carefully hidden were dug out of their holes, and everyone was celebrating. The usually peaceful farms are now crowded with refugees from the towns, and everybody acts in a friendly manner."

Not mentioned in the letters was a tragedy which cast a pall on the VII Corps command. Somewhere on our journey north our troops had surrounded a stronghold where a German force had holed up. Seeing their position as hopeless, they had signaled their readiness to surrender. When word of this reached VII Corps headquarters, the G-2 (intelligence) officer, Colonel King, was impetuously moved to join the troops in the field and take charge of the capitulation. As you have already guessed, the Germans were only luring us into a trap. As the US task force approached the barricade to receive the surrender, the defenders opened up a murderous fire, killing several of our men, including Col. King. The assistant G-2, Col. O'Malley, took over for the rest of the Normandy campaign. Several years later the Reader's Digest published the poignant story of how Col. King's widow received the news.

This was all on the arduous push up the Cotentin peninsula towards Cherbourg - Montebourg, Valognes and other ghost towns devastated with the scars of battle against stubborn German resistance. Some buildings were rubble, many scarcely inhabitable, no water or electricity - much more damaged than the farmhouses we were lodging in as we followed the advance. The offensive was behind the schedule Lightning Joe Collins had set out for the VIIth Corps back at the briefing in Plymouth last May. But by about June 20 our troops had finally cut off the tip of the peninsula

I took a jeep ride across to the resort towns of Barneville and Carteret on the west coast. Those towns were largely deserted, but the German army had evidently maintained an R&R facility there - yes, a brothel - for the girls were wandering around confused and wondering what to do next. (There are no details on this in the letters to refresh my memory!)

We entered Cherbourg on June 28, and found the city more devastated than anything we had yet seen. Hitler had ordered the defenders to fight to the last man, and casualties had been heavy on both sides before the capitulation. In his autobiography, Lightning Joe, General Collins recounts the orders given by Hitler to the German Commander Von Schlieben: 'Even if worse comes to worst, it is your duty to defend the last bunker and leave to the enemy not a harbor but a field of ruins." Faced with this last ditch resistance by the Germans, our troops had no choice but to bombard the doomed city into submission. There were few civilians remaining inside the city - most had been herded out by the German occupiers or had fled the bombardment. All but a few of the enemy defenders had been killed or captured. Our resourceful scouting detail - Charlie Schroeder and Dave Wright among them - had again found us moderately comfortable lodging in a beaten up but still standing building with a fine view of the port and harbor. From our quarters we could see a fortress on the breakwater at the entrance to the harbor, and for two days we witnessed our dive bombers pulverize the stronghold until it finally capitulated. This resistance, and all the sunken ships in the harbor, made the port of Cherbourg useless as a supply channel until many weeks later; and in the meanwhile all of the allied forces had to rely on the man-made artificial ports which had been built in England and towed across the English Channel to the landing beaches.

With no electricity or water we had to make do for meals with canned rations warmed up on sterno stoves; but our foraging detail uncovered a German cache of wine and brandy which enlivened our candlelight evenings.

Needless to say, the elaborate counter-intelligence plan for Cherbourg which I had painstakingly put together back in Plymouth was of little use to us. The targets we were to locate and secure - police headquarters, government offices, telephone central, port facilities and utility installations had been destroyed or abandoned. There are no letters from Cherbourg - I guess the living conditions were not conducive to correspondence. One scene does stick in my mind: On the day after our entry into the city there was a ceremony in the Place Napoleon to celebrate its liberation. My fading recollection is of a rather pathetic gathering of rag-tag individuals who for one reason or another were still inhabiting the desolate city. There were no bands playing, only a few flags flying; and very few US soldiers. General Collins did address the crowd to affirm the US presence, but all I can remember of his speech was that he pronounced it in a most atrocious French accent. However, this is a 53-year-old recollection of an 81-year-old veteran, unaided by contemporary notes. General Collins recalls the event somewhat differently: (From General Collins' Lightning Joe) "On the afternoon of June 28 in a moving ceremony on the steps of the city hall I presented the tricolor to Paul Reynaud, the venerable Mayor of Cherbourg, in the presence of the city council and our division commanders - Ridgway, Taylor, Barton, Eddy, and Wyche - and before a gathering of French citizens in the Place Napoleon. Speaking in halting French, I said simply that we Americans were proud to return to our sister republic its first city to be liberated by the Allies.

"Reynaud replied eloquently, in his polished native tongue, expressing the gratitude of his townsmen at being free from Nazi control, and pledged eternal friendship of France for America. He invited us into the council hall for a glass of champagne, which he assured me he had never offered the Nazis. On the way in, Billy Wyche provided a break in the relative solemnity of the occasion.

'Joe,' he said, "I didn't know you spoke French. I could understand every word you said!'

'That's bad news, Billy,' I replied, 'because if the Americans could understand me, the Frenchmen could not.'

It was excellent champagne."

By July 8 we are on our way back down the Cotentin peninsula, anticipating a breakout from Normandy. It's a welcome change from the confusion and privations of the Cherbourg interlude.

July 8: "I've been reading some of Ernie Pyle's stuff in the Stars & Stripes, and find him to give the truest impression of life around here that I've read anywhere. I think his articles appear in the World Telegram, so get that when you can, and you'll know more than I can tell you in my scanty letters about the way of life around here. As I've told you before, I'm right now living as well as any General. Our food supplies are unlimited, and the beauty of our canned goods, and crackers, and candy, is that they constitute excellent barter for eggs & butter & meat. By turning over to our immediate hosts - all good farm people - these delicacies unseen for years, we can with a clear conscience accept the return of wholesome food which to us is a delight, and a worthwhile sacrifice to them. The really sad thing is the thought that as Normandy is cut off from the rest of France, the cities still behind the German lines must be suffering more and more, because this region exported food in large quantities to the industrial and urban regions.

"My French is getting to be quite fluent now. I can even flirt with the girls, which is a decided stimulus to the morale. But you needn't be concerned over this, because the nature of my work is such that when I call to pursue the intricate leads of my cases, I am forced to retain the complete decorum of one who is engaged in vital matters of state, and who cannot stop to enjoy much personal frivolity. Does that satisfy you?

"Well, it's been over a month since I landed in France, and though the rumble of our artillery at night shakes our beds, I believe this is safer than many spots in England. The figure on casualties from the flying bombs sounds a bit disturbing, and I'm convinced that it's now mostly a question of waiting, as far as my job is concerned, until Germany cracks wide open, before there's any excitement for us here. I will always thank my stars that I did land on D-day, because I won't be haunted in the future with the thought that I may not have done my part. It's hard now to put our finger on just what we have accomplished individually, but at least we have at all times been there and ready to do it."

July 11: "I suppose you've been reading a bit about our Corps in the papers and magazines - at least I hope you have, although it must be somewhat disturbing to read, as in Time of June 26, 'To the US VII Corps fell the most spectacular assignment, that of cutting off the Cherbourg peninsula.' We have been in the fortunate position, ever since D-day (which I wrote about in detail a while ago), of being the first in many places without running the risk which that distinction usually entails. Until the last minute we are in a comparatively safe place, and then by virtue of our high mobility we pick the spots where there's likely to be work for us, right behind the path of advance. By now our detachment is far from being the only one in this corner of the world, but it's sort of nice to be able to tell the newcomers as we meet them about the countryside: 'Yes, things have changed a lot around here since D-day.'"

"...Charlie Bulkley is over here, but in a different sector, and I understand from men who've been with him that though he came in the rearguard, his group is obliged to rough it a good deal more than we are. Yessir, we certainly have a bunch of go-getters in this outfit when it comes to living right. We now have a permanent cook with us as a camp follower - a Pole who can't get back to his home, and who is a cook by profession. He's only too glad to have a chance to share our rations, and it makes life a lot more comfortable for all concerned."

By July 14 we have moved to the village of Graignes and here is how we are living:

July 14: "We've moved again since I began this letter on the 14th, and now we're housed in an abandoned schoolhouse, and I write (and also eat) at little desks for 10 year olds. 'Abandoned' doesn't really describe it; when we first came, the debris, plaster, glass, furnishings, books and everything was heaped on the floors, and we had to wade in. The lessons for July 10 were still on the blackboard. At this stage of the game the Germans have had time to burn and loot systematically, and there's not much left standing by the time our own troops come in. I suppose that this accounts in part for the complete disregard for private rights with which the American soldier now advances through France - he finds that the enemy has been so savage. God, I hope it doesn't go on this way for long. I don't think it will, for I think we're on the eve of some decisive developments.

"I was up in Cherbourg for the 14th of July \- the national holiday - and was quite encouraged to see the new lease on life which the city has taken. Many of the solid citizens have returned, and everything seemed quite gay in the streets."

At this point a newcomer arrives in our midst - Capitaine Charles Dubos, a veteran of the French Foreign Legion in Africa. He has been assigned to VII Corps as a liaison officer from the French army, and Corps headquarters had turned him over to our CIC detachment.

July 14: "I do a lot of work now with a French liaison officer, and as he wears the distinctive French officer cap, he stands out wherever we go and the people make much fuss over him, so there's no complaint from that end. We kissed quite a few girls in the street on the 14th (in Cherbourg)- but I still want to come home.

"Darling, have you been following our Corps's exploits in the papers at all? So far I haven't heard any recognition from you of the fact that we entered Cherbourg first, although most wives are sending back pictures clipped from the papers showing General Collins being welcomed by the mayor. If you look hard enough you might even see me in some of those pictures."

From then on le Capitaine becomes my personal responsibility and friend (he speaks no English), and I drive him in my jeep wherever we go until I lose track of him somewhere in Belgium. Among other things he teaches me the words of the Foreign Legion's rollicking song, La Madelon.

La Madelon: Pour le repos, le plaisir du militaire

Il est la bas a deux pas de la foret

Une maison au murs tous couverts de lierre '

Au Tourlouron', c'est le nom du cabaret

La servante est jeune et jolie

Legere comme un papillon

Comme son vin son oeil petille

Nous l'appelons La Madelon

Nous y pensons le jour, nous y revons la nuit

Ce n'est que Madelon, mais pour nous c'est l'amour.

Refrain:

Quand La Madelon vient nous servir a boire

Sous la tonnelle traine son jupon

Et chacun lui raconte une histoire

une histoire a sa facon

La Madelon pour nous n'est pas severe

Quand on lui prend la taille ou le menton

Elle rit, c'est tout l'mal qu'elle sait faire

Madelon, Madelon, Madelon."

[La Madelon or the repose and pleasure of the military

There lies yonder, two steps from the forest's edge

A little house with ivy covered walls '

Au Tourlouron' is the name of this cabaret.

The serving girl is young and pretty

Light as a butterfly

And as her wine sparkles, so do her eyes –

We call her La Madelon

We think of her by day, we dream of her by night

It's only Madelon, but for us c'est l'amour.

Refrain:

When La Madelon comes out to serve us wine

Beneath the casks she trails her simple skirt

And each one recounts to her his tale - a special story of his own

La Madelon with us is not severe

Whene'er we squeeze her waist or chuck her chin

She merely laughs, that's all the harm she does.

Madelon, Madelon, Madelon.]

From July 19 - 23 we are still in the schoolhouse at Graignes, and from there I write:

July 19: "Everything is very quiet now - no artillery, no tanks rumbling by, no planes, only no mosquitoes buzzing in my ear. The latter menace at night becomes our greatest concern, for this area we're in is just thick with them, and it's a constant battle for us. John Schiller says he saw two of them the other day lifting up his blankets so the others could go in and bite. The reason it's so quiet is that it's only 7 am, and everyone else is asleep except Vitale, the Polish cook we rescued from a P/W camp to be our chef. He's in the kitchen working the bellows on the fire, and concocting some more 'vitals' for breakfast. Actually, his offerings aren't at all bad, mainly because the materials he has to work with are so excellent. We're now drawing the same kind of rations as were served up in England, but due to the manoeuvering of one of our teammates, our quantity and choice is at all times unlimited.

"While I was over at the well shaving I picked up one of the most recent propaganda leaflets now being currently dropped by our planes for the enemy's edification. It was dated July 15, and showed the extent of Russian advances and the complete encirclement of Germany by the allies. It also contained excerpts from German broadcasts in which the near hopelessness of the situation was admitted. Does all that really mean that we are going to see the end of this soon? I have no doubt at all that it means there won't be a great deal of fighting left, but what our minds are all turned towards now is the postwar disposition of our much knocked about CIC. Contrary to my earlier expectations, I don't now believe there will be much for us to do here in France - already a great deal is being turned over to the French themselves, and when hostilities have ceased there won't be any excuse at all for our existence in this country, for there will be little, if any, military occupation. But Germany will be a different story, and I'm cursing the day I ever admitted I could speak German - it would be just like them to run down the list and say 'those who know the language will stay behind, and the rest can go home.' One always seems to be penalized in the army for having a qualification. And I'm not thinking only of myself, or failing to see the necessity for it. The men who do the fighting - they are penalized for being good by being put back into the fight repeatedly, especially at a time when the going is the toughest and some power is needed, while the unit which proves to be weak and inefficient is penalized by being withdrawn into a rest area. Nevertheless the fact still remains that the situation looks good on the maps, and there is this to consider: the powers that be may feel that detachments such as ours who have been with tactical units and been through the fray should be the first to go home, and the occupation be left to the more inactive units.

"Are you still completely in the dark about my activities, darling? I've tried to give you a picture of what our daily life consisted of without saying anything about the professional secrets of a secret agent's (!) life. It's mostly a question of setting up controls of one kind or another, and this involves assistance and cooperation from the French officials. In the past couple of weeks I've spent most of my time with Capt. Dubos, the French counter-intelligence officer attached to our Corps. We haven't really got enough to keep us busy around here because we're in a region of infinitely small little communities, and beside that the Germans are now beginning to evacuate all the population as they withdraw, leaving very little except burnt houses behind them. When the people finally begin to trickle back, it's mostly a Civil Affairs problem to shelter and feed them until they can be farmed out or their homes made livable again. But we also have a job to interrogate and sift all these refugees, in case the enemy has planted agents among them. You may have read in the papers about the trial and sentence of two spies up in Cherbourg the other day; that was in a very real way the result of some of our work. Yesterday I worked at one of the refugee collecting points, and was again amazed at the resilience and fortitude of the French peasants - they'd lost everything they had, often including close relatives, and yet they seemed to be uplifted by the mere fact of having been delivered from the Germans, and to be treated well by the Americans. If only the individual soldier had some sense of decency about the abandoned homes they come across!"

July 21: "Ma cherie, I thought for a moment of writing you in French, so that you'd have to scan the pages carefully and painstakingly, and I'd get credit for occupying an hour or two of your time instead of just a few minutes. But then I thought that if I really let loose with such a large dose of foreign language now grown reasonably fluent and idiomatic, you might have to give up altogether and resort to assistance from outside, which might hurt your pride and impair the serenity of our relations. I wouldn't want that at any price, darling, so I'll write in plain homely English - even if you do gobble it up and then look around surprised because there ain't more.

"Yesterday I took a trip to Bayeux, which as you know is in the British sector. It was quite an experience, principally because the city, which is fairly good sized, has scarcely a scar. The streets are humming with activity, every shop is open and displays a wealth of merchandise, and the cafes and restaurants are operating. It's some contrast to where we have been working; most of the towns we hit are over 50% levelled by bombing and artillery, and some are completely so. Even Cherbourg, which suffered comparatively little except on the outskirts, was a pretty dead city because it had been so completely evacuated of civilians and taken over by the Germans, who left everything upside down when they left. Bayeux is still as it used to be when I was there 15 years ago except that on the narrow streets there are three or four British soldiers for every civilian. Another contrast which strikes anyone coming out of the American sector is the strict unconcern of soldiers and civilians for each other; around here the GI's are definitely a part of the French people's lives, for the soldiers play with the children and make uninhibited advances to the girls and lounge around the stores and cafes and talk in sign language. The British, on the other hand, although there are hordes of them, keep the respectful distance of the tourist, address the French only when they want to buy something, and everybody just seems to mind his own business. I hate to think what the town would be like if our troops were there; so far the army has had to put every town of over 1000 inhabitants off limits to them because of their incurable habit of breaking down doors and windows when they have reason to get 'friendly' with the natives. In Cherbourg the greatest problem was the persistence with which they sought to break into the brothels. It seemed that the ladies found the job of catering to a whole army a bit staggering, and so barricaded themselves inside the house. When the siege began to get violent they'd usually send someone out the back door to get help, and more often than not they'd wind up at the CIC, because we were vaguely known as the people who 'handled civilian questions'. In fact one day the madam of one of said establishments accosted me in the street and asked if I couldn't do something about getting her back into her house which was surrounded by soldiers who were prepared to surge in behind her the minute she unlocked the door. I explained that this was somewhat out of my field, but I got hold of an MP and we escorted her back, and were able to make enough of a wedge in the crowd to get her through safely. We parted on very friendly terms.

"Well, to get back to Bayeux, the British have lost none of the discipline and manners for which I admire them so much, and behaved as well as a bunch of little Freddie Bartholomews. But the tragedy of it all is that the French don't realize how lucky they are in that respect, and no matter what the circumstances, they just don't like the British.

"The news from Germany sounds good tonight - an attempt on Hitler's life, and an attempted coup d'etat. There's no doubt from what we pick up here - from civilians and prisoners of war - that they're in bad shape, and I'd go out on the limb as much as to say that the collapse could come any day now."

July 23: "Today has been a pretty peaceful day, not because it's Sunday, but because the weather still hasn't cleared up enough for the situation to change any, and there's not much for us to do until the front changes. As you must have gathered in my recent letters, we're now in a region almost devoid of civilians, because the farms have been burned and the people forcibly or voluntarily evacuated towards the German rear. All of which means that there's little for us to sink our teeth into in the way of counter-intelligence. But as a matter of fact the natives are beginning to return now, and I spent quite a bit of time at our Corps refugee camp, which is growing daily in size and importance. Today a lot of newsreels were taken there, for the correspondents and photographers don't know quite what to do with themselves either; so keep your eyes in focus at the movies, and you may have a chance to see me winking at the French WACS. Yes, there are several quite charming French girls, members of the French army, who work at these camps, and they do much to soften the harshness of the refugee picture. And I repeat what I've said before - these French people are pretty darn plucky about the way they take everything that's happening to them. Living conditions are pretty wretched for them, and last night the reports of big guns all around them were so loud it practically lifted them off their feet.

"...Our corps CIC detachment is recognized beyond a question as the best and most important, and it's certainly true that the respective members are pretty live wires. Capt. Dorsett has in his quiet way become sort of the central figure in the whole CIC of this theater of operation, and I think that even if we're not accomplishing as much as I'd like to see, we're getting far more done at our level than the brass at higher hq's. - which is rather perplexed by the whole business, and is usually only too glad to follow our leadership as long as they can take the credit. As a consequence of this state of affairs we have a constant stream of visitors from various parts of the peninsula, and even from England, who stop in just to see what's happening at VII Corps. Of course it's true that our Corps has been in the limelight from a tactical viewpoint since long before D-day, and that accounts in good part for the respect with which our activities are observed. Another feather in our cap, or rather in Capt. Jim's, is that he has ingratiated himself so much with the officers of the G-2 section (that's the intelligence section) that we are given a completely free hand as far as living conditions are concerned. In that way we can set up an establishment at our various halls where, with Vitale's assistance, we are equipped to afford hospitality to others which, considering the conditions, is quite lavish. All this is to explain, darling, how hard it is to write in the evening, and to ask you to be patient. I'm still winning at the poker table, though not quite as much as the $200 which you received from Plymouth.

"While we're on the subject of entertaining, we had our first mixed party last night - two French WACS from the nearby refugee camp, and 5 nurses from one of the nearby field hospitals. Through sheer ingenuity, for this part of the land is quite devoid of spirituous beverages, the boys rustled up about 1/2 dozen bottles of cognac and Calvados, and brought forth the last of the trailer load of champagne which we had captured earlier in the campaign. The French girls, who wear a very cute uniform, were delighted with the occasion, and the nurses delighted the boys with their 'real American' talk. Incidentally, they came in leggings, fatigues, and helmets. I don't think the old schoolhouse has seen the likes of this in its history - we even had table cloths (sheets from the attic) and flowers on the school desks, where the feast was laid. I hope my pictures of it come out, for it's hard to describe in words this scene of revelry amidst the ruins, with long golden hair flowing out from beneath an olive drab helmet.

"This morning we had a different kind of show at the schoolhouse. For a full hour we saw the remarkable procession of at least 1500 heavy bombers, Flying Fortressess and Liberators, pass right over our head and drop their loads a bare 5 miles from us. We could see the bombs leave the bay, and a short while later the earth trembled and the vibration knocked dishes off the shelves. At first the Jerries put up considerable ack-ack, which we could see bursting in little black puffs all around the big formations - we saw two or three of our planes go down in flames, but that wasn't bad considering the number involved. After the heavies came streams of mediums, which we didn't even try to count because we had to stop gawking and go about our business. But I don't think there's any doubt that it was the most amazing show in aerial history - exciting from the spectator's viewpoint, terrifying from the enemy's, and terribly terribly heart-rending from the civilians'. Guess things ought to start moving after that."

This last excerpt described the massive aerial bombardment of the German lines only a few miles from us which preceded the breakout from Normandy on July 25.

July 26: I seem to be more preoccupied with my dream-world than with the impending offensive.

July 26: "Just a quick note to let you know I dreamt about you last night, and how glad I was to wake up, and find it wasn't true. It seems I was going to a wedding, and had bought a beautiful corsage for the maid of honor, which was sitting in the ice box. Then all of a sudden it occurred to me that you were going to be there too, and that I hadn't a thing for you. So I went to the ice box, and found the corsage gone, and then proceeded on a mad dash about town to find you something - only 15 minutes to weddin' time. But it was a French town, and all the flower shops were bombed to a rubble, so I finally wandered onto somebody's veranda, and probed the walls for orchids. Not finding anything there, I entered the house, and found some charming French people who seemed to understand my plight right away. They produced a faded flower which seemed to be a cross between an orchid and a rose, and I decided I'd better take it because you'd understand it was the best that could be done under the circumstances. I explained that it was to be worn in my wife's hair, so they fixed it up nice and pretty, and I left very happy, but then realized the wedding was all over, and I didn't know where to find you. Thas all!

"If you want to know about CIC over here, keep your eyes open for the Saturday Evening Post about a month from now. We caught a couple of spies the other day, and some reporters and photographers came over to get the story and take some pictures. Don't believe a word of what you read, but don't let anyone else know it's not true. Unfortunately I was away, and didn't get in the pictures, but maybe it will please you to see the CIC get a little publicity. It's true that Civil Affairs gets all the noise, but as I've explained to you before, a good bit of it is just hot air, and the incompetence of most of them is incredible. We usually get to a town several days before they do, and are called upon to perform many of their functions. I have yet to meet a Civil Affairs officer who speaks a word of French, and when their turn comes to get functioning, they can't do any more than just smile and nod."

Breakout from Normandy & On to Paris

By July 29 the breakout is under way.

July 29: "It looks like the break we've been waiting for has at last arrived. It probably means a lot of moving, just as in the Cherbourg campaign, but as I've told you before, we were getting restless in our present little pocket, and we welcome the change. It means too, of course, that things have developed in most encouraging fashion on the front. You remember my writing about that terrific bombardment up ahead of us a few days ago? Well that was the kickoff of the big attack, which for a day or so went painfully slowly, but now seems to have achieved its objective. Back home they seem to be even more optimistic about the possibilities than here. For instance last night we listened to one Major George Fielding Elliot on our little earphone battery radio (still no electricity in Normandy). You have heard of him as a well-known military analyst. He seemed to feel that this breakthrough might foreshadow far greater things, principally because the Germans haven't much more to bring up and stop the gap. The signs of tactical progress have already had their effect among our little group. Last night Chas. Schroeder showed up grinning from ear to ear, and uncovered the back of his jeep where, well-camouflaged in straw and hay, were about 150 bottles of the finest wines and liqueurs of France, found beneath the ground on the premises of a recently evacuated German Hq. And on the more serious side, we're now beginning to have some nice juicy suspects turn up to sink our teeth into - even in the last 24 hours there have been at least 4 definitely sinister characters about whom I can't give you any details (it might give you too many sleepless nights), but who have definitely boosted our morale by making us realize we really are accomplishing something.

"Last night we had another chapter in the series of festivities which CIC Detachment #24 is acquiring a reputation for. The whole atmosphere was propitious because of the good news on the situation map, and because of Chas.'s amazing haul, and because one of the officers of the G-2 section was here on a farewell visit (he's going back to England, poor fellow). There were no ladies this time, but everybody was most expansive, and in a mood for speeches and song. Jack H. was all wound up and told stories even more preposterous than usual; Capt. Jim was toasted repeatedly, much to his embarrassment, because he's modest and not a speech maker, but I was tickled to see how much genuine appreciation of him was felt by all. Gosh, I remember now those early days back in Breamore when that insufferable character Paul McCandless was still with us - in his sly and vicious way he had managed to spread the impression of Jim Dorsett as a two-faced incompetent who had to be put right by Paul McCandless every time he moved. Yes, our detachment has come a long way since those days, and has definitely grown more noble and mature (though God knows it ain't perfect, and I gits regusted often). As I mentioned before, dinner ended with song, and I had one of the most amazing experiences of my modest singing career when at the end I was called upon for the Whiffenpoof song. It was either because I was feeling uncommonly mellow, or because the others didn't know the words of the song, and were content to hum in the background; anyway, my rendition reached heights which I never believed myself capable of - lots of depth and feeling, you know - and was accorded a minor ovation. It's funny how there are brief moments like that when you suddenly seem to soar, then the clouds close in again, and you resume your status as an ordinary person."

To the tables down at Mory's

To the place where Louie dwells

To the dear old Temple Bar we love so well,

Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled

With their glasses raised on high

And the magic of their singing casts a spell.

Yes, the magic of their singing

Of the song we love so well

'Shall I Wasting' and 'Mavourneen' and the rest

We will serenade our Louie while voice and life shall last

Then we'll pass and be forgotten with the rest.

We are poor little lambs who have lost their way -- Baa, Baa, Baa

We are little black sheep who have gone astray -- Baa, Baa, Baa

Gentlemen songsters off on a spree

Damned from here to eternity

Lord have mercy on such as we,

Baa, Baa, Baa.

We are now constantly on the move.

July 31: "Right in the midst of our present sweep southward I find time to send you a short note because duty at the CP for tonight calls for a brief pause in the fast moving pace. This is our second halt already since the schoolhouse from which my last letter was written, and we expect to be moving shortly again. We're again moving so fast that we enter towns a bare 12 hrs after the Germans have left, but this time they've pulled out so fast that they've had time to destroy only a few houses.

"...I'm looking forward to today, for the weather is beautiful, and Capt. Dubos and I (we now call him Le Petit Charles, for he is of much smaller stature than 'Le Grand charles' DeGaulle) have some big stuff on our program."

Aug. 3: "We are on the move again, and are reaching areas where life is more or less normal, and hundreds of civilians besiege us with their problems. It's also far richer and prettier countryside here, for we're out of the swamp land and are surrounded with orchards. Also, no more mosquitoes.

"Of course we're optimistic about the military situation, and more than ever we're counting the days until it will be all over. I've even ventured a few francs that it may be in time for my birthday. But even now I'm beginning to sober up a bit on that estimate, for the terrific impression created by the scores of wretched enemy tanks we saw on the roads when we first started moving south is wearing off, and it looks as though after all the Jerries may be able to pull themselves together again for one more stand. (One of the sad things about the last couple of days is that the weather has been perfect, warm and clear and sunny, but the planes haven't been able to do their work because of fog in England.)

"I took a trip to St. Lo yesterday (guess I've driven about 2500 miles since hitting the continent), and saw there the most terrific destruction of the war to date. It's a city of about 15,000 and there's only one visible building which isn't wrecked. We went with the police chief to see if we could salvage some of his files, but the best we could do was stand on a mound of rubble and speculate on the condition of the files 10 feet below the debris. There was a prison there in which about 150 political prisoners were locked up by the Germans. When the big bombing came, the Germans just left them there, and only 18 escaped. I talked with one of those 18 the other day, and after the miracle of escape he made his way back to his home to find that his three sons had been burned to death there a few hours previously.

"The other day I bumped into 'frightful Fred' Downing as we picked our way through a maze of convoys, and found that he was stationed for the time being right near us. It's till amazing how many of our old CIC associates from back home are roaming around this little corner of the world. We of the VII Corps are certainly faring better than any of the rest as far as living conditions are concerned, as well as personal liberty. I guess that next to a war correspondent, we're tied down about as little as any in the army. Gosh, how I hope it lasts, for we're spoiled now, and if I should have to return to the old GI life I would be most unprepared for it. By the way, I'm afraid that article on CIC in Sat. Eve. Post I mentioned last week may not be published because it was too 'hot' - glamorized us so much that the big shots felt it was not fit for the public eye. But you can continue to tell your friends that we are big operators, because there's much element of truth in it. Perhaps not so much in results, although through combined efforts the scoring of captured enemy agents is fairly impressive, and VII Corps alone is responsible for 1/2 of the total. The funny thing is, though, that the solution of a case isn't always reached until it has passed from echelon to echelon, and it's always the highest echelon which claims all the credit, making us lower echelons very sore, and giving rise to much bickering."

Aug. 5: "The news tonight is that we have taken Brest. Now vast areas of operation are open to us, and the thought of where we are going and what we'll be doing is staggering because of sheer size. In a way we don't feel as important as we used to because we can no longer enjoy the exclusiveness of our position. For a while there we knew that there were only 2 or 3 other CIC detachments besides ourselves in the picture, and we could almost see with our naked eye the little stretch of land upon which so much attention was focused. Now we're just a few more minnows swimming in a big pond. Some day, though, I'll take you swimming on the beach where I dug my fox hole and show you more graphically how the whole thing developed. Gee, it's awful to talk that way, as though it were all over, for many more will undoubtedly lose their lives before we can call it quits. But tonight the news continues good - we're in Brest, and the Russians have broken through again. And if you stand on a street corner anywhere around here, and watch the equipment roll by, you can't help feeling that anybody on the other side of it is bound to be overwhelmed. It's especially impressive to see the armored divisions pour through a town - tanks and armored vehicles almost bumper to bumper for 5 or 6 miles. The other day Capt. Dubos & I were stranded in a thunderstorm in a little farmhouse, and watched the tanks go by in the rain. One of the drivers was temporarily blinded by the downpour (because they don't have windshields on them contraptions, y'know) and swerved off the road enough to crash into the corner of a brick house. He kept right on going, but left 1/4 of the house in rubble by the roadside. And on the other side of the picture you come to a narrow part of the road, with ditches and high hedges on either side, in territory recently abandoned by the enemy; there you find maybe 50 vehicles overturned or burned, caught in a trap and being stripped of their interesting gadgets by stray GIs. What's happened is that our planes have spotted a German column forced by our advance to try and extricate itself by day. First some bombs were dropped on the head of the column, and then some bombs are dropped on the tail of the column, and no one can move. Then the planes come in low and strafe the rest, and there's nothing the Jerries can do about it.

"Well, we've moved again since my last letter and now we're in a fair-sized town where almost no damage has been done. We've taken over a cafe-hotel, and now have two cooks instead of one. There's even some running water and feather beds, though of course we don't know who slept here before we came, so we just lay our blankets down on top of the bed. From here we fan out into neighboring communities, and by twos or threes we try to handle the problems of the town. But it's hard to get our work done then, because the important local people such as the gendarmes and mayors, not knowing just how important we are, want to spend their time feting us, and expect the middle of the day to be broken up by a 3-hour luncheon period.

"The other day, the French Capt. and I went hunting for a car. He is authorized to requisition any car he pleases, and I felt like a Gestapo agent walking in on peaceful people and telling them we wanted to see their car with a view to commandeering it. We found a beautiful Citroen which had driven only 1000 miles, but was lacking tires. So we went and salvaged 5 tires off wrecked German cars, and got a couple of mechanics to tune her up. All the while the owner was spitting mad, and that only made us the more determined to take the thing, in spite of difficulties. On the way home, of course, it broke down, and I had to tow it with my jeep. And then we came to a spot where there had been a washout, and the water came up over the wheels of the car. This time I wasn't as lucky as on the beach, and we stalled in the middle of it, with the usual convoy coming along behind us. Fortunately a jeepful of Canadians was right behind, and swung around in front. We got out, up to our waist in water, and hitched up a second tow line, and believe it or not the jeep was equal to the load and got us out. It was as bad as breaking down in the middle of the Hudson tunnel."

Aug. 8: "Our greatest problem now is what to do about the streams of refugees who are going north back to their homes, from which the Germans drove them. The army of course doesn't want the roads clogged with these people, and we have to tell the local officials that they have to keep them. We're very unpopular all around.

"...There's nothing more discouraging than having a crowd of clamoring people around whom you can do nothing for."

Aug. 10: "We are now in a very awkward position. There are about 10 of us staying in a lovely house, big double beds with sheets, home cooking, and practically all the comforts of home, except running water. It's a nice clean little village that seems to draw sunshine all day, and out in back the most romantic garden. The owner is in Paris, and therefore can't get back. But staying with us here are three French refugees who we're sure must have been big collaborators - Momma, Poppa and their adopted niece. They're obviously nouveau riche, and made their money in shameful traffic with the Germans, he being a pastry cook and candy manufacturer by trade. They cook for us and get our water and make our beds and are all smiles at all times, but are the type who can be very nasty, I think, if they don't want to get on the right side of you. So what should we do? They don't belong here any more than we do (although we've grown to consider vacant premises as ours by a sort of right of conquest until the owner arrives). Yet they dish out the hospitality as if it were Lord and Lady Bountiful. I guess we've gone so far now that we can't draw back, and we've finally fired Vitale the Polish Cook, (for extreme laziness and because he always got headaches at the most inconvenient moments), so we really need something like this.

"The village is peaceful enough on the surface, but it's the first spot we've hit in which there was a well-organized and militant 'maquis', that is, an armed resistance group who fought the Germans before we even got here. They blew up some bridges and waylaid a number of German trucks at night, and put little explosive rocks on the road to blow out tires. Now of course their biggest pastime is hunting down the French people who denounced them to the Germans. I cross-examined one of those unfortunate individuals yesterday after they had cornered him, to see if he would give us a little information on the German intelligence service. After I got through, the maquis boys resumed their own technique, and I sat by for about a half hour while one of the more vociferous comrades put on a dramatic star chamber performance, pounding the table and shaking his fist, and finally brandishing a loaded gun in front of the man's eyebrows (fairly close to mine too). This extracted a few tears from the victim, but no confession. So the prosecutor slammed his gun on the table, removed the clip, cleared the chamber, and fired at the floor to make sure. It's lucky he did, because there was still a bullet there and it went right through my helmet which I had laid on the floor upside down. When I picked it up there was a bullet hole from inside out, leaving a round jagged edge on the outside. Later I fashioned a cork stopper to plug the hole when I washed and shaved out of the helmet; and from then on I was known as the guy who survived a bullet through his head!

"I don't know what we're going to do about this problem of the maquis - it's fine to have them armed when they're still behind the German lines (all arms parachuted to them from England), but it's going to cause a lot of trouble before order is restored. Even tonight I could see the beginning of what's going to happen - a couple of drunken GIs in the nice little restaurant we've been frequenting, behaving like pigs, asking the French girls to sleep with them right in front of everybody, and insulting them all in the vilest language imaginable. You can imagine how it made my blood boil, but I guess it's no use expressing myself again about the GIs' behavior.

"I was in an advance party which came to this town yesterday - just Capt. Dubos, John Schiller, and myself. We found that an American soldier's body had just been recovered near the village, and the townsfolk had undertaken to bury him. We were asked a few minutes before the funeral whether there would be an American delegation present. Since it was the first American soldier killed in this spot, it was to be an occasion of much ceremony, and we felt bound to attend. It was really quite a spectacle, magnificent flowers, almost the whole town in mourning, and the full pomp of the local catholic clergy. I marched in the procession through the town, then there was an hour's church service in Latin (all mumbo jumbo), and then the burial . It was quite exhausting, but also very moving. Of course I will write the boy's family, who live in Brooklyn, for it may do them good to hear about the honors that were rendered to him.

"I've bought you two engagement anniversary presents, and also the long delayed birth present for Vinnie. The former consist of a silver hand wrought bracelet from Brittany and 1/2 dozen Quimper pottery plates; and the latter consists of 1/2 dozen silver plated goblets for Vinnie to mix his drinks in. All were purchased at Mont St. Michel day before yesterday. On our way down here John and Capt. Dubos and I decided to take a little detour via that well-known shrine, and the experience was one of the most exhilarating yet. Instead of approaching by bicycle, as I did 12 yrs ago, we sped up the long causeway with dust flying, John in the jeep, and the Capt. and I in the deluxe Citroen, which I now drive like a visiting potentate. Gosh, it's really something to see that place loom up in front of you. The only sign of war there is the expanse of beach planted with posts and barbed wire stretching out of sight in three directions. We were among a handful of American soldiers who were the first to visit this famous site, which lay removed from our armies' advance, and which the Germans had evacuated only two days before. We wined and dined at Mme. Poulard's restaurant, and found that there was still plenty of food there, but with prices very much at tourist level. But we were like every other American soldier - money to burn in our pockets, for it's rare that we have occasion to spend any of our pay.

"I just had a letter from Dick Sellers, reporting on the condition of people at home, and enthusiastic beyond words about you, darling. What did you do to him? He said you seemed to be enjoying life tremendously, and then apologized for telling me, as though it might hurt me if you weren't pining and miserable and pale. But you know, don't you, that nothing gives me more courage than to know that you are cheerful. It's a great tribute to your poisonality that you can get along so well on so little, and you must thank Vinnie for me for taking such good care of you.

"Can you believe that we've been married almost two years? I still feel completely like a newlywed, and I'm sure I'll act like one for a long time after I get back. As every day goes by I grow more convinced that I was meant to be at home with you and not off in this turmoil. I so much miss the peace and quiet which your loving care brings to me, and the Ernest Hemingway life which we lead in the army only makes me long the more constantly for what I've left behind. It's so cruel that these wonderful months of our lives must be spent in repressing the desire which we have for each other, and when this war is over, I know that I'll be justified in doing anything under the sun to get away from here and get back to you."

After the Mont St. Michel junket, le Capitaine and I drove on in the Citroen to Rennes, capital of Brittany, where we spent an uneventful twenty-four hours. On the way back to rejoin our detachment, we witnessed another one of the awesome sights of war - miles and miles of burned out or abandoned German tanks, trucks and vehicles of all descriptions which had been pulled or pushed off to the side of the road by our troops as they advanced over the same route. These had been enemy columns moving westward with reinforcements for the German forces at the front, and which never got there.

We joined up with VII Corps headquarters about August 13, where we heard our troops were nearing Paris. At this point, before the drama of impending events catches up with us, I interject a few more wartime reflections.

Aug. 13: "I'm sitting in a practically deserted village on a sleepy Sunday afternoon, thinking wistfully how glorious it would be to be at home. The feeling is all the stronger because I've just read your #81, which is so sweet and so remindful of what a delightful girl you are. First you tell me about your talk with Mother about Paul, and in your words I see the sympathy of one who might have been his own sister. Perhaps you feel, as I do, that you fail to express anywhere near all that is in your mind, but it's the whole mood and tone of what you say that really counts, and I can see so well that underneath the bare words there is a tenderness which is without question deeper than that of any other person I have ever known. You know, when I asked you to marry me I didn't really know about that side of you. I fell in love with you because you were pretty and gay and charming, and of course I could sense that you had a heart which would respond to mine. But it's a never ending thrill to discover how thoroughly you represent my ideal - a person who is susceptible to the really important things that men are made of, such as sorrow, affection or courage. There are many attractive people in the world - who say bright things and put on a good act of one kind or another, but there are surprisingly few who possess that fundamental sensitiveness to the world's human environment which really distinguishes men from lower forms of life. Gosh, I hope you can understand what I mean - I suppose it all boils down to the simple fact that I love you.

"Yes, darling, I'm sure it's true that Paul (my younger brother Paul, who took his life in December 1943 while he was still at medical school) knew what he was doing. I feel sometimes as if I should speak more often than I do about him to Mother and Dad when I write, to show that I'm still thinking of him. Yet the only things that can be said have already been said - he was just unaware of his own importance on earth, and even when he wrote his farewell, he didn't wish to make a fuss about it as others might have done. I believe life and death were important to him, and I believe he was fully aware in his own mind of the significance of it all, because he was beyond question one of the sanest persons I've ever known - perhaps that was his chief weakness, to be too much that way. He just didn't see that it could be important to anyone else, and didn't want to write as if it were.

"To get back to this town we're in. It was severely bombed by the Americans 2 or 3 weeks ago, and then by the Germans after we had taken it. Almost every civilian has left for the country, and John and I are set up amidst the wreckage of a ghost city - ghost except for the never ending stream of military vehicles going through. We are here because it's an important crossroads, and the problem of civilians coming through is quite complicated - in fact, it's driving me crazy. We stay here only during the day, so you don't need to worry about the occasional night bombings which hit these important communication centers. And even in a ghost town, the French can wrestle up some plenty delicious meals - we've commissioned a young lady to cook for us, and we lack none of the material comforts.

"...The headlines on Saturday's Stars & Stripes read 'Yanks Reach Paris' Outer Defenses'. Today is Monday, but I'm quite in the dark about further developments - just never seem to be around where there's a radio, although even the radio gives very little news of the important spots because they don't want the Germans to know where our spearheads have got to. The weather has been gorgeous for a week, and that means the planes have had a chance to do their stuff. So I'm still optimistic over an early collapse."

But on Aug. 18 we were still marking time.

Aug. 18: "We're now living in a big chateau occupied only by an old, old maid and her two servants. The spot we're headed for next is a fairly large town, which I'm sorry for, as we find that country life is on the whole much easier - on a farm you don't have to worry about water and electricity not functioning, as they've always lived by the pump and by the candle. But gosh, how I long for all the nice comfort that's awaiting me back in your little nest."

By Aug. 23 we are ready for the rapidly developing events of the campaign in France.

Aug. 23: "We've just jumped forward about 100 miles, and are now tantalizingly close to Paris. By the time this reaches you the city may well have fallen, but there's only a small chance that we'll be sojourning there at all, or even visiting - that, I guess, will have to come later. But I'm still going to do my best to have at least a fleeting visit during the early days - I don't know many of the people there any more, but it would be as exciting as anything else we've done to show up during the first period of enthusiasm and celebrate with someone I used to know. We're awfully spoiled on this question of being feted - after a while you come to expect it and take it for granted, and if people don't pay particular attention to you, you find yourself almost resenting their attitude. One encounters strange contrasts of feeling and expression in different localities. Yesterday during our trip we were passing through country which had been relatively untouched by the war, because it was along the path of one of those lightning armored advances. We also happened to be caught behind an armored convoy, which always draws the population out into the streets. The bouquets and kisses were thrown just as you may be seeing in the movies, and you began to think you were a pretty important guy. But then, just before we reached our present destination, we came through a couple of towns which had been pretty badly bombed, and the old atmosphere of indifference and almost antagonism was immediately felt. When we got here, and started to look for billets, it was just like drawing teeth, and people seemed no happier to provide them for us than for the Germans. Nobody who has suffered from bombing is able to understand the reason for it at all."

During that interval we drove through Chartres - I still have a vivid picture of the great cathedral's silhouette rising on the horizon as we approached. We were stationed nearby, and it was there we received the joyful news that some of us were to join a special task force of the First Army to mastermind counterintelligence operations in Paris.

Paris is Delivered

Only one hurried letter from Paris gave intimation of the dramatic event:

Aug. 30: "I haven't written in a long, long time, and may not be able to do so for some time to come. This is just a hurried note to say all is well and I love you dearly. Many very big events have happened in the last week or so, and I haven't had time to eat or sleep. But everything is for the good, and I've just got to wait until there's time to tell you about it all in detail. But most important of all,- I am today receiving my commission as a 2nd Louie - a battlefield appointment. I'm very happy about it, and I know you'll be too. I hope you can guess where I've been for all this excitement - saw Philippe Berard and Jeff Goetz 4 days ago. Loving you forever..."

We had by then made a triumphant entry into the city where I grew up from 1919 to 1930, when I was 4-15 years old; but it wasn't until Sept. 6 that I was able to write from Belgium and give a blow by blow account of how the French capital was liberated.

Sept. 6: "The day I received your birthday 'gram, as I started to tell you, life seemed rather dreary. I was engaged, oddly enough, in investigating a series of rape cases - that's not our job, but the Provost Marshall had called on us for help, as we have established a reputation as a pretty fast-moving outfit. Some other day I'll give you all the lurid details about this case, but it was so awful it made my blood boil (Amer. soldiers involved), and I wasn't getting anywhere and was discouraged. Then came the news that we had been thinking of but not quite daring to hope for \- about half of us were to pack up and head for Paris. I can't tell you how or why, but that's unimportant, because the purpose of our trip was insignificant compared to the events themselves. I tore up one of the sad letters I'd written you, and kissed your sweet cable and put it away and devoted all my energy to shouting and tugging at ropes and pumping tires so that we could start. At that stage we were a good distance from Paris, and we made several stops along the way to pick up other members of the party that were to join us (among whom was Charlie Bulkeley). The final hook-up was to be made at Rambouillet (about 30 miles southwest of Paris), but when we arrived we found that the designation of the 'Chateau de Rambouillet' as a meeting place was hopelessly complicated. The town was full of every kind of French and American soldiers under the sun - male and female, all attached to the staffs of various bigwigs who were trying to get into Paris. The variety of uniforms was like in London - and all the French officers looked as if they'd just broken out of cellophane for the occasion. But what threw everything into confusion was the fact that the road to Paris was blocked by several pockets of German resistance which hadn't been cleared out yet, including tanks. So all the pretty officers were running around in a dither, looking very alarmed and upset at the unforeseen inconvenience.

"We swallowed a few quick glasses of brandy while we pondered the situation, and reached the sensible conclusion that we should locate a US unit which had been in the outskirts for a while, and get the dope from them on possible alternate routes into town. The brandy had subdued our first disappointment, and we were quite sure we could get through somehow. So we started traveling east with the idea of finding a way of sneaking up from behind on the city. As we progressed, the people said they thought we could get to Sceaux (about 10 miles from Paris), but that there was still plenty of fighting from there on. So we headed for Sceaux, and wondered how we'd spend the night. We knew the Forces Francaises de l'Interieur (FFI) were generally in control of the city at that stage, but there had been no specific reports of our own troops entering, or resistance ceasing.

"The entry into Paris really began about 10 miles outside. As the little towns we struck grew larger and larger, the crowds lining the streets seemed to grow thicker and thicker, and we soon realized that something more was going on than the usual cheers and waving. It wasn't just a show of enthusiasm for American soldiers passing through - it was a kind of welcoming into the fold, as though the war was over and we were returning home. The crowds began to surge in front of the vehicles, as though they expected us to stop and be swallowed up, having reached our goal. By the time we reached Sceaux I had to grip the wheel firmly with both hands, so my arms wouldn't be grabbed away. The flowers were coming so thick and fast that Jack Heminway, who was riding with me, couldn't perch them up on the windshield anymore. It was just about at this point that a lot of sirens were heard behind us, and 4 or 5 tanks came screaming through and fairly blew the crowd out of the way. The tanks looked like they were chasing someone, but after them came about 20 motorcycle police, and then a big limousine with 'Le Grand Charles' (De Gaulle) himself. The whole procession was moving very fast, but the leader of our convoy did some quick thinking and we lost no time in swinging in behind. We figured that if De Gaulle thought Paris safe enough for him, it was safe enough for us. So we didn't stop at Sceaux, but kept right on the tail of Charlie through the Porte D'Orleans into the heart of the city.

"Darling, it's an impossible task to describe the rest of that entry into Paris, because it was more a matter of mass emotion and delirium than of a physical spectacle. We learned later that we were almost the first American troops that had been seen, and the combination of De Gaulle and our procession of jeeps was just too much for them. I'm sure that there will be nothing more memorable for any of us in the whole war than the reception we got that afternoon. It wasn't long before the pace had slowed down almost to a walk, for the crowd was so thick in the streets you couldn't have done more than crawl without crushing them. (Our jeep was named 'Chouky', and the name was painted plainly on the front. If there was any single sound we could distinguish about us, it was a constant roar of 'Chouky, bravo Chouky'.) Hundreds of girls must have climbed into our jeep and hugged us - it was hard for me to do much more than return a kiss here and there, for I had the wheel to tend to, but Jack H. performed in very creditable style. (This for Jane's benefit in case you are still being promiscuous with my letters.) The most embarrassing thing was the old men and women - they'd fight their way to the car, and grasp our hands to kiss them and murmur, 'Merci, merci'. But the crowd in spite of its hysteria was colorful and dignified. The women especially - they seemed gorgeous and as if they hadn't suffered at all from the clothing privations. Yes, (darling,) there's no doubt that Paris is where the girls know how to dress and make up. It just seemed unbelievable and dream-like as we rode on and on that all this gay resplendent crowd had turned out for us, and that we in our dusty khaki were the center and admiration of everything. It's an exhilaration you can't understand until you've experienced it, and they say it gets in your blood. (You're gonna hafta make it awful good when I come home!)

"But this is the time for a little aside, darling. I don't want any more of this hero stuff, because it's just like a drug that makes me forget you for a minute, and when the effect wears off, I need you and miss you more than before. The only thing in the world that can make me happy is to sink back into our little home in the US with you and Vinnie as the only chorus of applause. All of Paris was mine for the taking for 10 whole days, but more than half the time I looked wistfully at the incomparable beauties of the city and its people, and at the smiling faces of the girls who were obviously dying to gather me in, and I could only think how wretched it was that you weren't by my side while such history was being made. I'll never live such an experience again, but thank God the best thing in life is still waiting for me when I get home to you."

More of the Paris story is told in another letter from Belgium:

Sept. 7: "This is the continuation of letter #130a, which was begun a few days ago in Paris, and continued here in Belgium yesterday. I'm trying hard to fit in the whole story before the pressure of work has time to snow me under again. But how can I do so with this detachment? It's always on the go, and when it's not working, it's playing in a very, very strenuous manner. Yesterday evening we had a celebration, the occasion being the first time the detachment had been together again as a unit since Jack R. and I received out appointments as officers. We had plenty to celebrate with, for during our brief stop in Rheims we uncovered another hefty German store of champagne, and loaded up as best we could. There were many toasts and songs and the party did a lot to relax the tension we'd been under for the past two weeks.

"Before I go any further, you probably want to hear more about the thing which in the long run is the most important of all the recent events, namely my graduation into the commissioned ranks. The occasion has been brewing for a long time, but I didn't want to say anything about it because there was never more than a 50/50 chance it would go through, and I didn't want to build you up for a big let-down. If it hadn't been for superb manoeuvering on the part of Jim Dorsett and Jack H. we would still be waiting, as are all the other CIC men in other detachments who are eligible for promotion. They succeeded in putting the thing through as a battlefield commission, and in that way avoided the long, tedious details of appearing before a board, and coming in under a quota, etc. But they had to color up the recommendation with all sorts of flattering statements about our action under fire on D-day, etc., etc., for this sort of appointment is more a form of decoration than a promotion (but it holds just as good as a promotion once it's gone through). Then Gen. Collins and Gen. Bradley had to sign it personally - so you see, D.B.'s commission had to stop the wheels of war for just a few seconds.

"...It wasn't until on the 3rd or 4th day in Paris that Capt. Dorsett showed up with the cable ordering me to be discharged and sworn in. I was of course snowed under by the job I had to do, but I threw it off, piled into the jeep, and for two whole days raced around the Paris neighborhood, sometimes 20 or 30 miles away, looking for the proper Hqs. to perform the ritual. It's just impossible to find anything these days, and in Paris no one knew where anyone was. But I got it done, and now it's all safely tucked away. Gosh darling, it's a relief and it does make so much difference. I can never again get knocked about as I was back in the Shenango days, and it's going to mean a lot to both of us if we have to sweat out considerably more time in the army.

"...Some more excitement has just come in: Capt. Dorsett is now Major, Jack H. is now Capt., and most the other men have received promotions ranging up to Master Sergeant. Everything seems to happen at once, and it makes the task of chronicler very difficult. I'm tickled pink about Dorsett and Heminway, for their own sake and for ours - the more rank we have in our group, the better our bargaining position.

"Well now that we've hurdled over these incidental matters, let's see if we can get on with the story. Yesterday we'd gotten as far as the gates of Paris - the Porte d'Orleans, to be exact. We had forgotten all about war, for of course we were quite intoxicated with the frenzied acclamation of the crowd. I don't know what kept us going, for there wasn't a one whose only desire wouldn't have been to jump out and disappear into the welcoming throng. It would have been so easy and so delicious! Somewhere at the city gate we lost the De Gaulle convoy, and struck out on a tack of our own. We steered down some of the beautiful wide avenues for about 15 minutes, and suddenly the gold dome of Les Invalides loomed up. It was a big thrill for me as it was the first recognizable landmark I encountered (except for some distant glimpses of the Eiffel Tower) and I remembered that some people way out on the outskirts had warned that there was still some resistance in the city, and that some of the big public buildings had been set on fire. The aspect of the city at that moment certainly belied the reports. But as we reached one of the prosperous apartment neighborhoods the shooting started. It seemed to come from everywhere and for a minute we just sat in our cars wondering whether to drive away, or jump out and find out what was going on. Most the shooting was from submachine guns in the hands of FFI men, and the attraction seemed to be a few rooftops, though no one seemed to know quite which ones. They were shooting at everything, but there seemed to be no doubt that there was something that had provoked the scuffle, for the crowd had scattered and the streets were deserted. Well I won't try to give all the details of our hunt - we got out and darted rather aimlessly about with our guns cocked - a lot of hand grenades were thrown over walls into courtyards by French FFI men, armed with captured German weapons and enlivened by wine. Then tanks came roaring by and blasted away at the face of a whole block of buildings (they were from the French 'Division Leclerc', which had been given the honor of spearheading the entry into Paris, though with considerable backup from US forces). I climbed up to the top floor of an apartment building with a couple of FFI because I didn't like just standing around below, and I saw an FFI man in the yard who had been killed by his own men's grenades. But even after we had searched every room in the building in question, nothing was found. And after about an hour the leader of our group decided we might as well go back out to the outskirts where the situation was under control. What a change of scene and temper that little episode was! In many ways it was much more trying than anything that happened D-day because we weren't psychologically set for it. But when we got back to the outskirts, and had parked the cars to wait for the men who had gone scouting for some quarters for the night, we forgot all about the shooting. The crowds overwhelmed us once more, and showered us with wine and spirits - as an old French saying goes, 'les femmes et le vin font oublier le chagrin.' I got a picture of Charlie Bulkeley being embraced by 5 girls at once, and holding a bottle in one hand. He was heard to say that he spent most his life being reprimanded for things he'd done, so he was making the most of this one chance to take credit for something he hadn't done.

"After a sumptuous meal prepared for us by the staff of a nearby restaurant with victuals out of our trailers, we spent the night at the Cite Universitaire, and in the morning set out again. This time there were no interruptions, and we reached our objective - le Petit Palais, our headquarters on the Champs Elysees. It was a beautiful day, and we soon realized that Paris had hardly a scar. The only real damage I saw was at the Grand Palais, which is pretty well burned out inside. There was a fairly stiff air raid the second night, but the principal damage was to the Halles aux Vin, which is the big wine market. Many buildings have chips in the stone from machine gun fire and rifles, and the shooting continued spasmodically for two or three days. On the second day of our arrival De Gaulle staged a big parade down the Champs Elysees and on to Notre Dame, which you may have read about - there was shooting at Notre Dame, and a lot more of it around us at the Petit Palais shortly after he went by. Of course it threw the crowds into panic, and they surged into our office and carried on most the afternoon in a true Gallic manner.

"Darn it, I just can't make this experience live in its true aspect. All the while I was in Paris there was too much pressure and dynamite in the air to be able to write, even when there were a few minutes for it - it would have been like trying to write in the midst of a New Year's celebration, or something. It wasn't all party, not by a long shot, and it was one of the most grueling ordeals I have yet to weather, in many ways. As you can imagine, there was so much important and really super duper work for us to do that you just couldn't relax for a minute and say, 'Now I'm going out to enjoy the wonders that the city is laying at my feet in this most magical and unprecedented hour.' We were nailed to our duties almost 24 hours a day, and when we did catch a few minutes of respite, it was hard to approach it with the sort of abandon that the situation really called for. There was just too much packed into those few days, and after they were over I was a wreck from having swung between my conscience, which said I should throw everything into the biggest job we had to do yet, and my instinct, which said that this was a chance in a lifetime which wasn't to be missed."

These letters don't record a few other episodes of the Paris adventure which still stand out in my mind. On the morning of our arrival at headquarters in the Petit Palais we found that Paris telephones were working. I promptly looked up the number of Philippe Berard, who had succeeded my father as head of the French Mobil Oil Company in 1930. He was home and was overwhelmed to hear my voice - his first words from an American in several years. He invited me on the spot to join him at his club, and to bring along a few of my soldier friends. I took Jack Heminway and Gus Zielasko along, and we met Philippe and another Mobil Oil colleague of Dad's, Jeff Goetz (whom I had also known in the 1920's) for a warm welcome and round of drinks. It was of course a not-to-be-forgotten occasion for all of us.

I looked up another friend of our family from days in France, Pierre Baruzzi. He carried the title of 'Conte', was a member of La Societe des Amis d'Escoffier, and as a boy I had seen him perform as the young amateur champion of France in 'French boxing'. He extended warm hospitality to me during my Paris sojourn, and in exchange I was able to scrounge a five gallon tank of gas for him. This enabled him to drive his car for the first time in many months. Most transportation in the city at that time was by bicycle - no subways or buses running. In fact, about the only motorized traffic in the city consisted of military vehicles, and this meant that our jeeps were free to roam the beautiful wide avenues and boulevards of Paris unimpeded - no traffic lights, no police, no one way streets, no taxis, no horns - it was exhilarating - so different from the last time I saw Paris.

I wrote later that the food in Paris had not lived up to its reputation. Small wonder - the population there had been near starvation in the later days of the German occupation because food supplies from Normandy and other regions on which the metropolitan area depended for sustenance had been largely cut off during the battles. But we did have an ample store of army rations \- some hauled in on the trailers attached to our jeeps and some provided by the Corps quartermaster. Our own staples were cooked up into quite tasty meals by the staff of the Hotel Montalembert, which our resourceful scouting party had requisitioned for our lodging. The Quartermaster's provisions were served up in style at the swish restaurant Le Doyen, a block up the Champs Elysees from the Petit Palais. I wish I had a picture now of us forty or fifty GI's in combat uniforms sitting on the terrace, being served army fare by waiters in full dress and white napkins on their arms!

I looked up another person who had played a large part in our family's life during our years in France - the 1930's. She was Madame Nicolas, who came to us as my brother Carl's nanny when he was born in 1924. She had raised Carl until he was six years old, and had also supervised baths and things for me and my brother Paul. I drove to the Nicolas home, and found husband Monsieur Nicolas and sons Rene and Gilbert there. But I had to hear from them the sad tale of Madame Nicolas with tears in their eyes. She had during the occupation given assistance to American and Allied service men - downed flyers, escaped prisoners, etc., and she may have had some connection with the French Resistance. At some point after the invasion she had been discovered and shipped to a German concentration camp in a railroad box car. But the deportees never reached their destination, for on the way they were all ordered out of the train and shot. This gruesome news had reached the Nicolas family only a short while before I saw them, and they were devastated. Madame Nicolas had been the one who held the family together.

Another vignette from Paris: Among the perks handed out to us as we progressed through France were cigarettes (I wonder if the Surgeon General had been consulted.) I had no use for them, so I had three or four cartons in my duffel bag, and figured they might be bartered for some sort of Parisian luxury. Not long after arrival I went perfume hunting and found my way into a large Salon de Coiffure. The first sight as I entered was of about eight ladies in a row having their hair dressed, but the remarkable thing about the scene was the young man on a stationary bicycle pumping the pedals to generate electricity for the dryers (power was strictly rationed in those days). The manager was quite willing to exchange a generous variety of perfumes for my cigarettes, although he conceded that the bargain ended up in my favor - "C'est un peu juste, mais je suis content." On a later furlough in Paris I was able to ship the perfume along with the 'faience de Quimper' which I had acquired in Mont St. Michel to Mariette. She later reported that the 'Camper China' and the perfume had arrived intact.

I can't close my memoirs of Paris without recounting one more tale - a little tale of amour in which I connived with Jim Dorsett. This is a retrospect written from Germany in October. My younger readers will have no trouble with this episode, and I also believe that other readers, including his lovely wife Anna Lee, will think no less of Jim for the experience \- he being quite unmarried at the time.

Oct. 21: "Major Jim has just come back from a quick trip to Paris. That makes two out of the five officers of the detachment - I wonder if my turn will come up soon. I think Jim has gone quite overboard for Mlle. Annie. It all started way back during our stay there, when Jim came into the city one night from the CP for a fling at whatever Paris had to offer. He spotted a very lovely thing strolling pertly along the avenue just outside the Petit Palais, and grabbed me feverishly by the arm because his French is most limited, and asked me to propose a rendezvous with her for that very evening. She was really most charming and the mission was duly accomplished; Jim blushed considerably because he wasn't used to the way things are done in Paris, and that made me just bold enough to handle the matter quite adroitly. That's all I had to do with the affair, although I saw them together for a while at a cocktail party and by that time he was sitting at her feet repeating in faultless French "Que vous etes belle". It turned out to be the great conquest of the campaign. On this trip I guess he saw quite a lot more of her, for now he's asking how we think it would work out if he brought a French wife home to Salsbury N.C. Stony assured him that his girl Della would be very proud to be able to say that she had once been the girl of the hero who brought home a French wife."

Mariette must have asked for more details on this brief encounter, for later on December 29 I supplied her with this embellishment.

Dec. 29: "I wish I had a nice glamorous tale to tell you about the irresistible advances I made to Annie for Jim, but actually it was just as I said - Jim had seen her walking by, trim and pretty as a picture, and he implores me to go with him and talk to her. So we walk past and catch up to her, and I doff my helmet and say, "Pardon, mademoiselle, j'ai quelques paroles tres urgentes a vous adresser de la part de mon ami, qui est dans la situation malheureuse de ne pas connaitre un mot de Francais. Il se trouve a Paris depuis a peine une heure, et c'est sa premiere visite, et il doit partir de bonne heure demain. Il sera desole de quitter cette belle ville en des circonstances si rares sans avoir fait la connaissance d'une des jeunes Parisiennes dont il a entendu vanter le charme et le chic jusqu'aux autres bouts du monde. Son bonheur serait sans mesure si vous eussiez la gentillesse de lui accorder un rendez-vous pour ce soir."

["Excuse me, miss, I have a few very urgent words to address to you on behalf of my friend who is in the unfortunate situation of not knowing a word of French. He's been in Paris for hardly an hour, and it's his first visit, and he has to leave early tomorrow morning. He would be most disappointed to have to leave this beautiful city in such rare circumstances without having made the acquaintance of one of the young Parisien belles about whose charm and style he has heard much praise as far as the other ends of the world. His happiness would be boundless if you would have the kindness to grant him a rendezvous this evening."]

"She smiled very sweetly, as if that's just what she expected me to say, and replied, 'Ce serait un grand plaisir.' ["This would be a great pleasure."]

(O Monsieur Badger, quel savoir faire!)

This was of course one American soldier's view of this historic drama. To flesh out my story and cast some perspective on the larger picture, I will now draw on a recently published book entitled, Paris After the Liberation, written by Artemis Cooper, grand-daughter of Duff Cooper, the first British ambassador to France after the war, and her husband Antony Beevor - both noted historians. Their chronicle includes a comprehensive and revealing account of the events leading up to the liberation, and behind-the-scenes inside the capital as our Allied forces drew near and then marched in.

From the cover jacket:

"When Allied troops fought their way into Paris on August 25, they were greeted by the wildest scenes of joy Europe had ever witnessed. The following day over a million people thronged the streets in a delirious atmosphere of freedom to watch General De Gaulle's triumphant march from the Arc de Triomphe to Notre Dame - a pivotal moment in world history."

Although the German occupiers had withdrawn from the city by the time we arrived, the scars of battle between the French resistance fighters - mostly a variety of Communist groups armed with captured guns and grenades - and the German troops armed with tanks and machine guns were all around. On the Place de la Concorde and elsewhere were a number of burned out tanks, and there was blood on some of the streets. The delirious outpouring of Parisians belied the struggle and casualties which had resulted from the premature uprising of the citizenry in the twilight days of the occupation.

There had also been tense in-fighting between the Gaullist and Communist factions of the Resistance for control of the insurrection and for political supremacy after the liberation. This internal conflict, as well as the presence in the capital of many who had collaborated with the Germans and the Petain puppet French government during the occupation, undoubtedly accounted for much of the gunfire we had encountered from the roof-tops on our procession into Paris as well as outside our Petit Palais headquarters on the Champs Elysees as we watched De Gaulle's parade march by.

Initially General Eisenhower had intended that the Allied troops should by-pass Paris - to cut off German forces before they could pull out and to avoid the destruction which an assault might produce. But word of the ferment inside the city finally came through to Allied Headquarters.

"The commander of Gross-Paris, General von Choltitz, received the formal order from Hitler's headquarters to defend Paris to the last man and turn the city into 'a pile of ruins.' Choltitz, to the lasting gratitude of its citizens, had no desire to carry it out, but needed the Allies to arrive soon so that he could surrender to regular forces. If they did not come in time, and Hitler discovered the degree of procrastination in following his instructions, he would order in the Luftwaffe.

"Finally, that evening, there was a change of heart in the Allied camp. A messenger managed to convince General Eisenhower's staff officers that failure to move on Paris immediately would lead to a terrible massacre and possibly the destruction of the city. Eisenhower, who had turned down de Gaulle's appeal two nights earlier, was now convinced. Shortly before nightfall, Leclerc received the order from General Omar Bradley to advance rapidly on Paris. The exultant yells of 'Mouvement sur Paris!' provided an electrifying charge of fierce joy.

"At dawn the following morning, Wednesday, 23 August, the Leclerc Division, in two columns following parallel routes, pushed eastward out of Normandy as fast as it could. He had over 140 kilometers to go to Rambouillet, where he would rendez-vous with De Gaulle. [did I get this right?]

"The officers of Leclerc's division found a curious collection of irregulars at Rambouillet when they arrived in the afternoon, the most colorful of whom was Ernest Hemingway. Officially, Hemingway was a war correspondent for Collier's magazine, but he was not interested in playing the professional soldier. He was surrounded by some locally recruited and heavily armed ruffians, and seemed to be making up for lost opportunities in Spain seven years before."

Here is how this 'Division Leclerc' is described by Beevor and Cooper:

"For General de Gaulle, there was only one formation that merited the honor of liberating the capital of France. This was the Deuxieme Division Blindee, the French 2nd Armored Division, always known as the 2e DB. Its commander was General Leclerc, the nom de guerre of Philippe de Hateclocque.

"Much larger than most divisions, the 2e DB was 16,000 strong, equipped with American uniforms, weapons, half-tracks and Sherman tanks. Its core consisted of men who had followed Leclerc from Chad across the Sahara to join the British Eighth Army, then won glory at the battle of Bir-Hakeim. In its ranks served regulars from the metropolitan army, including cavalrymen from Saumur, spahis, sailors without ships, North African Arabs, Senegalese and French colonials who had never before stood on the soil of France. One company, the 9th, was known as la nueve because it was full of Spanish Republicans, veterans of even harder battles. Appropriately, the battalion itself was commanded by Major Putz, the most respected of all the battalion commanders in the International Brigades.

"Leclerc's division was such an extraordinary mixture, with Gaullists, Communists, monarchists, socialists, Girardists and anarchists working closely together, that General de Gaulle formed an overoptimistic vision of how postwar France could unite under his leadership."

(From Paris After the Liberation)

As early as Aug. 20 the uprising in Paris was underway. Communist posters began to appear, inciting the populace to acts of harassment against the German garrison. The forbidden tri-color surfaced in ever-increasing numbers and snipers took aim at German convoys as they circulated through the city. Barricades were erected in the streets to impede the movement of German vehicles.

"Teams formed spontaneously from the street or neighborhood. The young and strong uprooted cobblestones, while a human chain, mostly women, passed them back to those building the barricade. The skeleton was made from a mixture of railings, iron bedsteads, a plane tree chopped down across the street, cars turned on their sides and even, in one case, a vespasienne public urinal. A tricolor was usually planted on top. Women meanwhile stitched white FFI brassards for their menfolk, usually with just the initials in black, or with patches of red and blue to make a tricolor. Paris at this time was a city of rumors. No one knew how far away the Allies were or whether German reinforcements were on their way. This created a tense atmosphere affecting both defenders and onlookers alike."

On August 24 an advance detachment of the Leclerc Division under Capt. Dronne had pushed into the heart of the city.

"Dronne, having been given carte blanche by Leclerc, and now guided by Parisian resistants who had reconnoitered the routes into the city, was able to advance rapidly via a network of back streets, avoiding all German strong points. In an hour and a half - just before half past nine - the little column of Shermans, half-tracks and jeeps reached the Place de L'Hotel de Ville. Dronne climbed out of his jeep to look around. He was seized by the exultant defenders of the Hotel de Ville and, amid cries of 'Vive la France!' and 'Vive de Gaulle!,' carried inside in triumph, to be embraced by the president of the National Council of the Resistance, Georges Bidault.

"Even before Dronne crossed the Pont d'Austerlitz to the Right Bank of the Seine, cyclists had started to spread the news of his arrival. The radio broadcast an appeal to priests to begin ringing their church bells. One group of ringers started to toll the great bell of Notre Dame. Others joined in, one after another, until soon the bells were pealing out right across the city. After four years of silence, this, for many people was the most memorable sound of the whole war. With the occasional boom of a heavy gun and the constant refrain of the 'Marseillaise,' both broadcast on the radio and sung spontaneously in the street, the Liberation of Paris started to sound like the 1812 Overture.

". . . For many people, that night was spent in excited anticipation. Women curled their hair and pressed their dresses for the next day. Most planned on wearing the tricolor in some form or other, in panels on their skirt or even on earrings. Others sewed flags out of old clothes to greet their French and American liberators the next morning.

". . . When people first sighted the olive-green Sherman tanks, half-tracks, jeeps and GMC trucks, they assumed that the soldiers in them were American. Then they saw that, instead of a white star, the vehicles were marked with the cross of Lorraine, and although some of the soldiers had American helmets, others wore kepis, black French berets, leather tank helmets and midnight-blue side caps. The old and the ill were brought out from hospitals so that they too should not miss the Liberation. Children were held aloft to see and remember the day. While the crowds waved from the pavements, young girls climbed onto vehicles to kiss their battle-stained liberators. In many cases, the columns were brought to a virtual standstill, so afraid were the drivers of crushing civilians under their tracks. In any case, the crews saw no reason to refuse kisses or the bewildering array of alcohol offered in celebration."

The next day, August 25, is marked as the official Paris Liberation Day. That was the day our CIC task force had driven into the city through the Porte D'Orleans on the tail of General de Gaulle; and we had established our headquarters in the Petit Palais on the Champs Elysees the next day, August 26. Here are some excerpts from Beevor and Cooper's description of that day's events.

"In the early afternoon, huge crowds converged on the center of Paris by foot, many coming from the outer suburbs, in some cases a distance of a dozen kilometers or more. Well over a million people gathered in the sunshine on both sides of the route from the Arc de Triomphe to Notre Dame. To obtain better views, people crowded at the windows of buildings overlooking the route and the young climbed trees or lampposts. There were even people lining the rooftops. Paris had never seen such crowds. Many carried homemade tricolors.

"At three o'clock, de Gaulle arrived at the Arc de Triomphe, where all the principal figures awaited him."

". . . Under the Arc de Triomphe, he relit the flame over the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which had been extinguished in June 1940, when the Germans marched into the city. Then, preceded by four of Leclerc's Shermans, he set off on foot down the Champs-Elysees toward the Place de la Concorde.

"Behind the official party, swelled by numerous officials who wished to establish their credentials, came a throng of FFI militia and onlookers who decided to join in, singing and embracing as they went.

"From time to time, de Gaulle raised his long arms to acknowledge the cheering, which at a distance sounded like the roar and booming of a sea crashing on rocks. 'There took place at that moment,' he wrote in his memoirs, 'one of those miracles of national conscience, one of those gestures of France herself, which occasionally, down the centuries, come to illuminate our History.'"

". . . When he reached the Place de la Concorde, de Gaulle climbed into an open car to drive the last two kilometers to Notre Dame, and shortly after, shooting broke out. To this day, nobody knows whether this was a serious assassination attempt, a provocation or simply the result of too many tense and inexperienced people with weapons.

"In the Place de la Concorde and the rue de Rivoli, the crowds threw themselves flat on the ground or sheltered behind another group of armored vehicles from Leclerc's division. Nobody knew where the shooting came from, and the result was panic. One man lifted his bicycle over his head as a shield. The fifis began firing at rooftops and windows. (This same scene occurred at the Petit Palais right after de Gaulle passed by us.)

"De Gaulle, meanwhile, affected not to hear the firing. His open car continued on down the rue de Rivoli to the Hotel de Ville, where the band of the Garde Republicaine was drawn up in review order outside. After a brief stop, he crossed the Pont d'Arcole to Notre Dame.

". . . Shooting broke out again just as de Gaulle entered Notre Dame. Outside, FFI groups began firing at the towers. The members of the Jewish platoon concentrated on the north tower. Inside, policemen and soldiers trying to protect de Gaulle aimed up into the recesses and vaulting of the cathedral. Some shots brought down chunks of masonry. Members of the congregation, who had thrown themselves flat, then tried to hide behind pillars or even under chairs. De Gaulle, disengaging himself from the melee, walked forward up the aisle toward the high altar, where the service was due to begin.

"Malcolm Muggeridge, a British intelligence officer, described the whole event. 'The effect was fantastic. The huge congregation, who had all been standing, suddenly fell flat on their faces. There was a single exception; one solitary figure, like a lonely giant. It was, of course, de Gaulle. Thenceforth, that was how I always saw him - towering and alone; the rest, prostrate.'
On into Belgium

Here ends the Paris interlude - too bad this couldn't have been the climax of my warrior adventures, and I sail for home in a blaze of glory. But as the world now knows, there were still nine months to go before it was 'over over there'. By the time we departed from the capital, VII Corps had pressed rapidly into Belgium, and we had a long way to go to catch up. The rapid advance of the US Army had outrun supplies, and we had to scrounge in depots along the way for gas and food. We reached Liege, the largest inland city of Belgium, in a couple of days. Since I was now ranked as an officer of the detachment, I was detailed with three other men and my faithful friend le Capitaine to assume command of counter-intelligence operations in that city. It was another wild episode. Our little group being the first presence of American troops in Liege, we were immediately contacted by the Belgian Resistance. They were in effective control of the city, and gave us not only a hero's welcome, but plenty of captured German gasoline and supplies. With their help I was installed in the City Hall, where I presided for three days as a sort of governor.

Sitting at the mayor's desk (he had fled), I received delegations of citizens seeking all sorts of favors and redress. Needless to say, my recollection is one of total confusion, for there wasn't much our little band could do but listen and sympathize with the hardships they had endured under the Germans. At the same time it became clear that the Resistance comrades were hard-core communists bent on taking political control of the city and the country at the first opportunity. For twenty-four hours a day a loudspeaker in the central square blared out the Internationale, the marching song of the worldwide communist party. I gave orders to have the loudspeaker turned off, but they fell on deaf ears, and it was far beyond our capability to enforce any such commands. The Resistance forces were to give our military a lot of trouble as we moved further into Belgium, and it wasn't long before higher echelons issued instructions to disarm them - forcibly if necessary.

I was glad to leave Liege - to escape the confusion and the buzz bombs which were falling sporadically on the city. You will remember that in the later days of the war the Germans had developed a pilotless plane loaded with explosives which flew low and were programmed to drop on their target when fuel ran out. They were the V-1's (Vergeltungswaffe \- weapon of revenge), which caused considerable civilian damage in London and several Belgian cities, but were of no military value whatever. They were of course the precursors of the V-2 - the rockets launched from Peenemunde in Holland before the Allies overran that site, and which rained a second blitz on London.

By late September our forces were fighting inside the German border against stiffening resistance, and most of our CIC Detachment was quartered in the Belgian city of Verviers, about twenty miles from Germany. Here Jack Heminway and I found three or four old friends whom we had known as schoolmates at the Rosey school in Switzerland - which we attended together in 1925-30. They of course overwhelmed us with their hospitality - clean sheets, meals, brandy and champagne. Among them was Marco Peltzer, whom I had known well as the star athlete at school - soccer, track, skiing and hockey - a legend of my days at the school. I enjoyed many nights in the Peltzer's guest room, and many fine meals at their table.

Our CIC operations at this point are centered in Verviers - some hard work, but some welcome relaxation while the troops probed the German defense at the border.

The good life in Verviers didn't keep me from some wistful musings in my letters home.

Oct. 3: "I've had occasion over here to see quite a lot of how other people write to each other - both through censoring mail and through scrutinizing captured documents. I've seen some pretty torrid stuff, and I've tried to picture what it would be like if I performed that way, or had done it even in the first flush of our love. Somehow all that exalted and moonstruck phraseology, though vivid and poignant in spots, strikes me as much more impersonal than the more measured and restrained fashion in which I've sought to express my love for you. But I wonder what your reaction is? I wonder if I'm taking too much for granted, or being a little too afraid of being over-romantic. I wonder if you would like to hear it said in song, with a throbbing note of spiritual and emotional imagery thrown in. That's the way they do it in France, most the time. But though it makes a very bright flame while it flickers, there's nothing solid about the light which it sheds, and to me it sounds more like the words a man would use when he intends to love a girl all night, rather than all his life. But then, the French are a bit that way (and of course I'm a bit French myself, by background). If I were a Frenchman, though, and had been married to you for two whole years, I don't think I'd mention the word love to you any more, and if I should speak even in general terms of the restlessness in my heart, you would assume (if you were a French wife) that I had found a new mistress. But darling, since we are what we are, I can tell you now that there are moments when thoughts of you overwhelm me with tenderness, and make my pulse go much, much too fast.

"Well, I must tell you a few things that are going on outside this hungry and restless spirit of mine which has been occupying all the space so far. Entertainment by local patrons still figures high on the list of activities. Jack H. and I are putting in numerous appearances at Marco Peltzer's - it's almost reached the stage where we're a little tired of the same old faces. But Marco's almost childish pleasure at having us here is most refreshing, and the warmth and atmosphere of the home is welcome, even though I wish it were my own. Today I lunched at the home of the parents of Pierre Grandjean, who was also at Le Rosey. They were the quaint conservative type, who went sort of overboard at having an American in their home and brought out a fantastic meal, with absinthe as a cocktail, 3 kinds of wine, cream puffs, and brandy. I just can't take this midday festivity, and though I enjoyed it very much, I was no good the rest of the afternoon. Gosh, we certainly are spoiled for Army men, considering the way we live now. I feel almost like a debutante as the tough season draws to a close - I'll be glad to get back to some simple camp life, provided the camp has central heating. Apart from all this, my work has consisted chiefly in receiving people who have information for us, and it's a wearying routine, because although my French appears quite flawless on the surface, it's not without effort that I spin out the long Gallic idioms which are the spice of the language. Some of my greatest satisfactions of the day come when I've managed to get off a rip snorter of a sentence, where 'le mot juste' fitted neatly into every slot provided."

On October 12 I'm still in Verviers, and in charge of things, which only seems to get me down in the dumps. "I don't seem to be managing my life very well, for now again I must write you just a short note, rattled off in my room before breakfast. The days are so hectic as soon as I get to the office - scores of people to be received, decisions to be made every minute as to the disposition of cases, and worse than anything, the constant struggle to keep the rest of the men in line and distribute the work evenly. I've relaxed a bit now because experience is teaching me I just can't run anything like this in clock like fashion, and so I just close my eyes and let things take care of themselves, and console myself with the belief that the course of the war won't be affected. But I'm still tired when 6 o'clock rolls around, and not in good shape to write you.

"Things are going awfully slow at the front, and we're fully resigned to a long winter in Germany somewhere. It's quite a let-down after the surge of hope as we rushed through France, that the war would be as good as over when we reached the German frontier. It's a good thing we didn't know it was going to be this long when we said good-bye last Sept.-Dec. I had a definite, though vague, hope then that we wouldn't be apart for more than a year, but now that year is almost completed, and though lots has happened, there still seems to be a colossal amount ahead. So sit down and make yourself at home in your surroundings, for it's no use getting restless.

"We're getting nice fall weather now, clean and crisp, and it makes me think of home more than anything - the trees turning in Conn., and the football games in New Haven."

But a little humor creeps into another letter.

Oct. 12: "Just a quick note to enclose the enclosed. The hanky was bought specially for you by Mimmione Peltzer in Brussels. It's to be exhibited, but not used, and I don't mean blow your nose. Gee, it's a good thing I have all these tidbits for my letters these days, for there's no meat to put in'em. Your folder of pictures of you and Vinnie came today, and they're very sweet and very well taken. Is that his hat, or was it borrowed from a Yale freshman?"

You will gather from the Verviers letters that those of us with Belgian connections were being hosted by the city's aristocracy. The latter term in its finest sense connotes kindness and elegance of nobility. But in Verviers, as elsewhere, the upper classes can be over-rarefied. Here is an account of family life at the Gaston Peltzers (cousins of Marco Peltzer).

"Gaston is Marco's cousin, lives next door to Marco, and we went there to dinner several times - in fact, it was to Gaston's that we were scheduled to go for X-mas. But there are a few things you don't need to tell Betty such as the fact that I personally don't have much use for either of them. Gaston takes himself very seriously, is quite snobbish, rarely smiles, and is reputed to have several mistresses. Christianne has most of the first three attributes herself, and strikes me as rather selfish. But I think the worst thing about them is that they treat children so shabbily. It would seem that the girl (15) and boy (12) have been brought up as pure household ornaments. They are totally ignored by the parents, and seem to have had it well drilled into them that they are not to interfere with the grownups' life in any manner. They silently glide in and out of the company at meal times, but are never introduced to the guests. If a guest addresses a remark to them, it's almost as if a social faux-pas had been committed, and the kids look down at their plates, scarcely daring to reply. I can't understand it, because Marco and Mimmione are just the opposite with their 5 children, who are all charming in every way, and form the shining center of the household. Yet the Marco P's get along beautifully with the Gaston P's - nope, I can't understand it. Our little Vinnie, and all the brood that follow him, are certainly going to get their share of attention and allowed their measure of self-expression - even if it means that they're going to be naughty sometimes - so there!"

Before leaving Verviers I must tell one on my good friend Al Perry. I took him along with me to some of the social events I was invited to, but Al's French was practically non-existent, and most of the discourse was in French. I was with Al one time when one of the guests told us a funny French joke. Al understood none of it, but he responded with a big grin, and the one phrase he had learned to use on any occasion: "C'est vrai?"
Into Germany and Aachen

Now begins another chapter of this chronicle. The city of Aachen (Aix-la-Chapelle, where the French king Charlemagne was crowned Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire in the year 800 AD) is just inside the Belgian-German frontier and has been captured by VII Corps troops around September 15. Corps headquarters are established in the little town of Kornelimunster, a few miles to the south. So it's in this setting that we get our first taste of being occupiers of the enemy's fatherland (Heimat). Most of the population has fled, and the comforts of electricity, running water and bed sheets have been left behind in Verviers. I and eight or ten others are housed in undamaged but modest quarters which had been a middle class home; but it wasn't until a few weeks after settling in that Mike Varenick and Charlie Schroeder managed to connect some electric wires to a jeep engine and run current to a few light bulbs in the house. Meanwhile we read, wrote, and played poker by kerosene lamps or candlelight during the long autumn evenings.

October 21: "Back in Germany after about five weeks of luscious living in Belgium. It's funny how one gets used to the routine comforts of life, such as warm water to shave, heated office, steak dinners at Oscar's (a local caterer whom we hired to cook the choice rations which were again reaching us in abundance) when I wasn't dining in the gilded homes of Verviers society. Now it's back to a more soldierly life, and long evenings by candlelight."

The prior occupants had left a hand crank phonograph and a few German records. One of these played the haunting strains of "Lilli Marlene", the nostalgic wartime song of both the German and Allied troops, Lilli Marlene:

Vor der Kaserne, vor dem grossen Tor

Stand eine laterne, und steht sie noch davor

Und alle Leuten soll'n es sehen

Wenn wir bei der Laterne stehen

Wie einst Lilli Marlene

Wie einst Lilli Marlene."

The traditional English lyrics go like this: "Underneath the lantern, by the barracks gate, Darling I remember the way you used to wait. And there 'neath that far-off lantern light I'd hold you tight We'd kiss goodnight. My Lilli' of the lamplight My own Lilli' Marlene."

I prefer my own more literal translation:

"Right before the barracks

By the great big door

Stood a glowing lantern -

still stands there as before.

The passers-by would see us both

As by the lamp we lingered close

As once, Lilli Marlene,

As then, Lilli Marlene."

The songbook from which I recaptured the words comments, "No doubt some ex-soldier boy, now gray at the temples and somewhat long of tooth, will smile wanly and take on a faraway look in his eye as he strums out this tune, thinking of the girl 'underneath the lantern by the barracks gate'."

At this stage my working language has mostly become German - which I had learned partly at le Rosey School and Andover, partly during the three months I spent in Munich in 1933 between school and college, and which I kept up with a few German courses at Yale. As one of the few in the detachment who could speak and understand the tongue I became an interrogator - not of war prisoners but of many varieties of civilians.

October 24: "It's only 9 pm, but it seems as though the evening had lasted interminably. Darkness starts at 5:30, and from then on only the faint flicker of candles show up the faces of the small group of us now holding the fort at our advanced post. But it looks like some improvement is in the offing, for electricity has been promised us in a day or so. That will make us feel a little more alive after sunset, and give us less time to think about the dismal features of army life.

". . . I'm working these days in a refugee camp to which large numbers of Germans have been evacuated. I can't tell you much about what I'm doing there, but the most unpleasant feature of it is that we're dealing with civilians - not soldiers in uniform whom we can more impersonally think of as enemies. In order to get our job done properly we have to treat them pretty tough, but I'm just no good at that. Most of these people are of course old, and the thought creeps into my mind all the time that they're just as much the victims of circumstances as about any other individual involved in the war. It's almost heresy to say such things around here now, because the army is trying to instill a healthy coldness in the men towards the whole German population. And yet it's a terrible strain, when your daily duties require that you be in constant contact with people, to maintain an artificial attitude toward them. The combat soldier might perhaps get mad when you say that, yet I don't think so - I think it's rather the Belgian and French people who would get mad. This much is certainly true: the people in general appear to be mighty glad of our arrival \- there are no glum faces, and when it comes to putting them to work, they seem to be 100% willing. And they never cease to mutter what beasts the Nazis are. Is it only for our benefit, or are they sincere? They're putting on a pretty good show if it's the latter.

". . . I must make up my bunk now, for the candle is getting dangerously low. Forgive this big empty page, but I can't fill it tonight - though my intentions were 100%, I sat for 20 minutes staring at it. I dreamt last night that you drifted into my life for a few short minutes, and laid your head on my shoulder. It was the most delicious sensation. Will you please do it again tonight, darling?"

I can remember very little of what I was quizzing those people about - only that they had to be sorted out, some trying to find their way home, many military deserters hoping to escape being put in POW camps, and some being men of other nationalities who had been conscripted for forced labor in Germany. Through much of November I'm still plying my trade at the refugee camp, and the operation there has taken on a wider dimension.

November 24: "I'm getting to be frightfully fluent in German, now that I have a full-time job interrogating them and sizing them all up at a refugee camp, the good and the bad and the indifferent. It's a mean, mean job to have to conduct your whole day on a strictly business basis with people. About the only good thing I can say about it is that this is my first individual job where I feel that I've got things organized on an efficient basis. I have working with me two of the regular CIC men of the detachment, five linguists from IPW Teams (Interrogation of Prisoners of War), and five MP's (Military Police). It's the first time, therefore, that I haven't had to contend much with the problem of having to humor men every time I want something done, for these fellows haven't sort of 'grown-up' with me on the job and are not jealous of their independence. The Colonel of our section came up today to inspect our establishment, and appeared quite satisfied. There's also a big case going on, the lurid details of which I can't confide to you, but the investigation, interrogation of which centers in our domain. The Colonel wished to interrogate some of the ladies involved in the case himself, and this had to be done through an interpreter. One of these girls had among other far more serious charges been guilty of specific intimacies with some American officers at a soiree. The colonel asked many detailed questions, and finally she asked, 'Does the Colonel think it was wrong for the officers to carry on that way?' To which he answered that this was not the matter in issue, and she then slyly asked, 'Maybe the colonel would like to have been there himself?'

"A recent letter from Carl (my brother) says that he's been doing truck convoy work - driving trucks on the Red Ball Route, which is a high speed one-way route from Cherbourg to the front. He's been to Paris three times already, but he went through only at night and hasn't been in the city any longer than one hour, during which he got lost. He says the truck driving experience is lots of fun, although his hours were irregular and sleep fitful. I can't figure out quite where he is, but he said his outfit went through Verdun a while ago. That means there's a good chance he's going to see some fighting before this is over.

". . . Charlie Bulkeley. has just been made an officer, which I'm very pleased about. From my experience with most CIC men, I have no doubt that he deserves it more than almost anyone - he's steady, and conscientious, and a good sport, and unselfish, for all of which I admire him very much. And speaking of admiring people - my esteem for Jim Dorsett continues to grow. These are very trying times for all of us, for the outlook of a quick end is bleak. He has done one hell of a lot through his patience and understanding and tact to keep us all pulling together (an influence which was sadly lacking back in Verviers). He's one of these guys who knows how to get things done by soft talk and good judgment. Certainly hope you get to meet him some day."

Nov. 11: "Since I've been censoring mail I find that some of these guys really do write in somewhat the same way they talk - one of the MP's who has been working with us has about 7 girls, and each one of them he writes to a little differently, assuring them they are still the only one, but not neglecting to let them know that they have a little competition from the girls over here."

Nov. 14: "Gosh, the reports about the state of things in Paris get worse and worse. The American troops are overrunning the place, and behaving no better than we've learned to expect - pure barbarians. The Hotel Montalembert, where we stayed, now houses a bunch of MP officers, and they're drunk every night, have broken every nice piece in the hotel, and fill the corridors with a continuous stream of foul language. The French say politely, 'We can forgive everything they do because they liberated us, but why do they do this?'"

Nov. 18: "I'm working in a city now, though we still are spending the nights at our candlelit quarters near the CP. There's still plenty to do, and we're beginning to realize that our job is assuming more and more importance - especially with respect to the long-range issues of the war. If you can, read PM newspaper of Nov. 16 or thereabouts, an article and editorial concerning issues which are now facing us. We had quite a session the other day with a Reuters correspondent (Gus Zielasko and I), and this article is the result. It deals with the kind of governmental setup which is to be established in Germany, and the problems which face MG (military government). Those problems are being thrown on our shoulders more and more, because we are so much better equipped to investigate the former activities of proposed officials - have they been Nazis, or have they shared in war guilt? And we seem to be taking a greater and greater part in the administration of justice - I had to take part in the court martial the other day of a poor devil who had been guilty of violating one of the security regulations. He had to be punished, and pretty severely, but I felt so damn sorry for him all the way through. He was just one of the small fry who had been a victim of the circumstances of war. It's easy for people at home to sit back and say, 'We've got to be ruthless with the Germans', but when you're here, they become individuals in your eyes, and you can't help considering so many of them as victims instead of culprits. There are going to be lots of heartaches as well as headaches connected with this job that's facing us.

"Well, darling, the big offensive seems to be on- we're hoping it's the last one, and that we'll be moving triumphantly before long. Right now the big guns almost knock us out of bed at night - like back at St. Lo. Hope the same breakthrough comes."

I still remember that poor little old man - Herr Adametz - who had violated the curfew to get some sustenance for his family and was sent off to jail in spite of Gus Zielasko and me pleading for leniency before the military court.

Nov. 22: "You sent me a couple of very cute snaps of Vinnie and Billy. It's just amazing how happy he always looks in these pictures - as Bert Barr describes it, he seems to be saying, 'My old man isn't here, but what the hell, I'm having a good time anyway.' That may sound unkind, but it's not really, for that's a common subject for kidding around here (other examples: 'when you get home, your son will be asking, Dad, can I borrow your razor?') Actually, Vinnie seems still to be the big favorite around here, and they seem to be genuinely interested in his development as reflected in photos - everyone asks to see the latest pictures without my having to coax at all. I really think he's growing definitely handsomer, but that angle doesn't seem to bother me at all, and I'm glad to see it doesn't bother you. . . . the snapshots of you with Vinnie (I want more please) have recently produced a gratifying amount of backhanded flattery. 'Girl like that isn't spending all her time taking care of your child', 'Like to take a chop at her', 'Nice legs'.

"...Goodness, I don't know what to make of the progress of your Ted Smythe affair (a Navy flier). I think I'll have to consult Mr. Anthony. 'Dear Mr. Anthony, my wife says she's been very busy at home with her patriotic duties to the poor Navy officers who are under such a severe strain at their California training centers. One of these men, who's very lonely, has asked her to go away with him to Los Angeles and see the stars and the night clubs. The problem is, Mr. Anthony, should she pass up the opportunity of seeing all these wonderful things just because social conventions might wag their finger? It might be awfully embarrassing if she met any of our friends there, for he's young and good looking and spends easily; but on the other hand he's very polite and very much of a gentleman, and doesn't drink or smoke - and she even finds him a little dull. Please let me know if men of the above description can ever be considered dangerous, so I can pass on to my wife your experienced advice.'

". . . I'm through working at that refugee camp, and now have charge of the interrogation center where we grill our more important victims. Sounds pretty gruesome, doesn't it? It's really not as bad as that, and the information and personal contact I get out of this is really quite fascinating. We have a beautiful setup in town (Aachen) at lunch time - amid the ruins, a most palatial establishment has been found, and with the labor of myriads of local people we've fixed it up almost like new. At lunch about a dozen women milling around in the kitchen produce a super duper meal of Army A rations - and there's wine and cigars, and it's all served in the swankest tableware. But what I like most is the good steady routine we have - and we really produce some work - that is, our department does; I get all the benefits of luxury and none of the headaches, because my work is at the prison most the day, and not at the town office, that's where the old Verviers situation begins to repeat itself - confusion, no one responsible for anything - but I don't have to worry.

"We're down to our last candle, and I don't know what we'll do next. We're going to order the burgermeister to have some kerosene here by four o'clock, . . .or else. I wonder if that will work."

Nov. 25: "At the last writing we were on our last candle, and it looked doubtful whether I'd be able to write any more for the duration of the winter. But now Mike Varlnick, our resourceful Russian, has rigged up a glorious blaze of light in our writing room; it's all done by electricity, and the power is furnished by a little jeep outside in the yard, churning away with the driver's seat empty. So you can count upon a more or less steady stream of mail from here until we run out of gas.

"Day before yesterday was Thanksgiving, and I realize now that I never sent you any greetings for the occasion. In spite of everything we still have plenty to be thankful for, and I hope you celebrated in a fashion appropriate to the sunshine and good company about you. I think that on our side, we spent the holiday in more luxurious fashion than any other soldiers in Germany - generals included. We dined at 3:30 pm, and the fare included all the trimmings from home, plus several choice wines which were not from home. It was really quite stupendous, considering the ruins which lie around the rest of this city - we had electric lights in the whole house, radios going, central heating and running water, not to mention the array of minions in the kitchen and in the pantry who served the meal up in a style fit for a wedding dinner. There was the usual amount of singing at the end, and then it was dark, and the party had to break up so that those of us who live back here at the CP (Kornelimunster) could get home. But I stayed and played bridge the rest of the evening (with quite a headache) and spent the night in the town house. But although the whole event was quite gay and comfortable, we couldn't help feeling the pall of being in Germany - the main drawback being, of course, that we just couldn't have any female company. Ah me, I guess I'm as bad as you in that respect!"

I have a few more recollections of that Thanksgiving feast. By this time our CIC detachment has expanded even more - particularly some new recruits with German background and fluency in the language. Among them were Fenton Moran and Joe Hall (aka Halberstadt). Fenton was a distinguished addition to our group - tall, dark, handsome, suave and bright. He spoke at least four languages and was reputed to have served as a high ranking diplomat in several embassies around the world. To top off the gala dinner he gave us an impeccable rendition of the 'Saga of Jenny' (who would make up her mind), from the operetta "Lady in the Dark" \- music by Kurt Weill, lyrics by Ira Gershwin.

Jenny made her mind up when she was three,

She, herself, was going to trim the Christmas tree;

Christmas Eve she lit the candles, tossed the tapers away.

Little Jenny was an orphan on Christmas day.

Poor Jenny! Bright as a penny! Her equal would be hard to find.

She lost one dad and mother, A sister and a brother, But she would make up her mind.

Jenny made her mind up when she was twelve,

That into foreign languages she would delve,

But at seventeen to Vassar it was quite a blow

That in twenty-seven languages she couldn't say no.

Poor Jenny! Bright as a penny! Her equal would be hard to find.

To Jenny I'm beholden. Her heart was big and golden,

But she would make up her mind.

Jenny made her mind up at twenty-two,

To get herself a husband was the thing to do,

She got herself all dolled up in her satins and furs,

And she got herself a husband, but he wasn't hers.

Poor Jenny! Bright as a penny! Her equal would be hard to find.

Deserved a bed of roses, But history discloses, That she would make up her mind.

Jenny made her mind up at thirty-nine, She would take a trip to the Argentine.

She was only on vacation, but the Latins agree, Jenny was the one who started the Good Neighbor policy.

Poor Jenny! Bright as a penny! Her equal would be hard to find.

Oh, passion doesn't vanish, In Portuguese or Spanish,

But she would make up her mind.

Jenny made her mind up at fifty-one, She would write her memoirs before she was done,

The very day her book was published, hist'ry relates,

There were wives who shot their husbands in some thirty-three states.

Poor Jenny! Bright as a penny! Her equal would be hard to find.

She could give cards and spadies, To many other ladies, But she would make up her mind.

Jenny made her mind up at seventy-five, That she would live to be the oldest woman alive.

But gin and rum and destiny play funny tricks

And poor Jenny kicked the bucket at seventy-six.

And Joe Hall contributed this memorable line: "Vell, Lootenant, that vas a fi'dollar dinner."

Dec. 1: "I received your forwarded wedding invites yesterday and on the envelope was written boldly 'not known at this address', meaning 8831 Olive Ave. This gave me quite a shock until I recognized that it was you who had done the forwarding. It turned out to be a practical joke of Heminway, Stollenwerck, and Dorsett, who are taking great glee in building up the fiction that you're not really in Coronado at all, but leading a double life in some seductive hideaway."

Dec. 4: "It's Sunday night, and most the boys have retired early after last night's debauchery. John Schiller is sitting quietly by the fire perusing a few of his favorite passages from the Bible, Paul Hoffman is playing a few of our locally acquired selections on the victrola, such as "Gute Nacht hat er gesagt, und ist gegangen" (Good night, he said, and then was gone") - a tender and throbbing melody sung in the Marlene Dietrich manner, but by a richer voice. And I've just been reading for about an hour out of Rebecca - remember how I started to read it back in Greenville, during the hours when my fires didn't need attention, and I couldn't get off the post to see you? It has put me in a literary frame of mind, because of the clear, crisp, and restrained language in which the story is told, and also because of the awareness it has brought back of you. I suppose you want to know how come? Well, I can't say the girl in the story is exactly like you - in the first place, she's not supposed to be pretty (although it's hard to form that illusion after seeing Joan Fontaine); and in the second place, she's a good deal more helpless around the house than you are - she ain't got your firmness. But still, there are enough points of resemblance to strike home to me. She's like you because she has such a nice normal and sane outlook on things, and she has such a charming sensitivity towards the turmoil about her.

". . . Last night we had a little bust in the 'town house'. There were four Red Cross clubmobile girls present (including Evie Beard, whom I've mentioned to you once before). We had 'Ermentrude specials' as cocktails before dinner (that's cognac, vermouth and grapefruit juice), and I'm afraid I had quite a few just because Evie accused me of having been the only one sober enough to make a speech 7 years ago at her brother Clark Beard's house party in Lexington, KY. Then we had a stylish buffet dinner with Rhine and Moselle wine, at the end of which Jack H. made a speech which lasted half an hour and said nothing. His sentiment was fine, though, because the theme of it was that just one year ago, quite a few of us had marched bravely off to war from the New York piers with a little encouragement from Red Cross girls with coffee and doughnuts and chocolate bars (Ellie Righter). I couldn't help but think again that in spite of troubles we're a good deal better off this year than last.

"Then we had some singing which was 'graand' because a couple of the girls knew some of my old Yale specialties (by the way, Al Perry and I always bring the house down with our duet of 'My cutie's due at two two two'). This time, though, Fred Waring stole my thunder by rendering 'To the Tables Down at Mory's' on the radio before I did, and it was pretty darn good. The rest of the evening was spent in various forms of fraternization. The two German girls who wait on the table (i.e. the parlor and pantry maids, not the scullery help) stayed very very late - in fact they didn't go home at all. They were given a room next to mine in the house next door, and when they came to bed at 2 am, they knocked on my door. They're quite pretty, but I didn't answer because General Eisenhower says no fraternization is permitted. (Jim Dorsett says he thinks it's a good idea for me to let you know there are stars in Germany also!)

"Are you waiting impatiently to see if I'll remember that today is your birthday? Hope so, because I've purposely tried to keep you in suspense. I also hope that by now you've received my other letter on the subject of your birthday, for as I remember it expresses fairly well what my feelings are on your turning 25. I'm as powerless to celebrate it properly this year as last, for I'm afraid it would be a little wet [???] if I said, 'Boys, tonight we are going to celebrate my wife's birthday'. But when I drank my silent toast I made it quite clear to myself that I was the luckiest man on earth to have a wife such as you, and I pledged my constant love to you, darling, during the coming year, come what may. I didn't worry much about the years after that, because then I think we'll be together - and I'll have to see how you behave."

Al Perry and I also sang that lovely song of unrequited love, Secrets:

O rose, climb up to her window,

And in through her casement reach,

And say what I may not utter

In thy beautiful silent speech.

She will shake the dew from your petals,

She will hold you close to her lips,

She will press you ever so lightly In her warm white finger tips.

And then, who can tell, she may whisper,

While the city sleeps below, I was dreaming of him when you woke me,

But rose, he must never know.

I may be giving the impression that life was always spirited in Aachen and Kornelimunster, but despondency and worry often set in, especially when incoming mail was held up. The standstill at the front was having its effect on our morale.

Dec. 7: "I must do my best to keep on writing as usual, but it gets harder and harder as the dismal mail service seems to disintegrate. I know that hearing about it will make you just as restless as I am and that it won't do any good, because you're doing your part, and putting letters in the slot. I suppose you are having the same experience, too, darling, for the X-mas rush must be holding things up both ways. I guess we're just spoiled, and we've spoiled each other. But it sure makes you seem far away, this interminable silence.

". . . I must stop, now darling, but before I close I want to tell you that I miss you terribly. It's been so long since I've heard from you that I'm beginning to imagine things and worry. But I guess I ought to know by now that there's no use in that. As long as you and Vinnie are well, and have me in your thoughts, that's all that matters."

Dec. 8: "The two and a half weeks of famine have finally come to an end, but in a manner that makes my heart a little heavy. It was a very short, curt note that I received from you yesterday, written on Thanksgiving, and I'm afraid it must have been squeezed into a very small space of free time. Darling, I'm thrilled to know that you're having such a wonderful time out there, but you mustn't let that interfere with the attention which your husband needs so badly. I know that it was just a bad break that your Thanksgiving letter (#110) should arrive before the other two which were written since the last one of Nov. 7, for it hit me at such an unfortunate time - when I was so hungry for news. But you can understand why the thing gave me a jolt - you sounded almost like a stranger to me, and very much in a hurry to get it over with. I suppose I've been spoiled up until now, though.

"I wish I had a little cheer to add to this, darling. Unfortunately the war looks pretty black - our offensive is pretty well stalled all around, and the days and weeks seem to be accumulating without anything much happening. We're beginning to make plans for X-mas now in our town house, but I sort of dread the thought of celebrating it in the bosom of VII Corps CIC - we've had so many of these old stag parties now that there's always an element of repetition to each new occasion."

Dec. 11: "This month of December is making many notches in the progress of time. There was first your birthday, which is now come and gone.

". . . Another notch chalked up was one half a year of military campaign - 3 months on the move, and 3 months sitting almost still. I thought of that when John Schiller produced a photo taken just 6 months ago at Foucarville (in the Normandy beachhead); it was a little sad to see it, because as I think back on it, it seems as if the hearts of all of us were filled with much more hope then than now. We occupied only a space of land about 10 miles long and 5 miles deep, but the outlook seemed almost more optimistic than now, when the Germans have been chased from almost all of France, and all of Belgium. Oh darling, you can't imagine how this stalemate gets on our nerves, and the gloom it brings to our thoughts of the future. This war now seems to be far more than an interlude and unpleasant adventure which has stopped our normal life for a while - it's now a colossal and never-ending thing, whose end is way out of sight."

A couple of days after this last one, three letters arrived which buoyed my saggingspirits. The reference to the Paris letter pertains to Mariette's initially cool reaction to my effusive account of the entry into Paris - for which I must have scolded her.

Dec. 13: "The drought has ended with a flood, exactly as predicted, and now I'm left to struggle with the current, with so much to write about I don't know where to start.

". . . It was wonderful the way you took up my challenge on that Paris letter. I had no intention of bringing forth such a formidable apology, for there wasn't that much for me to complain about; but such a gracious and wholehearted apology leaves you Mistress of the field, and all I can say now is that I'm pretty lucky to have such an attentive and receptive Penelope at home to read of my Odyssey. But speaking of mythology, I wonder if it's quite accurate to compare you with Ulysses' wife - for she sat home and spun while her husband fought the wars, and fended off her suitors by unspinning her day's work at night. Is that the way you've been foiling these Navy flyers when they come back to 'drop torpedoes'? And while we're on the subject of weaving and history, did you know that when William the Conqueror went over to England to fight the battle of Hastings, Queen Matilda stayed behind and wove a tapestry about 100 yards long depicting the exploits of her lord and master? The tapestry now stands in a museum at Bayeux, and I got a couple of postcards of it when I was there last June. I'll send them to you so you'll have an idea just how to start. If you did something like that for me it would be sure to please me more than anything in the world.

". . . Now comes the item of greatest importance in your latest letters - the progress of the Smythe romance. You ask me what I think about the compact he gave you, so I jump at the chance to tell you what I think about everything. Or maybe I ought to tell you first what the people here think, for way back I made the fatal error of letting slip that you were invited to go to Hollywood and 'see the stars', and this has given rise to untold raucous and baudy sentiments. I think the best way for me to tone down this gaudy reputation of yours around here is to explain that he really doesn't expect anything in return for all this attention because he just likes to be with you, and the only reason he came back from Los Angeles anyway was to drop some torpedoes. And the compact, I can explain that away by saying that you really needed it, like a coffee pot or something.

"I can't help feeling a certain kinship to him, since he admires and appreciates you, and I appreciate him for it. I can certainly afford these generous thoughts, towards him, can't I, when I feel sure that none of it affects our relationship. If it is indeed a triumph for you, then I share with you in it, my charming princess. If he gave you a gardenia and a compact out of the depths of his heart, then I say he has a good heart and deserves my thanks too.

". . . Jack Reber may have a lot of faults, but he said a very nice thing the other day, at a moment when I was receiving considerable pointed remarks about how gay things must be in Coronado, with the officers' club and the amphibians officers' club and the seafaring officers' club and the landlocked officers' club, etc. He observed that from what he knew of Mrs. Badger, she was the kind of girl who would extract every bit of pleasure out of a situation in which there were a lot of unattached and gay young officers in for a rest from the war, but who would keep matters well in hand."

The rest of this letter contains sage advice from a seasoned war veteran to his young wife about how to avoid romantic complications.

Dec. 17: "Since my last writing very little has happened, darling, except a couple of parties at our town mansion. It's very sad, but we're losing the only medium of social divertissement we've had in recent months, for the Red Cross detachment is leaving us. So we've had to have some farewell parties for the girls, and we've outdone ourselves in that department - real gin cocktails, floor shows, and as usual, first class cooking. And the nicest thing was that on both those occasions, the girls put on real dresses - such a delightful change, for all of our functions so far have been in the mode of a skiing weekend party - boots and trousers and open collars. Sure could use a little civilisation now for a night or two, and would especially enjoy dressing myself up - haven't had a tie on since last May.

". . . Recent developments on the front here have stirred some kind of hope that maybe some decisive events are in the offing. The radio this morning, that is the German radio, reports that a new offensive has been launched to clear the Allies from Germany. Maybe that's what we're waiting for - a chance to get them out into the open."

This last excerpt foreshadows the next major event - the Battle of the Bulge. We begin to get scattered intelligence reports of German troop activity at the front, as well as infiltration through our lines and parachute drops.

The last letter from Kornelimunster is written Dec. 22.

Dec. 22: "Such lousy weather as we're having - rain and fog. It wouldn't matter ordinarily, but it's just the worst weather we could possibly have during this German counter-offensive - and it makes us furious.

". . . I'm in good spirits, and may have lots to tell you in my next letter."

By this time the German offensive to the south of us has penetrated deep into the US lines, though my letter doesn't seem to know how serious the situation was.
The Battle of the Bulge

On December 23 the alert is given - pack up and head back into Belgium. We were to move within the hour, and there was a pretty scramble to load the jeeps and trailers. As we joined a long procession of vehicles - rolling eastward, we had little hint of where we were going - we knew only that the German offensive had broken through south of us and that VII corps was repositioning itself to the rear for a counter-attack at the right time.

As mentioned in the letters, the weather had been foul for many days, and when we reached the mountains of the Ardennes it was bitter cold and snow was on the ground. If I knew where we were at the time, I now remember only that it was in and among a number of small villages, some 35 miles southwest from where we had been and south of Liege. The only town I can identify is Bomal on the river Ourthe, where we were to spend several days in the course of our operations in the Ardennes with VII Corps. Later I drove further south to Houffalize and Bastogne, but these towns were within the sphere of German penetration when we took up positions to the north. (Bastogne was of course only surrounded, never captured.)

Upon our retreat into Belgium, our first lodging was a house in the center of a village, some thirty-five miles back from the German frontier. We were packed in there pretty tight, but it was as warm and as cozy as could be expected under the circumstances. The next day was Christmas Eve, and as best I can recall we just stayed put there all day, waiting for orders. The meager reports we got from headquarters told us little about where the Germans' advance had taken them, and we could only speculate and chatter about what we would do if German tanks roared in around the corner. By some miracle a Christmas package from home reached me that day - I think it was from the E.B. Badger Co (Erastus Beethoven, my Uncle Tat) - and it contained some delicacies from S.S. Pierce, which roused our appetites and our spirits. But the anxiety of those moments comes through in my Christmas Eve letter to Mariette.

Dec. 24: "I'm thinking of you this Christmas Eve, very quietly and tenderly. If this had been the kind of X-mas Eve I expected a short while ago, I think I could have written you a long and cheerful and loving letter, such as the mood of the occasion might inspire. But these are about the strangest circumstances I could have imagined to celebrate the holiday. Suddenly we've been thrown back into a state of uncertainty which we were unprepared for, and we're still in a tense frame of mind - not a bit conducive to writing quiet and personal messages.

"But at times of stress such as this, darling, what stands out most clearly in my consciousness is you - my desire to get back to you and fulfill with you all the hopes that have been born of our love. Since you are not here, I must fall back on something, and try to guide myself with faith in the Providence and in the power that has looked over us so well all through our life together. It's only when things get a little tight that one realizes the blessings one really has to be thankful for.

"I hope you and Vinnie are well and happy together tonight - and that if the season's custom brings you to church for a while, you will feel my spirit with you for a few moments. If our prayers unite in a common purpose, I think they'll be answered.

"This is short and sweet, darling - and alarming too, I suppose. But don't worry over it, because I'm not going to mail it until the situation is OK. I just wanted you to know I'm thinking of you, and that my thoughts at times like these are overwhelmingly of you. These times that try our souls are times that will be good to look back on."

We hesitated to lay ourselves down to sleep that night, but about midnight some of us retired. As we prepared for bed Jack Heminway intoned these sinister Gallic lines:

Minuit, c'est l'heure des crimes,

C'est l'heure ou l'assassin egorge sa victime;

C'est l'heure ou l'on entend ces mots:

'Anatole, passe moi le pot'"

["Tis midnight, the hour for crime.

The hour when assassins cut the victim's throat;

The hour when these dark words are heard:

'Anatole, pass me the chamber pot.'"]

Next day, Christmas, we were accorded the best present we could have hoped for. The clouds had dissipated, the sun came out, and for the first time in several days we heard the roar of our fighters and bombers overhead, seeking out the enemy columns of armor and transport. In our mind's eye we could see them swooping down and demolishing the spearheads menacing our position. The tide of battle was indeed turned that day, but this was just a beginning, and we were to shuttle from post to post for another three weeks in the Ardennes.

While we waited for orders and assignments, we could only imagine what was going on at Army, Corps and Division headquarters. In the first forty-eight hours General Collins rode back and forth by jeep between the newly established VII Corps Headquarters at Mean, the First Army Headquarters at Chaudfontaine near Liege, and the headquarters of the new Divisions which had just been placed under VII Corps command - at Marche, Celles, Werbomont and Hotton. He must have covered over 200 miles with mud on the roads, snow on the ground and a cold wind blowing into the open car. Our Corps had also been placed under the command of British General Bernard Montgomery (famed for his victory over German General Erwin Rommel's Afrikorps at El Alamein in North Africa) who was then in command of the British forces attacking through Holland. By Christmas Day General Collins and his newly reconstituted Corps of four Divisions were poised for a counterattack against the northern flank of the German bulge into Belgium.

The regrouping and changes in command made for some confusion in the interpretation of orders. Gen. Collins seemed to have been given the go-ahead from Gen. Montgomery to proceed with the attack. In his autobiography, Lightning Joe recounts:

Dec. 24: "I called Harmon (Commander of the 2nd Armored Division) at once and directed him to attack as planned. This he did on Christmas morning with devastating success, resulting over the next two days in destruction of the bulk of the 2nd Panzers. In contrast with Christmas Eve, we relaxed Christmas evening with a fine turkey dinner, with bachelor Willie Palmer, under heavy coaching from our married staff, carving the turkey."

But Montgomery hesitated several days in allowing VII Corps to follow up. In Lightning Joe's words:

"During the next week, while Ridgway and I fretted at Montgomery's delay in launching the counterattack of the VII Corps, Monty came every other day to my CP, where Matt Ridgway would join us for a review of the situation. More than once I told Monty that I should be positioned farther east opposite St. Vith and that a counterattack near the point of the German salient would force the enemy out of the Bulge - as he had done at the Falaise pocket - rather than cutting off escape near its base. Ridgway agreed. Monty's contention was that the northern front had not yet been stabilized, a requisite under traditional tactical concepts before a counterattack should be launched. Monty was still fearful that the Sixth Panzer Army might break through the First Army's northern front. I insisted that the situation was totally different from that at the opening of the German counteroffensive when the inexperienced 99th and 106th Divisions and the worn-out 28th and 4th Divisions had been struck by five armored and twelve infantry divisions.

"'Nobody is going to break such top-flight divisions as the 1st, 2nd and 30th Infantry Divisions or the 82nd Airborne or the 3rd Armored Divisions,' I said.

"But Monty replied in a non sequitur: 'Joe, you can't supply a corps over a single road,' referring to the highway from Liege to St. Vith. At that I countered - I will admit in disrespectful exasperation 'Well, Monty, maybe you British can't but we can.'

"As always happens in such cases, the umpire, Monty, won that argument. But there were no hard feelings.

". . . Montgomery finally decided on December 31, with Hodges' concurrence, to direct the VII Corps on Houffalize, and the XVIIth on St. Vith, but we were not to jump off until January 3. In compliance with this decision Hodges called in Kean, Thorson, Ridgway, and me to make final plans for the offensive. The VII Corps, to consist of the 75th, 83rd, and 84th Infantry Divisions and the 2nd and 3rd Armored Divisions, with twelve corps artillery battalions and other supporting troops, totaling close to 100,000 men, was to attack east of the Ourthe River toward Houffalize."

It was not until Dec. 31 that Montgomery approved a plan submitted by Gen. Collins and Gen. Hodges (commander of the US First Army) to attack towards Houffalize, assisted of course by the fighter-bombers of Gen. Pete Quesada's Ninth Air force.

All this while the VII Corps CIC was rather out of touch with the Corps command, as we were no longer following into the mop up area of an army moving forward. Thus we were left largely to our own devices while we hunted for lodging and creature comforts. The second letter from the Ardennes finds us ensconced at Madame Rousseau's, which I recall as one of the more pleasant of our various sojourns in the Bulge.

Dec. 28: "I'm sitting at a table where there are three loud games of solitaire (sounds anomalous, doesn't it?) in progress. I keep looking up to observe the developments in the most absorbing of the games, and it takes a sharp 'Get back to your letter!' from Al Perry to get me into the groove again. Well, those are tough conditions, but they're as nothing compared to those of the last week or so - as reflected in the enclosed note of X-mas eve which also started out to be a long one, but which I found just couldn't go beyond the first page."

The farmhouse had a piano, and as we assembled there at dinner time the first evening we were startled to find John Schiller onthe stool pounding out a Viennese waltz loud and clear. He bowed to loud applause, and then pulled out the roll from the player piano. Jan. 3 "In your latest letter you mention the German counter-offensive, which gives an even greater sense of rapidity, as it seems such a short time to us since the thing started. I know you must have been worrying, and that my failure to write for a while won't help matters any. By the time you get this, however, you'll know that the crisis is over; we all feel fairly confident now that the threat is past, and that we can forget the bad days we spent at the beginning of this new phase of the war. The question now is, how much profit can we draw from the failure of the German gamble? Strangely enough -

Now it's Jan. 4, 1945 for I was interrupted at the beginning of the unfinished sentence by the coming of cocktail hour - I was called upon to mix an 'Ermentrude' with orange crystals, some strong and bad Holland gin, and a dash of Picon. So that sentence beginning with 'strangely enough' will have to remain forever an ephemeral riddle; too bad, too, for it promised all sorts of intriguing possibilities, which have now forsaken me - might have been a startling flight of poetry, or a prophetic vision of the war's future. Anyway, we drank the Ermentrudes, then sat down to a last cozy meal in Mme. Rousseau's farmhouse. After that, the village music teacher came in to give a recital on the piano. He hadn't had much practice in the last 4 years, though, and it soon developed into a singing party, with each one rendering one or two numbers - mine were all in French, one of which was the 16th century poet Ronsard's 'Sonnet Pour Helene

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir,

A la chandelle, Assisse aupres du feu, devidant et filant,

Direz, chantant mes vers, et vous emerveillant,

Ronsard me celebrait du temps que j'etais belle

Lors vous n'aurez servante, oyant telle nouvelle,

Deja sous le labeur a demi sommeillant,

Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s'aille reveillant

Berissant votre nom de louange immortelle.

[When you have turned quite old, at eve by candlelight

Seated by the fire, and spinning your yarn

In wonder will you say, as you sing out my verse

Ronsard exalted me in days when I was fair

No servant then of yours, on hearing this glad news

Already half asleep neath the stress of her toils

Shall at sound of my name not wake from her slumber

And bless your own name with immortal praise.]

"Another guest was a young Belgian bride of 4 weeks who had lived with her husband only 6 days - then he'd gone off to the wars with the American army, and she hasn't seen him since, or heard. But he's not so badly off, nor is she - for he'll probably be back soon, and get leaves and things. In that respect the British have a break too; their rations and their comforts of life over here can't compare with ours, but they're getting regular furloughs at home, and I agree with you darling - it would be worth it to have even a few days, and then go off again.

"New Year's Eve wasn't particularly gay for us, although we were in far better spirits than X-mas Eve, of course. Major Jim was anxious to have me accompany him to the rear echelon of Corps for a party with the Red Cross girls. But I wasn't very keen, for many reasons - they're set up in prison cells there, for one thing, and to me the prospect of Mme. Rousseau's warm parlor was far more attractive; then Connie Bruns, my favorite, was away, and I knew that I'd be fixed up to squire the roommate of Jim's girl - a short, squat athletic girl with glasses, but a good sport. Unfortunately the cozy party at Mme. Rousseau's didn't materialize, for we got ensconced at the CP and sat in the tiny CIC office, about 10 of us, drinking whisky and gin until midnight, then went home to bed."

It's interesting to note that this letter of Jan. 3 expresses confidence that the 'threat is past,' yet the above-quoted excerpt from Gen. Collins' autobiography indicates that the counter-offensive did not begin until that day.

The next letter is from a new location.

Jan. 7: "In a little while I'm going to have to go make some Ermentrudes to celebrate Gus Zielasko's commission, which he just heard about tonight. But that gives me a little time before supper, which we're planning to have down in the kitchen of our new home - which will also be a farewell meal. That's VII Corps for you, always on the move if there's any moving to be done.

"I can't remember whether I've told you anything about the new location - my last letter was from here but it seems to me I told you only about our farewell soiree at the widow's farmhouse. Now we're all together in a big house- the kind that once had lots of style, but now is half valuables, such as paintings, and half junk. But there's hot running water and a bath tub and the people are just as nice as everywhere we've been. The big drawback at first was that we hadn't much coal available, and what we had didn't burn right in the stoves that prevail around here - so we all huddled around in one room, and it was again the story of the moths clustering around the light. It made concentration difficult, and there are bound to be moments in a well-regulated day when concentration is required. But that problem was solved the other day when Gus and I and 'Joe the Joe', our Polish man of all trades, went back to Aachen with a couple of trailers behind our jeeps and loaded up with some fine briquettes which can be found there in so many abandoned cellars. It was a pretty long trip, but now we have several stoves blazing, and had a very fine time besides. Our old haunt there is now occupied by another unit - our beautiful house of luxury in which we lived in such style. We appealed to some of our old friends of the Red Cross, who are now not far away in Holland, and besides getting us a spot to sleep, they threw a party for us. I had picked up a round package from you before leaving, and so I decided to open it up and contribute to the party. It turned out to be the most delicious box of salted nuts I've ever tasted, darling - a lovely present - but the gathering was large and I had to be magnanimous and make the contribution complete, i.e., give it to the house. But it was a very much appreciated present (must have cost a fortune, too). We came back through Verviers and saw Charlie Bulkeley, who has been there all through the crisis - they spent some pretty uncomfortable days too, for right at the beginning you may remember that the full weight of the German offensive seemed to be aimed at reaching Liege via Spa and Verviers. I also had a bath at Mme. Pelzers' - Marco is away with the army, but the rest of the family stood fast.

"Today we woke up to find about 8 inches of snow on the ground and it was decided to call a halt to most of our activities for a while. So Steve Neville and I harnessed up some skis (also found in the cellars of Aachen) and went for a little sport in the Ardennes. Wonderful fun, and invigorating. I need a lot more of that, for I'm getting practically nothing in the exercise line. What's needed most of all is a two-week furlough in Switzerland - with you."

Jan. 10: "I'm pretty late in getting started tonight, and I guess the only reason is the effect which today's cold sharp air has had on me. I was out in a jeep from 10 until 5 roaming the Ardennes, and the temperature remained at about an even 10 degrees. I was dressed good and warm, though, for most the woollies from home have arrived - I had on the long scarf, which I can wrap once around my neck and then once around my waist, and a pair of nice heavy socks, and the 'man from Mars' knitted helmet, and a pair of combat pants which are something like a high altitude flyer's, with zippers all over, and overshoes (alas, not fleece-lined). Well with all this and a fair amount of sunshine which helped to break the illusion of bitter cold, I got through the day, but when I got back to the warm fire this evening, the drowsiness of a relaxed warrior fresh from battle with the elements struck me, and I'm only just now beginning to recover - and wake up.

"Since the Stars & Stripes yesterday released the news that the VII Corps is now fighting north of the bulge, I can give you a little more details of our whereabouts. I was down today in the area which has been retaken from the Germans, and which will probably be the area into which we will be moving before long. It's like the worst areas back in Normandy, no roofs, no windows, and dead cattle all over. It wasn't so bad back in the days of the schoolhouse at Graignes, where we could clear the debris from any old ramshackle building and make a home out of it, and the most that could come in through the windows was mosquitoes. But now we're going to have to keep the cold out too, and that isn't going to be easy. It'll be a sad day when we have to leave our present comfortable quarters."

The area described as 'retaken from the Germans' was around Houffalize and Bastogne, which had been overrun in the early days of the enemy offensive (Bastogne, we remember, was surrounded but never captured).

Jan. 12: "Our front is still progressing, but not as fast as we had hoped - there was another big snowstorm the other night and now the tanks and infantry are faced with big drifts, giving the enemy a chance to extricate himself and try again somewhere else. But at least the danger is over for the moment. As I look back on the grim days just before X-mas, it's hard now to recall just why we were so jittery - I guess it was the complete uncertainty of a situation in which the enemy has the initiative, and wondering whether you would be encircled before you had a chance to get out. But now that it's over we have gained a certain amount of confidence which will make it easier to take if it ever happens again - and I think that goes for the whole of the First Army; the men will know just when and where they can stand, and what to expect in case they withdraw."

This letter gives some idea of the obstacles encountered by our troops in breaking the back of the German forces. This is how it looked from Gen. Collins' perspective as the VII Corps counter-attack took off on Jan. 3:

"Snow and thick fog that swirled through the treetops on the morning of the 3rd prevented air support and coated the narrow, steep roads with ice, making them hazardous for tanks, even those with rubber treads. It was bitterly cold, freezing not only the ground but the hands and ears of advancing troops. For the next fortnight snow piled up in drifts several feet deep, concealing mine fields and tank obstacles. Weather and the rough terrain of the Ardennes offered more resistance initially than the lightly held enemy outposts, but as the weather worsened on January 7 and continued foul, the infantry accompanying and following the tankers had to bear more of the fighting. We found, as the panzers did before us (and as Patton's armor did south of Bastogne), that the Ardennes was 'lousy' tank country, particularly in freezing weather. Our corps artillery, especially the 8-inch howitzers, remarkably accurate weapons, did much to pinch-hit for our fighter-bombers. One day I watched a task force of the 2nd Armored, which was forced to attack frontally through a village on a narrow ridge, the steep, icy slopes preventing any flanking maneuver. German infantry with Panerfausts, effective bazooka-type antitank weapons, were holed up in the basements of the houses. It was only after observers methodically sent 88-inch howitzer shells with delayed fuses crashing through the roofs of these houses to the basements, one house at a time, that our tanks were able to advance."

In the next letter of Jan. 16, I tell Mariette that I have received her welcome packages:

Jan. 16: "I've tabulated some answers to your questions - I think that some of these have been answered already but I'm so intimidated by the big black letters demanding answers that I'll risk a repeat. 1. Re: packages - I think I've now received everything except the briefcase and fountain pen, and name bracelet, and the mysterious surprise which you had so much trouble sending because I hadn't asked for it. In other words, I have 2 prs. of flannel pajamas, 4 prs. woolly socks, some fur-lined gloves, a wool knit scarf, a tan sweater, a wool helmet, a pair of flannel underwear, some khaki handkerchiefs, and considerable quantities of food (especially that lovely box of nuts which I had to give away). As for the sleeping bag, you probably know by now that it's on it's way from Abercrombie, complete with rubber cover. It's not for sleeping outdoors that I need it, but for ease in moving and for precaution against the possibility of having to sleep out later on - one never knows these days, now that we're on the move again. And when, as now, we have nothing but cold bare rooms to set our folding cots up in, it's pretty nice to have a ready made mattress and covers to plunk down on it."

I don't know what I would have done on those cold January days without this extra equipment.

Jan. 18: "Last Sunday I did some more skiing - this time it was really nifty. Sat. night we'd had quite a little party here, with a few of the local Red Cross girls, among whom was one Helen Stockdale who played the piano like a dream - and the next morning no one got up very early except me and Steve Neville, so we thought we'd reward ourselves by taking a couple of hours out to exercise. It was perfect conditions, cold, sunny, and lovely snow, and I felt almost indefatigable, climbing the hill over and over again. It's funny, I haven't had any exercise in months, yet I seem to be in pretty fair shape. After that a hot bath and two bottles of beer, and I felt almost like a Navy man on shore duty must feel (!!) [a reference to Mariette's gallivanting with the Navy in Coronado.) But then on Monday I was called down to duty at the CP, and had a couple of days of living in the rough - no windows, and much hardship and destruction. It was the first interesting work of the present campaign, though, because I was working out the plan of operation for the area with the Civil Affairs detachment, and none of them knew any French - so it was possible to prod them into a bit of action to take care of some of the urgent problems of that unhappy area (from which the Germans had pulled out during their retreat).

"Then yesterday I got a chance to go up to Verviers for a little relaxation. It seems that the two Red Cross girls Gus Zielasko and I visited up in Holland a while back (Connie Bruns and Helen Bolling) were anxious to make a visit there on their day off if we would come and show them around. We decided that would be a good idea, and met them for supper at Oscar's. Oscar has been living in the cellar ever since the German offensive started, and neglecting his restaurant, so it took quite a bit of persuading to get him to cook for us. But he came through, and it was all very successful - Charlie Bulkeley furnished us with some veal chops and bread. We also found the Byrons' house almost empty, all the family except one son being in Brussels, so we had some fine accommodations. It really meant something to the girls to have a little luxury for a change, for they've been living as rugged a life as many of the soldiers - no running water, cots, and candlelight.

"I guess you'd like to know a little about Connie, seeing as how I've had 3 or 4 dates with her in the past couple of months. The best way of describing her to you, darling, is to say that she's the ideal form of female companionship for me to have under present circumstances. That is to say, the following: She's not good looking, she's cheerful, she's got a nice comfortable sense of humor, she's not exciting, she's the kind who waves to all the boys and makes good small talk - and she's a perfect lady. I think she likes me because I know some of the songs she likes to sing and because I gave her that big box of nuts you sent me (I did that by mistake).

"Tomorrow I go back into the land of cold and broken windows - and half of the day's activities will be getting protection against the elements - nursing stoves, getting coal, finding substitutes for broken glass, looking for lamps. I don't mind that kind of life for a while, when there's just no way out of it. But what I dread is that we might follow right along for weeks in the path of this German retreat, and after a while I'm afraid living conditions will affect our morale. Still, we've had pretty good luck in the past, and I guess we'll manage somehow to keep content."

Jan. 21: "We've reached the point in our career where we're beginning to speculate on the prospects of a little vacation - not a real one which would take us home or anything like that, but 3 or 4 days off, and a chance to go somewhere for a fling, like Paris. The emergency seems to be behind us, and there appears to beno doubt that the enemy is withdrawing his troops, and is not in a position to threaten us right now - especially with the Russian offensive on. There's talk in the Stars & Stripes and elsewhere of sending men in small doses for a rest to the Riviera, and some higher ranking officers to London. In fact, there may be a chance for me to get in a trip to Paris as early as day after tomorrow - I'm keeping my fingers crossed. All this speculation, however, makes me think longingly of what it would be like if I were going to meet you for an occasion like that. I can't right now imagine anything more exciting than an expedition to the Riviera with you and a few choice companions like Jim Dorsett and Stoney as a background for when we wanted company. Quite apart from the joy of being with you, it would be such fun to show you off to some of the others and tie my life here and with you together. But now I've got to push those day dreams out of my mind, and be practical about my plans, in case this Paris thing comes through. For one thing, I think I'll have an orgy at the theater, for as I've always told you, there ain't nothing to compare with a good performance on the French stage. Then I guess I'll have no excuse for not sending on that perfume this time, and a few extra presents from the frog stores will have to be produced - if there's anything left.

"Right now I'm down in no-man's-land where some of the heavy fighting took place. But we've managed to get ourselves fixed up in a little house which has one good room with a couple of windows and a good stove in it, so the problem of the evening is taken care of - especially as there are only four of us beside Jim and Stoney, who stay at the CP most of the time. I've also found a mattress to lay my bedding roll on, so the cold doesn't come up and hit me from underneath. The bedding roll which Mother sent me from Abercrombie's has arrived - but unfortunately it was a sleeping bag which I wanted, the kind that has quilted covers built into it. It was my fault for not specifying more exactly what I wanted - in the army there's a technical difference between a sleeping bag and a bedding roll which isn't always clear to the civilian. However, don't say anything about it, and above all don't take any steps to amend the error because it will be spring by the time it reaches me, and then I won't need it."

Jan. 23: "The last two days have begun to bring the payoff of this slow bitter campaign we've been fighting to reduce the salient; there's been good weather and the pressure we've been exerting has finally forced the enemy to put his transport and armor on the road in daylight - and the planes have been going to town on it. Yesterday was the most successful day for them since D-Day, and there's every reason to believe today was too. That means they're beginning to pay for their venture as we've been hoping they'd have to. Finally, the news from the Pacific looks good.

"Yesterday I was all set to go to Paris today for 3 days, but the schedule was changed at the last minute, and now I'm to go on the 26th. I'm actually very pleased with the shift, because that way I go with Gus Zielasko, and otherwise would have had to go with officers I don't know. He's a pretty wild man, though - wonder if I'll get in trouble.

"I'm sending you one of my VII Corps patches \- don't know whether you'll find it in good taste to wear it on anything, but it's something to keep as a souvenir, anyway. We've had a long battle about these patches, and finally won. Since CIC detachments are only attached to their unit, not assigned (a technicality which has merely administrative implications), we are by regulation not entitled to wear the patch. But the G-2 carried the matter to Lightning Joe himself, and the latter ruled that the technicality should be waived in our special case. I think they're quite handsome, and are something we are definitely proud of wearing.

"There's only one fly in my ointment right now. Last week Jim Dorsett recommended me for promotion to 1st Lieutenant, but the G-2 returned the papers with the curt comment 'Not now.' Jim is mad because this is a mere whim of the Colonel's \- he hardly knows who I am, and the nature of my work is such that it never comes directly before his eyes. He is therefore acting quite arbitrarily in refusing to accept the recommendation of my commanding officer, and offering no reason for his action. However, that's not the first time that such things have happened in the army - and we unfortunately have one of these regular army bosses who secretly doesn't want to see anyone promoted because it diminishes his own relative importance. But I'm hopeful that it's just a matter of patience.

"The fire is low, and my feets is beginning to get cold - so you see, it must really be cold. We entertained the old lady who turned her house over to us tonight, and her 4 giggling nieces - Gosh, I feel guilty about them, for they're all living in a cellar while we occupy their home. But if we didn't, somebody else would, c'est la guerre. Anyway, we gave them champagne, and will leave them some eats when we leave, which will please them very much."

This letter of Jan. 23 for all practical purposes marks the end of the Battle of the Bulge. General Collins closes his account of the battle in this way:

(Collins' autobiography, pp. 294, 297) "The weather cleared temporarily on January 14 on the front of the 2nd Armored, permitting fighter-bomber support to the armor and the 84th Division. Despite some intense fighting, the 2nd Armored entered Houffalize the following day, and on January 17 the Third Army's 11th Armored Division reached the southern exits of the town, ending the disruption of communications between the First and Third Armies created by Hitler's counteroffensive.

". . . While some fighting, chiefly by the Third Army of the southern shoulder of the Bulge, continued until January 28, the Battle of the Bulge was over."

". . . Worse than the great losses in men and material sustained by the Germans was the blow to the morale of the Nazi military and political machine. The German will to win ended with The Bulge. The net result of Hitler's gamble was assurance of Allied victory and the shortening of the war by at least six months."

But I conclude this chapter with some aftermath of the engagement in Belgium:

Feb. 1: "I think I last left you back at the furthest point of our southern advance, where all the windows were broken and the roofs caved in. Right after that last letter we moved north again, our mission having been completed (i.e., we left the field a little battered but with the situation under control again). Jim D and I and Gus Z. decided to have a bit of a party during the moving period. We had reserved some rooms at a small hotel in a nice resort near Verviers and had invited some Red Cross girls (a new crop this time) to share an evening of entertainment. As a matter of fact, the girls in question had been spending a three-day furlough at this place, and had highly recommended the spot. But on the day of our fateful visit there, the paratroopers had also moved in for some R&R, and we found our hotel all but smothered with them. We knew that this boded no good, for these paratroopers are the most untamed breed of man ever produced by the civilized world. It wasn't long before our party was broken up by two of them, stinking drunk, foul mouthed, and with their hearts set on breaking up anything pleasant that might be in their way, or fighting about it. The rest of the evening was just a nightmare, for we were powerless to do anything about them. It wouldn't have been hard to knock them out in their condition, but then we figured we'd have to deal with countless other wild men whose spirits might have been angered by any harm to one of their number. This wretched performance lasted until about 2 am - when we decided to compromise and let one of the guys stay in one of our rooms and sleep it off. And then the next morning my nice overcoat was gone, and this guy was drunk again, and all the paratroop officers refusing to do anything about it on the excuse that this was battle exhaustion!"

In retrospect, this indictment of our combat men is regrettably unkind, and I include it here only because it reflects my momentary reaction to what was then a real ordeal for us. From the relative comfort of farmhouses and jeep journeys behind the lines, I had only a vague idea of what the fighting men had been going through at the front. At the end of this chapter I have included a stark perspective on what went on in the front lines at the start of the battle.

Right after the paratroopers episode the Paris furlough materialized, but Paris was not like it was when we had gone in the previous August.

Feb. 1: "The next day [after the paratrooper episode], we finished our moving, and I made my preparations for the forthcoming trip to Paris. It started under an evil star, and I almost yielded my place to someone else. But the old 'bird-in-hand' philosophy persuaded me, and I departed the next morning with Gus Zielasko and a couple of command car loads of other officers from corps - all very dull. Since the whole business was organized on a strict GI basis, we had to take a prescribed route, and spend the night in army billets at St. Quentin. We reached Paris about noon the next day, and our 72 hours then began running. Well, from then on there's only one way to describe those hours - cold. We were assigned to a first class hotel (Hotel du Louvre), but there wasn't a piece of coal to be had, no hot water, no heat except in bed. And everywhere the same thing. The cafes are closed because of no heat and because the gov't has forbidden dancing (don't want too much gaiety and frivolity in the capital while the war is still on and the French prisoners have not returned); most the restaurants are closed for lack of food; the theatres are open, but when Gus and I went to the Comedie Francaise, we shivered with our coats on and could see our breath right in the orchestra. Such conditions aren't conducive to gaiety, and of course it was a far cry from the Paris of the pictures I've sent you. We tried all one afternoon to establish some female contacts for a soiree, but the only ones we knew of were down with the grippe. I phoned Jacqueline Porel, a girl I had known years back, after having located her through the Odeon theatre, where she had become a fairly well-known stage performer, but found she was in bed with a cold, and besides was shortly expecting a third child. Philippe Berard, whom we lunched with, told me that a Mrs. Jourdain, widow of the former Vacuum Oil Co. manager in Spain, wanted to see me and also had a charming daughter. So I called her, found only the daughter in, and explained to her that I was Dan Badger and wouldn't she like to go out with us. She sounded a little startled, and said she couldn't but that her mother would be in later and would be glad to talk to me. Well, it turned out she thought I was Dad - but I guess it's just as well, for she's only 16.

"The last two evenings and nights, we spent with Pierre and Simone Baruzzi, some old friends of the family (in the 1930's Pierre had hosted me on the first trip to Paris). They turned handsprings at our arrival, and before we knew it they were organizing for a party. But about a dozen phone calls proved that the only party possible was right in their parlor (where they had a little wood-burning stove). They also roped in a Russian girl who was quite attractive, and we gabbed away far into the night.

". . . The final evening was spent with Pierre and Simone and the Russian girl at the Ritz, where we did get some food, and heat. But it still wasn't what you'd call gay." Feb. 5 "I just picked up the Dec. 18 issue of Life, and see that John Hersey's book, A Bell for Adano , has been turned into a Broadway hit. He was a year ahead of me at Yale, and it makes me very wistful to think of the success he's had - it's the kind of success I envy more than any in the world, for I guess I've inherited the French reverence for literary accomplishment, and it's an ideal of achievement which I'll always have a hankering for, whether or not anything ever comes of it. But at least one thing can be said for that - it's never too late, and I haven't yet abandoned the idea of taking a crack at the literary laurels."

At about this time I am picked by the corps Judge Advocate General to serve as prosecutor on various court martials.

Feb. 5: "I've just had a new job assigned to me - that of trial judge advocate in a couple of court martial trials. That means I'm the prosecuting attorney, and have to organize most the trials. The cases are not very complicated - one AWOL case, and one automobile accident, but it will be fun, and I've enjoyed the change which preparing the cases has afforded me."

Feb. 11: "It's very late - I've just been listening to the midnight news, or what little we can get of any news on the radio these days (it's disgraceful, but there's not a single English-speaking station that we can depend on here to get news, and the Germans have every air-wave filled with their own stuff, which comes in clear as crystal).

". . . I'm alone in the office at the CP, but the whole evening has been devoured in preparation for my two court martial trials, which come up tomorrow, and which of course involve a lot more work at the last minute than I anticipated." The next excerpt from this letter needs explanation. By this time Mariette had asked me how come I'm standing on a jeep marked 'Chouky' in bold white letters in a picture of me surrounded by waving Parisians."

Feb. 11: "You also ask how Chonky got her name. Well, I don't know whether it will please you or not, but I had nothing to do with naming her. It was the jeep assigned to Charlie Schroeder, but in a shuffle up just before going in to Paris it was assigned to me because Maj. Dorsett was using mine (it being in the best shape). Chas named it after a girl (married) he met in Lassay on the way to Paris, who caught his fancy (and I can't say she wasn't quite charming, in spite of the poor pictures of her - there's one I sent you of her, about to crack a bottle over the car). However, since I drove Chouky into Paris, where it created its biggest impression and got its picture taken most often, I'm sending same to Vinny because it's still the most appropriate souvenir. Darling, I would name mine the 'Mariette' in a minute if I were with ordinary GI's - but that would be too pose for our outfit - it's a little like your wearing the VII Corps patch I sent you, I think it would be a little corny."

I will close this chapter with another view of this famous Battle of the Bulge - a stark contrast to the comparative comfort of farmhouses and jeep riding behind the lines which I enjoyed. Here is how my friend Peter Thomas, then a 19-year-old private in the First Infantry Division (now the mellifluous voice of radio and television narrations) tells the story.

"Fifty years later I remember most of all the thousands of American GIs lying dead in the snow in grotesque frozen forms. My heart wept for them then - and still does. I remember the snow, the bitter wind, the coldest winter in Europe for a quarter of a century. I remember olive drab uniforms against stark white snow - easy targets. I remember the German uniforms - white.

"I remember that the Battle of the Bulge began on Dec. 16, 1944, as three German armies attacked out of the fog of snow of the Ardennes region of Belgium and Luxembourg along a 50-mile front. I remember it was a complete surprise and didn't end until the first week of February, 1945, with our casualties at 81,000, nine times more than on D-Day.

"I remember how cold we were: how our feet were swollen and our hands numb. We could never get warm. I remember the bedlam, the confusion, the terror. I remember shell-shocked GIs wandering, not knowing where they were, trying to join up with any American outfit - theirs had been wiped out.

"I remember a soldier who walked through the snow to my post. 'Where is the 16th Regiment?' he asked. Before I could answer, an American jeep turned the corner and the soldier suddenly walked away across the snow-covered field. Later he was brought back as a prisoner: He was a German soldier dressed in an American uniform. He was considered a spy and sentenced to death with three others. They requested that German nurses from a nearby hospital sing Christmas carols to them the night before their execution. I remember hearing the beautiful voices singing 'Stille Nacht' in German. The next morning the prisoners were tied to wooden posts and shot by a firing squad.

"I remember Sgt. Stamborske, wounded on D-Day and sent to England to recover. He was told he could go home. He said no, he wanted to go back to his outfit. He arrived back the first day of the Battle of the Bulge. That big, bear-like brave man died the second day of the Battle of the Bulge.

"I remember trucks with American soldiers arriving: clerks, cooks (never trained for combat) taken out to a field and instructed how to shoot an M-1 rifle, then sent into combat. My heart wept for them. We knew they would never come back.

"I remember the bravery, the spirit of the American GI: He just went on, kept going, doing his job.

"I remember the rage when word came back that American prisoners were gunned down in a field about 10 miles away in a village called Malmedy. Word spread quickly through all our outfits. Who did it? It was an S.S. Panzer division.

"I remember Christmas Day when the skies cleared and supplies came parachuting down. The bombers came from England. P-47 fighters roared over the tree lines and ridges - they were everywhere, strafing everything.

"I remember standing in that blown-out room, with its contents scattered, photographs covered with snow, pictures of a family with a little boy and girl. A teddy bear and broken doll were on the floor. I wondered where the family was and felt sorry for them and hoped they weren't dead.

"Up on that deserted top floor, I remember having a sudden irritation in my right legging. I leaned over to loosen it just as a shell hit. Where I had been standing was a gaping hole with the sky looking in. Had I been standing I would have been decapitated. I was taken to a field hospital to get the pieces of shrapnel out - just little pieces. The big piece never got me.

"I took my Bible out of my shirt pocket. (The little book was covered with the dirt and grime of Normandy, northern France, Belgium). I prayed.

"Fifty years later I remember it all. I still feel anger at the abysmal failure of intelligence people who were given many warnings of the German buildup and ignored them. After the monumental effort we had made from D-Day on, I feel we were let down.

"But above all, I feel such pride, such respect for the American soldiers who turned back superior and tough forces. If the Germans had reached Antwerp and gotten our fuel supplies and materiel, if they had divided our front, the war could have gone on for much longer."

On to Cologne and the Rhine

The gloom of some earlier letters now changes to a kind of soldier boy rapture in the next one. I think it is written from Stolberg, a town just east of Aachen which apparently had not been much changed as the Germans retreated.

Feb. 14: "I'm sitting in real luxury tonight - bright electric light throughout a house furnished with solid and costly furniture, central heating, running water, and plenty of people to wait on us. Wonder if you can guess where? Nope, can't give you any more hints. Gosh, I certainly have had it soft in this war - and in the light of present circumstances, I doubt whether I could have picked myself a better berth, no matter what choice I had - except for one big unforgettable factor, that of remaining with you. But leaving that aside, I don't really see what kind of a job I'd be better off in than I am now. Take Bill's job (Mariette's brother-in-law Bill Hubbard, who was a Naval port security officer at the Coronado, Calif. Naval base), for instance: it carries prestige, and leisure, and rank, and glitter; but I know without talking to Bill that his job is 9/10 show, and an empty form of endeavor for anyone who really wants to participate in world events. Perhaps I wouldn't have said that before I reached the continent, but now I have the conviction that the most important developments of the world are taking place right here, and I think my job now offers me a superb opportunity to be in on them, which in many respects is more stimulating than to be in a position where my actions directly affect the course of events. Well, that's a pretty involved statement, isn't it, and I guess I'll have to explain it further. Suppose I had been commissioned in the Navy - I might now be in command of a small ship, or let's say, an intelligence officer on a large ship or at a base. Then I'd have either a position of relative importance, or a job of fairly narrow specialization, which might sound good on paper, but which wouldn't necessarily produce the equivalent personal satisfaction of what I have now, and what I have every reason to anticipate in the near future. I know that if I had not participated in the European campaign, I would have had undying regrets the rest of my life, because I would always have known that it was there I belonged at this time - I speak the languages, and am vitally interested in this part of the world through background and education. It's hard for me to put my finger on any specific achievement which has affected the march of events (as could a commander, or even a soldier, in the field). But I have seen at first hand a great deal of what was going on, and have combined some of the celebrated chapters of the war, such as the landing in Normandy and the liberation of Paris, with more prosaic, yet memorable, episodes in the heart of the countries, and cities, and people of Europe. As a member of the army, I have shared to the fullest every advantage which that position offers - respect and admiration and hospitality from liberated peoples, awe and obedience from conquered peoples, the best food in the world (gosh, I was realizing the other day that since being in the army I have consistently had far better food than I ever had at college), the best equipment, and all this with the fewest possible drawbacks which the position entails, because I was spared the regimentation \- for 9/10 of our work is outside the confines of the army, in the civilian life of the people, and we have always operated as a self-sufficient independent unit, with our own billets, our own transportation, and our own hours. Do you wonder, darling, if I say that there is nowhere else in the armed forces that I would have found all this? Suppose, again, that I had gone into the air force. I might have become a captain by now, and I would be able to recount many hair-raising experiences, perhaps, and I'd get a lot of thrills from flying in the clouds on daring missions. But what would all that add up to? I've seen a lot of aviators - they're nice guys, but they live in a little world of their own, sort of like a bunch of college kids in a fraternity house. They have a nice, easy life when they're not flying, but they look bored and uninterested in anything going on around them - it's just a life of acute physical thrills and anxieties, but more or less complete mental and spiritual stagnation.

"The same comparisons can be made with other branches of the army at our own corps level. We think that we're at about the right level of operations, here at Corps, because we are not subject to the stagnation and inefficiency which characterizes rear areas, such as in Paris, London, Brussels, etc., and at the same time we're not too far behind the front but what we are often only a few days behind the first troops, and the novelty freshens the experience. It was that way in Aachen, for instance - the infantry took it, and we moved in a few days later, and established ourselves, and started out from scratch, and by the time we left, we naturally had grown to feel that Aachen was 'our town'. Well even at Corps level, very few of the men, in fact none, get a chance like that to move into a town. They belong at HQ's, and they are confined there to their very small domain. Last night I went to a party at HQ's where there were many Corps officers up to the rank of Colonel - and from the way they talked and acted, I could tell that my existence and work was more varied and interesting than any of theirs.

"All I've said so far has, of course, not mentioned the most important factor of all - that by doing CIC work at Corps level I am spared the untold hardship and dreariness of the foot soldier at the front. That's one phase of army life which I have no more than an occasional glimpse of, and that never under battle conditions - I guess D-Day was the only day I could really say I was 'at the front', and it's the only day I've slept without a roof over my head. That, without question, is my greatest good fortune of the war, for one must always think of what might have happened. I don't say that the life of the field soldier may not have moments of glory and that the soul may not achieve deep satisfaction through pride in one's actions. But the main thing is this: whatever momentary hardship or exaltation may exist in that life, it is not the kind which will best prepare you for life in the peace-time to come. If any army work can prepare you for that, I think mine does.

"As you know, our work looks far beyond the end of the war. In one way, that's why it's interesting, because it's not just destructive. As far as we can see now, a great share of the responsibility for extinguishing Nazism, and for preventing the resurgence of German militarism, may fall on CIC - for we have the job of finding the war criminals, and the guilty leaders of the Nazi movement, and the people who will go underground to plot the reorganization of a new German movement similar to the one that has failed. Our function is inevitably tied up with all the aims which have just been announced at the Crimean Conference (where Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin met to decide the future of Germany and Europe when the war was over). I don't say we can do much, but I don't see what other army organization will do it - and it will be an army matter for a long time. You mustn't let all this scare you, my dearest one - for of course my first thought and wish is to be with you, and resume my life at your side. But I also want you to know that I am as happy as I can be with you away - and even if I have to stay over here, we may be able to live together happily. If my picture of the future is true, I will at least by an important cog in the wheel here - and that can't harm you, or us."

Feb. 15: "But first I'll tell you about the activity which has been occupying most of my time during the past 5 or 6 days - my duties as Trial Judge Advocate on the Court Martial. As I've told you, the cases being tried were not very complicated, but the whole thing had the taste of novelty to me, and actually it was more interesting legal work than a large part of what I did during my year of law practice in N.Y. The reason was that almost everything was in my hands, and that's always fun if it goes off well. My job was essentially that of prosecutor, but I also had to stage the whole trial - even produce the American flag, which was hard to find. I won both cases, though that in itself doesn't mean much, as proceedings are not usually brought in court martial unless the facts are pretty clearly against the accused."

The offenses for which enlisted men were being tried consisted mostly of 'fraternization' and various AWOL escapades. Although the court proceedings provided me opportunity for a new experience, I can't say that my heart was wholly in it. Fraternization could be as innocuous as sitting on a bench with a German girl, and I couldn't help sympathizing with the GI who took a little vacation from the boredom or hardship of his life in the field.

A week later I expound again about how well army life in the CIC suits me, and I bemoan the fact that my friend Al Perry has been snatched away for other duty.

Feb. 21: "I wrote you the other day about my good fortune in being in the CIC, and this was brought home again by what happened to Al Perry. He's a nice comfortable guy with a good sense of humor, and soldiering is the last thing in the world he wants to do. He hesitated a long while before accepting his commission, feeling it might prejudice his chances for getting home. Then almost as soon as he'd accepted it, the G-2 pulled him out of the CIC Det. and put him into the G-2 office, where he answers the phone and puts pins on maps 12 hours a day. He fought hard to get out, but the G-2 wants to keep him. When the showdown battle came with the G-2, Al argued that he wanted to stay in CIC because he felt it was the only branch of the army which would be important after the war. The colonel, an old army man, expressed astonishment at this conclusion, and explained to Al that there was no future for him in CIC because he couldn't rise any higher than major! That cut the argument short, and Alpie is still in G-2. But the incident reminds me again how lucky I am to be where I am, and though knowledge of French and German may be a handicap in many ways, it should at least spare me Alpie's fate."

All this time VII Corps headquarters has remained stationary, held up by the raging Roer River beyond Aachen and the nests of German machine guns in the Hurtgen forest. But by Feb. 25 the engineers and the infantry have managed to put pontoon bridges across the river, German resistance has been broken, and we are ready to move again. General Collins gives this account of the difficulties in getting our forces across the Roer River:

"On February 9 the enemy destroyed the discharge valves on the dams, turning the upper reaches of the normally placid Roer into a raging torrent and flooding areas downstream to a mile in width. Simpson (Commanding General of the U.S. Ninth Army to the North of our First Army) had postponed his attack until February 23, a day before the reservoirs were calculated to run dry, hoping thereby to gain some surprise.

"The VII Corps, now consisting of the 104th and the 8th Infantry Divisions, and the 3rd Armored, was to attack across the Roer in conjunction with the XIX Corps on its left, seize Duren, and protect the right flank of the Ninth Army on the drive to the Rhine. The two infantry divisions abreast, 8th Division on the right, led off the attack at 3:30 am, February 23, astride the Aachen- Duren -Cologne autobahn. The Germans had blown the Roer bridge at Duren and the current was so swift that the initial crossings had to be made in assault boats. In the 8th Division zone south and upstream from Duren, where the stream was a vicious torrent, the boats were to have been powered by motors, but in the cold dampness few of the motors would start and the men had to paddle or row across. A few boats managed to get across but others capsized or were swamped. Fortunately the Germans were surprised and offered little resistance to the 3rd Battalion of the 28th Infantry Regiment. But as soon as the crossings were discovered, the enemy opened up with prearranged artillery fires which, after daylight, were joined with direct machine-gun fire from the high banks beyond the river and from the open upstream flank. The only feasible way to cross in the 13th Infantry zone was by ferries. Despite heroic efforts by corps and division engineers to keep the ferries operating, all were shot away by noon. Heavy counter-battery fire and fighter-bomber support could not blast out the concealed and dug-in enemy artillery mortars, and machine guns. They prevented any successful bridge construction in the 8th Division zone until after dark, when a vehicular bridge was built across the concrete piers of the autobahn bridge at Duren. But it was not until the night of February 25 that the southern half of Duren was cleared.

"The 104th Division, farther downstream where the current was not as swift, had better luck. Initial waves of the two leading regiments got across the Roer with little opposition, but as soon as daylight came enemy artillery fire made bridge-building almost impossible. Just north of Duren, in spite of heavy shelling, the engineers had almost completed a light pontoon bridge by early afternoon, when a single hidden artillery piece got the range and destroyed much of the bridge with direct hits. At other bridge sites construction could not even start until after dark, and except for the one bridge at the autobahn site, no bridge was open to traffic until the twenty-fifth. The engineers of the VII Corps, under the personal direction of Colonel Mason Young, finally succeeded in constructing nine bridges for the 8th and 104th Divisions, but took 154 casualties in doing so."

Feb. 25: "Now that the great offensive has opened, we of course spend much of our time wondering where and when we go next. We've been awakened at night several times now with the noise of battle, but it sounds awful good, and it buoys up our spirits to know that things are moving again. As I've told you before, we're mighty comfortable here where we've been sitting for the last 3 weeks, and getting to work back in Germany has been a tonic - there's always plenty to do. But this thing has been in the air for a long time, and the postponements due to the flooded river have seemed interminable." March 2 "This is written from deeper inside enemy territory, and the way things look now we don't expect to stay here long. I hope that prediction holds true, for this area is ruined and lifeless, and one's frame of mind is inevitably dependent upon the physical surroundings. By now we at least have the bare essentials of living in shape - a couple of stoves going, a bit of glass in the windows, and some wire strung for the lights. As officer in charge of this particular town I have myself a fairly comfortable office, which however isn't really mine until about now, or 10:30, because it's the only warm room, and we're again living somewhat on the moth principle. We've been so spoiled recently on living conditions that we find ourselves being upset by little things such as lack of water - back in Normandy that happened quite frequently, but we took it in our stride then. By now, though, we are so tired of war and battling privation of one kind or another that we don't take to the adjustments as cheerfully.

". . . Some good news has just come in. You may now address me as 1st Lieutenant. I've known the promotion was in the air for the last couple of weeks, but didn't want to say anything about it until it was cinched. I guess I'd told you about the trouble Jack R. and I have been having with the G-2 Colonel over this matter, with Jim D. trying to get us promoted ever since Christmas. We finally cooked up an argument that prevailed on the old man to give in - for he's an old army man who can't forget that he spent 8 years as a 2nd Lt. Fortunately he also has an aversion to foreigners and to the chosen race. What's happening now is that lots of heterogeneous army personnel, fluent German speakers, and therefore mostly recent refugees from Germany, are being drafted into the CIC back in the States, many of them being commissioned, and sent over here to be incorporated into the detachments which will be here for occupation. We demonstrated that if he wouldn't sanction the promotion, it would just mean that at the war's end we'd find ourselves taking orders from a lot of foreigners who don't know what it's all about. He didn't like that idea, so he gave in."

Then a few days later he called us in and said, "I want you to know I'm very pleased about your promotion, and consider that you fully deserve it." Nothing like a little encouragement to boost the morale.

At this point I indulge in some remarks about Vinny, now one year old.

March 4: "I have your most recent pictures of V. before me, and continue to be reverently impressed with your photography - and with my son. He certainly is an adorable young man, with loads of character in his face. I can easily see what you mean when you say he stands out in a crowd of his ilk, and he looks for the life of him as though he'd be a most interesting person to sit down and converse with. It can't be, can it, that he is actually walking? That picture of you holding his hand looks like you're about to go off for a walk, both of you. This is also the first full view I've had of his magnificent denture. Does he suck his fingers? I hope not, for it will save us lots dough on teeth straightening later on \- just as Dad for we all had to have it done. Did you know that I used to have a receding bite, and that I slept a whole year with a plate in my mouth? I didn't like it but Dad told me it was the only way I'd get a wife. As for your picture-taking, darling, it really is superb."

By March 4 we are making our way towards the Rhine. This part of Germany, called the Rhineland, had been demilitarized under the terms of the Peace Treaties of Versailles and Locarno after World War I; but in 1936 Hitler marched his troops and tanks over the Rhine to the borders of Belgium, Luxembourg and France in violation of the Treaty. The Allies - France and England, chose to do nothing about it, so Hitler's Wehrmacht remained poised on those borders until it attacked France and Belgium from there in June 1940.

March 4: "Tomorrow we're on the move once more, and we're feeling like nomads again. Very unsatisfactory, this continuous wanderlust, for it means that we barely get settled in our jobs when we have to drop it and take up a new one. Of course it also means that we are getting nearer and nearer to the heart of Germany - the First Army has reached the Rhine tonight, and I should be gazing upon it ere long. But the question in my mind is, how much dash have we got left to cross it? I'd like to see something bold attempted, something like the one two three blows they're landing in the Pacific, yet I have a premonition of drawn-out, cautious sparring before a new stroke is dealt. That's an awfully big river to cross, and I'm afraid the Germans have devised all sorts of nasty ways to make our crossing difficult. Ted Smythe seems to feel that there's a chance of collapse of the home front - but we don't feel that any more here. If it was coming, it would have come way back in August and September. I know from talking to hundreds of Germans that though most of them would like to quit, the one single thing that they are guided by in this time of disorganization is how best to save themselves and family; and they are convinced that they run less risk by letting the war run its course, and letting the Allies come in and 'free' them, than they do in revolting. In fact, I haven't spoken to a single German who had ever considered such an alternative - to them it would just mean wholesale butchery."

VII Corps completed the capture of Cologne on March 7 and by March 12 our CIC Detachment has established itself in a four-story apartment building - all repaired and rendered quite habitable by a large work force of German civilians conscripted for the job. From there, we look across to the east bank of the Rhine where German troops still stand guard. VII Corps headquarters are located several miles to the west, and I am in charge of the detachment and all operations in this fourth largest city of Germany. By now our complement has grown to a somewhat heterogeneous number of about 30 - a most unwieldy number for this young lieutenant to cope with in a war-torn city of dazed and anguished citizens. It was a big challenge, and a heavy responsibility.

Our arrival in Cologne is described in a later letter after we had moved on across the Rhine.

Apr. 6: "We arrived in the city the day it fell - in fact, we had to stay on the outskirts the first night because the center was still being cleared. It was very noisy because a lot of our big guns were set up in the back yards of buildings around us and occasionally there would be a reply from the other side of the river. But on the whole we were very fortunate, and received nowhere near as much shelling as we expected - in fact we didn't have to take to the cellar once. We chose a big modern apartment house just inside the inner city, which had many advantages: 1) It was one of the four or five remaining structures in the city proper which remained inhabitable, although we had 15 men working 4 days on it to get windows and stoves in. 2) It was of reinforced concrete with 5 floors, and we felt fairly safe from average size shells up to the 3rd floor. 3) It had an underground garage where we could park our fleet of 17 jeeps (some of them belonging to the reinforcement team from 12th Army Group which operated with us plus 4 or 5 civilian cars which we picked up and serviced to supplement our transportation.) We now have a Ford V-8, a Lincoln Zephyr convertible sedan, and another limousine equipped with public address system, so that we come close to having a car for every man/except that we picked up a couple of Italian mechanics in Cologne, Giuseppe and Mario, who accompany us now to keep us mechanically mobile. That's important now, for we make 60-mile jumps at a time - we've travelled about 180 miles since leaving the big city, and we've by no means stopped yet.

"Cologne is all but destroyed, although the cathedral has scarcely been touched. But in spite of it all, there were close to 100,000 civilians living there when we arrived, so we had our hands full. Another unusual thing was that we were almost in full view of the Germans on the other side - down on the river front you could peek around the corner of a building and look right at them (although you couldn't actually see them because they were as careful to conceal themselves as we were.)"

March 12: "You can see from my rather confused narrative, that I'm under the kind of strain which requires every ounce of my energy to deal with, and by this time I'm pretty dead tired. It's nothing to be alarmed about, for it's not danger or military uncertainty such as we had down in the bulge; and when it's over, I'll be none the worse for the experience. But while it lasts, I just can't relax as I should to be myself with my sweet wife. Okay, now you want to know what all this is about, maybe. Well, for one thing, I now have about 30 men operating under my direction, almost half of whom don't have any idea how to do the job. That in itself wouldn't be so bad if it were a job that had some semblance of routine or stability to it. But this one is a perpetual parade of improvisations and change of plans, for in the midst of rapidly changing situations in war time, there's no such thing as following a prearranged schedule. It seems almost (to me of course) as if all the problems of this hot corner of the earth found their way into my office, and into my bedroom at night and into my seat at the dining table. One minute I'm talking German to a bunch of Krauts, another minute I'm making sweeping statements to correspondents (today there were 3 from the N.Y. Times), and another I'm sifting the reports of the others working on the job. Yup, it's certainly a big job, bigger certainly than any other I've ever had, and bigger possibly than any other I'll ever face again. It's a rather terrifying thing to pose the question of just what I'm responsible for, because it's so much. Later on, when the war is won and I can tell all, I'll try to expand a little on that. I hope, though, that at least you can guess where I am - you only need to take a map and keep going in a straight line."

Four days later the pressure is still on.

March 16 : "I now have about 40 men under my charge. It's not like having a disciplined crew of plain soldiers, with a definite and tangible job to do; every one of these men is a problem in himself, because each one thinks he's good enough to be the boss, and has his own idea about how a job should be done. They have to be humored sometimes, and prodded and even bawled out, and when that's done all intricacies of a situation have to be studied, and big far-reaching plans made, and continual supervision maintained to see that they are being carried out. It also happens that we are working in a sort of focal point towards which the eyes and ears of all higher headquarters converge, and when they come, we have to put on a good show; and let them think we're doing the job according to the way in which they visualize it - we've got to make it look smooth, even though it may be plenty rough under the surface.

". . . Perhaps I can sum it all up by saying that I'm making a supreme effort to carry out a big job by setting a pattern and a coordination of energy - an attempt to prevent the kind of thing that happened in Verviers when things seemed to go to pieces. In order to do this, I have to be ready to receive and absorb the individual reports of over a dozen teams and individuals, so that I can't even sit down to a meal without having to talk business; I even have to go so far as to get people up in the morning so the day can get started right. So far it's hard to tell whether this is paying off in results or not - for no one can even know just how much might have been accomplished anyway if everyone and everything had been allowed to run its own course. But over and above all this, it certainly is true that our activities here have come closer to the story book setting than anything so far. Each day we have done and seen things which would make good thrillers.

". . . I dreamt of you and Vinnie last night \- I was meeting V. for the first time, and he was already speaking in English and French; I asked him which language he preferred, and he said he really preferred Latin, because that was the root of all languages. So then I remember feeling quite abashed, and saying to myself that I'd really have to be on my toes."

March. 20: "I haven't told you much about our set-up here - the big establishment which I now preside over. We have taken over one of the few apartment houses that remains standing in the heart of town, all five floors of it. (We house over 30 men). It took 15 men about 5 days to put it in living and working condition - they had to install windows, unplug the plumbing, install stoves, move furniture, install a lighting system, and clear a 20-car underground garage. That, for the most part, has now been done. We have the office section with large private offices for both Gus Z. and myself, a reception office, an interrogation room, and a waiting room. Then there is a dining room for 30, a couple of lounges, and bedroom space for everyone and for visiting guests when they come (which is often). As a permanent staff (by the way, all this work has been done by civilian labor, not our own) we have 3 cooks, 2 men for carrying water from the cellar pump (no running water in the city) and building fires, etc., 2 cleaning women, and 3 mechanics in the garage to work on cars and generator. Most of the mechanics' work has been to recondition 4 spiffy civilian cars (two of them convertible sedans with leather seats) which have been 'requisitioned' and added to the detachment's fleet of jeeps. So you see, this is quite and establishment - and it has all the flourish to delight your soul.

"It may sound grandiose, but when you consider the job we're doing, it's not more than we need. If anyone ever asks you who was in charge of counter-intelligence operations in this city, you know what to answer, and don't think we haven't got a lot of curious visitors coming around to get the low down. I've told you already that the straight work we've done here comes closer to the story book than anything so far, and just by letting little hints fall here and there to the curious throng, we have built up a most dramatic impression. We may sometimes suggest a little more than has actually happened, but for all our hints there is sound basis in fact, and we have certainly achieved an enviable reputation. Of course, as I've said before, this job is so colossal that no one can hope to do more than a bit of it, and we spend as much time correcting mistakes as we do getting results. And with such a large staff - most of our own detachment plus 12 others, the thing is unwieldy, and you can understand the strain it's been to keep it all in motion at once. I never realized it before, but when you're the boss, it seems as though everyone gets just so far with his job, and then comes to you to tell you all about it, and puts the decision on any matter which is debatable up to you. By supper time my head is swimming with the problems that have come up during the day, and as soon as supper is through, I know that I've got to settle down with some of the boys and decide on the next day's program. Under these circumstances, there's no way of telling whether things have been done right or wrong, and the feeling of success or failure can switch from one moment to another. But right now, within myself, I think a reasonably good job has been done, given the complexity and the handicaps we work under.

"I don't want to give the impression of being again totally devoid of female company, for just last night we had our first party here, with 4 Red Cross girls. Connie wasn't there, for she's off in another area and I ain't seen her in months. But it was quite gay, with all the finest wines of the Rhineland. That's partly why I'm so tired tonight."

Among the journalists who came to our establishment for news of what's happening in Cologne was Gladwyn Hill of the New York Times. He was a year ahead of me at Andover - editor of the school newspaper, The Phillipian. It was something of a challenge to give a coherent story for Gladdy and the New York Times, for I had only a splintered idea myself of what was going on. Nevertheless, I think we went away feeling that he had come to the best source for his dispatches from Cologne.

One of the more dramatic incidents of our stay was the apprehension of a German who had come across from the enemy side of the Rhine at night in a rubber boat (he had actually been caught by the Military Police and turned over to us, rubber boat and all). We had of course been on the lookout for spies, and this promised to be a live one. I turned the interrogation over to Fenton Moran (the polished linguist and diplomat who sang "Jenny Was a Lady" at our Aachen Thanksgiving party). I don't remember what the results of the interrogation were, but I do have this recollection:

We kept him under guard upstairs (assisted by two MP's), but the next morning he was found in a pool of blood in a bathtub, having somehow slashed his wrists. He was shipped off to a field hospital for intensive care by Alan Alda. That's the last I heard of him.

A possible area of enemy infiltration was a large refugee camp on the outskirts of the city. Freddy Meyer, one of the very young German auslanders recruited by the US army for counterintelligence duty in Germany, volunteered to shed his uniform and mingle with the refugees for a few days. He came back with some interesting tales of life in the camp, but no tips on subversive activity there. I was particularly pleased, however, to have one of our men offer himself for this risky assignment, and I gave him a well-deserved commendation.

Cologne was another devastated city. Our bombers and our artillery had leveled the majority of the buildings, and the civilian population was just groping to survive. But the structure of the great cathedral - das Dom - was untouched except for a nick in the north tower. This was indeed miraculous, as the cathedral was surrounded by gutted ruins.

Early in the occupation the Signal Corps had strung telephone lines from the city to VII Corps headquarters some 20 miles southwest - one of them a direct line from my office. I was then able to keep in touch regularly with Jim Dorsett and others in the command post. It was over this wire that the news came through that the Remagen bridge over the Rhine further south had been left undemolished by the retreating Germans and had been crossed by our troops. All other Rhine bridges had been blown up, but somehow this one (actually a railroad bridge) had not been demolished, and our troops were able to cross it and establish a bridgehead on the other side. This stroke of fortune caused great jubilation in our quarters, for we had anticipated considerable delay in passing beyond this great river, much has we had been held up at the Roer River. But it would be a couple of more weeks before this break could be fully exploited, and pontoon bridges were in place to carry the masses of men and equipment over for the final assault.

In the March 20 letter I mention a party in our establishment. Among the perks of our luxurious town house was a piano, and there was music far into the night. One of the Red Cross girls could really pound the keys, and had us singing lustily, including "O my name is McNamara, I'm the leader of the band."

On March 25 we're still in Cologne, but life has quieted down a bit.

March 25: "I now have a bed lamp by my beauty rest, and can for the first time in a long while retire at a nice early hour with some hope that I won't be routed out at any minute to receive visiting firemen. For with the shift of emphasis to other sectors with all the new Rhine crossings, the curious sightseers have other tours to make, and at least the evenings and nights are left pretty much to ourselves.

". . .We are now definitely out of the tactical picture here, whereas when we first arrived the guns were thundering all day and all night, and the shells from the other side were whistling and crunching all around.

". . . In tonight's Stars & Stripes, below the big headlines about crossing the Rhine, there is an article about the forthcoming publication of the rules for discharge - and I know that every one here paid more attention to that than any other news. It mentions again all the factors which should help me to make the grade - length of service, overseas service, campaign participated in (I'm now entitled to three stars on my ribbon - Battle of Normandy, Battle of France, Battle of Germany), number of dependents."

March 28: "The bridgehead across the Rhine is almost continuous now (except right here, where we can still look across the river and see enemy territory plain as day, so close that one feels it wouldn't be hard to thrown a stone across), and the radio reports that our armies are driving deep inside thinly held territory on the other side.

". . . It looks lke we won't be here much longer, and I can't say I'm sorry, although it's been a considerable experience."

March 29: "The situation is beginning to resemble that in which we found ourselves in Paris last September. We are here unraveling the problems of a big city, while our CP forges far far beyond us. Now we have to catch up to them, and it won't be too easy.

". . .The radio tonight says the First Army has gone 100 miles beyond the Rhine, and the Russians have reached the Austrian border. Darling, it just can't last much longer. We no longer expect that there will be any such thing as a formal surrender, or any day which will be identifiable as the day of victory. In fact, when the history books are written, it may be that today or tomorrow will be considered the day when resistance ceased for all practical purposes, thus meaning the end of the war with Germany. We expect that there will be spots, many of them, where the enemy will continue to hold out, such as is now occurring at Lorient, St. Nazaire and other ports. But we've always known there would be fanatical resistance in Germany long after hostilities ceased, and the mopping up, though dangerous and difficult, is certainly not to be considered as war in the sense we've known it so far.

". . . You paid me a great compliment in your last letter - you said you thought I'd be fascinating. Darling, I don't want to discourage you, but I really haven't changed any in that respect since I left you - I still have my good moments and my bad. I'm afraid I write better than I talk, so don't build up an exaggerated idea of your husband in your own mind (it's not so bad if you build him up to others) - it might make me shy and self-conscious when I come back to you."

So ends the adventure in Cologne - now on to the finale.
On to Leipzig and Victory in Europe

By Easter Day - April 1 \- we have thrust into Germany well beyond the Rhine, having driven our jeeps and newly acquired limousines over the Big River on a pontoon bridge near Bonn. The map tells that the course of the VII Corps drive towards Leipzig ran through many sizable cities - Siegen, Marburg, Lippstadt, Paderborn, Nordhausen, and Halle. In several of those centers we posted ourselves for CIC work, but never remained in one place more than a couple of days. Now I can identify only two or three of those towns, although I have a mind picture of some of the German homes we requisitioned for our lodging and our work. My first letter after Cologne tells of unfriendly civilians.

April 1: "Though the military situation continues good, we have progressed into a part of Germany where we suddenly realize that the pride and arrogance and fanaticism of the inhabitants which caused the war has not vanished at all. For the first time now it dawns on us that the military victory won't mean anything if the warped minds of those people can't be purged of the thought of revenge and domination. Now it seems as if the magic of peace has no appeal to them - they are not happy unless they are ruling or fighting. They haven't suffered from the war here yet, and they think blindly of the glory which their ascendancy brought them. They are now passive, but sullen, and seem quite unaware of the fact that there will not be a sudden turn of events which will bring them back where they were before."

As we press deeper into Germany, we become more and more concerned about the overwhelming problems of upheaval in this country as the war nears its end - the sad plight of the displaced persons as they flee from their enforced servitude and look for somewhere to go, and the frustration and floundering of our Military Government men to cope with it all. April 7 "Since being over here I've taken part in so many of the things that newspapers write about that I've learned now to believe not more than 50% of what's printed in newspapers. Most the news and views that we get in that form has gone through so many ears and mouths when it reaches us that by the time it gets printed, it's only at best a rough approximation of the truth. What the reporter sends to his editor is only rarely a story of what he's seen himself; the rest of the time it's an account of what somebody else has told him, and I think that in the army more than anywhere else there's a tendency to tell a story that looks good rather than one that is factual. I'm thinking particularly of what you might read about the work that military government has performed. The correspondent doesn't have time to really find out for himself, so he goes and asks the MG officer - and it's the easiest thing in the world for the latter to paint a rosy picture. In fact, it's only human, and we do the same thing, only we can't allow the details of our activities to be printed. Actually, MG is now and always has been the greatest failure of the war. They have one of the biggest jobs in the world to do, and only 1 man in 10 has the ability or desire to give it the energy which it requires. The rest are just plain terrified by the magnitude of the difficulties they encounter, and hide their heads like ostriches instead of facing them. Right now they are being faced with a colossal problem, that of the displaced person in Germany.

"As we progress we uncover thousands (and it may already be millions) of French, Belgians, Dutch, Poles & Russians, who were either German prisoners of war or forced laborers. You see them all along the road in large and small groups, all in tatters and hungry looking. Most of them pack up the minute the Americans arrive, and start moving without much idea of where they're going. It's a situation which could have been foreseen years ago, and it's quite obvious that at present not much can be done to transport them anywhere. But not a thing is being done to set up any facilities for housing or feeding them - MG shrugs its shoulders and says that it's a problem for the Germans to worry about because they brought them here. But if MG doesn't take charge of organizing the Germans and forcing them to take care of the foreigners, there will soon be starvation, and then plenty of civil strife to add to the military."

April 13: "Today I've come another 50 miles into Germany - in fact since last writing you it's been almost 100 miles that I've traveled. I took a section of the detachment up into a town out of the Corps' direct path and did a quick 1 1/2 days' job of 'counter-intelligence' work. Oh God, it's a farce and delusion now, this vain effort of ours to get our objective accomplished in the vast areas which now become our responsibility overnight, and vanish again a day or so later as we move on. The country is beautiful and the towns mostly undamaged because the war has rushed by them, but underneath the neat, clean aspect of the land there is an unmeasurable confusion such as can be brought about only by war. I guess I've told you enough about the effect it has upon the mental balance of the man who like me still tries to see the world through the eyes of a normal person. In many ways the events which we are involved in here now constitute the most terrific revolution the world has known. This country has gone mad in a gradual systematic way, and now we come to face the stupendous task of bringing it, and with it a good part of the world (because thousands and millions of people from other parts of the world are here as victims), back to sanity."

In spite of the unsettled conditions of our existence, we still find ways to entertain ourselves. April 7 "We had a nice party here last night - we are set up in one of the hotels of this very attractive and undamaged town, and have all the commodities from electricity to hot baths. Three or four of the Red Cross girls were around, and among them was Kay Overstreet from St. Paul, who plays the piano like a dream. She's with a Red Cross cinemobile which goes around giving movie shows to the troops, and entertaining them a bit on the side. It was better than almost any concert I've heard in a long time and she puts plenty of personality into her playing, and the evening's entertainment was cozy and most relaxing. No, Connie is not here - she's somewhere with the 9th Army, but I met a very sweet girl named Mary Pitcairn from St. Louis, who reminded me of you darling in many ways. Can you blame me for being rather taken by her? If nothing interferes I may take her to see Wilson at the movies tonight. Is that bad, two nights in a row? I've told her I was married, and shown her my album of V's pictures. Also, she leaves in a few days for the 3rd Army so it will be nothing but a passing acquaintance."

It was at this time that we received word of President Roosevelt's death (April 12). This news had a profound effect on all of us. We had not known how ill he was in recent months, and we felt momentarily leaderless, even in the throes of conquering the enemy he had set himself to overcome. The British soldiers stationed in our midst were also filled with sadness. In my April 13 letter I write, "Roosevelt's death has kind of knocked our wind out. It certainly is a great tragedy for our country and the world at this time. You don't really know how much you depend on people until they are gone."

By April 16 we have reached the town of Nordhausen, some 200 miles from Cologne. What I saw there has left an indelible mark on my memory, but it can best be told in the letter of April 13. "This afternoon I had one of the most cruel experiences of the war. We have arrived in a town where for the first time I have seen with my own eyes the plain evidence of German atrocities and barbarism. A few miles out of town there is a big rock mountain, and in that mountain have been dug several tunnels over a mile long - longer than the Holland tunnel for instance, in which the V-1's (buzz bombs) and V-2's (rockets) were produced on a mass scale. To go through that plant now, which up to 4 or 5 days ago was still in full production, is an amazing thing. There are several miles of assembly line, showing these missiles in various stages of production, and with thousands of finished or semi-finished machines still sitting there. It's just like some fantastic story about the world of tomorrow and its underground factories - the lights are still burning bright, and many of the former laborers wearing their striped uniforms are wandering around in various recesses of the plant, having been in there for so long they don't know quite what to do. One Frenchman who had been there for a year told me how it had been built, for these tunnels were cut out of solid rock, and one wonders how such a thing could be done when one remembers that a thing like the Holland tunnel at home took several years to build. Well I know the Frenchman was telling the truth, for what he said has been confirmed from many other sources here. The Germans took foreign labor and sent them in there with drills. It's the kind of rock that when drilled and blasted quickly gives lung disease. But they just kept a man at work until he fell, and then pulled him out and burned him, and put someone else in his place. The building of the tunnels alone cost over 5,000 lives in this manner. Then the production was set in motion with about 15,000 foreign laborers. Those who worked on V-1's and V-2's, which of course were highly secret, were all dressed as convicts, and lived in a concentration camp. They were the only ones allowed in the V-weapon sections, for they had been doomed to die anyway, and it was figured that when production ceased they would be slaughtered so the secret wouldn't get out. We got here so fast that the whole plan wasn't carried out. But right near this plant, in an open field, we saw the most awesome spectacle of all - the corpses of 3,000 foreign laborers, both men and women, who had died of starvation, and were still herded together there. Well, darling, I won't go on about it - but it made such a terrific impression that I can't help but feel that others should know about it, and realize that what these people have done can't ever be set right, and that what the papers print is not just propaganda."

General Collins also visited this dreadful scene. His account is very much like mine, but he adds some more details. Collins' autobiography:

On April 12, as our CP was moving into Nordhausen, in the Harz foothills, Doyle came to my headquarters and said his troops had just discovered a prison labor camp so ghastly that I would have to see it before I would believe its horrible condition. I went with him at once to the railway yards on the far edge of town. Alongside the tracks were nine or ten large warehouses in which slave laborers from a nearby underground factory were held, apparently when they rebelled or were too sick to work. There they were left, to starve to death or die of illness. Not knowing the nature of the warehouses, our bombers, a few days before Nordhausen was captured, had attacked these buildings as well as the railway. When our troops arrived most of the Nazi guards had fled, leaving the wounded and sick to their own devices.

"The one building Hickey and I entered, which had not been hit by bombs, was a scene of utter horror. Hundreds of men in their striped prison uniforms were scattered about on the damp dirt floor, the dead and dying intermingled in straw, the only cover afforded them. As we looked in with a medical officer to weigh the problem that confronted us, wails and piteous pleas for food came from the living, while the stench of the dead filled the air. As I wrote home at the time: 'We took out about six hundred and fifty of those prisoners still alive but in such miserable stages of starvation that scores of them have since died. Almost three thousand dead were found in the buildings, most of whom had died of starvation or disease prior to the bombing. I directed our military government officer to collect German civilians, including the so-called 'best people' of the town, members of the Hitler Jugend and German prisoners of war, to remove the bodies and inter them. We had the Burgomeister set aside a plot of ground overlooking the town, and these people were required to dig graves and carry every one of the dead up the hill and bury them. The local officials disclaimed any knowledge of the camp, which, of course, was pure tommyrot. We are going to require them to erect a monument in the cemetery as a memorial to these dead.'

"A few days later I visited the underground factory where these prisoners had worked. This tremendous plant was contained in two enormous tunnels cut through a limestone ridge Thirty or forty cross tunnels linked the two main shafts, each of which housed an assembly line, one for V-1 bombs, the other for the newer V-2's. The cross tunnels were filled with machine tools, component parts, and raw materials for the bombs, which were in all stages of production. Later many of them were shipped back to the States, where I understand they were used for our first experimental rockets."

From Nordhausen there remained less than 100 miles to our ultimate destination - Leipzig. Along the way, on April 19 and 23, I recount what the daily routine is like.

April 19: "We're out all day interrogating, interrogating, interrogating. I never want to interrogate again, especially not in a foreign language - I just don't seem to acquire any ease in German, and it wears me down. I guess one of the main troubles is that I don't feel I speak fluently enough to really get into the bottom of a man's mind, and so I have to make arbitrary decisions on his fate, which I don't think is right, and it exasperates me to have to scowl at everybody I talk to all day, and have to go at him with the preconceived idea that he's not telling the truth. Every day the fate of 15 or 20 men falls into my lap - whether or not he will remain at home with his wife and children, or be sent up for internment for several years as punishment for the guilt which he may bear for the whole thing."

April 23: "My job right now is examining the German public officials in various localities to determine which ones out of the old regime are still fit for office, and which must go immediately, and which should even be arrested. That must sound like a pretty stimulating sort of thing, but unfortunately it stimulates me the wrong way. This Nazi system is such a complicated mess, and the 12 years of the regime have aroused in each individual such a multitude of jealousies and hatreds and mistrusts that it's impossible to know in a few days just where one stands. In the administrative system over 90% of the officials, and even the small clerks, now belong to the Nazi party, but with many, if not most, the fault was one of insufficient courage to stay out rather than desire to join. And even as a matter of courage, the whole thing is understandable from the angle of what happened to those who tried to resist. So when it comes to weeding out the bad from the merely passive, I feel like a babe in the woods, for of course now everyone is meek and poses as a victim of the system. There are many ways of approaching it; you can look at a man's face, and decide whether you like him or not; you can do like Jack Reber, who would throw every party member out on the street and leave the community in a state of anarchy by substituting for them in governmental posts all the street cleaners and shopkeepers who were never subjected to political compulsion; or you can look around for one or two people whom you think you can trust, and let them tell you who was good and who was bad. Maybe the latter sounds best. But just try and find such a man - in the end it will again boil down to individual prejudice, and your final result is not much better than what you started with. Yesterday I thought I'd found a good man to put in as head man of the food distribution department, for he'd never had anything to do with the party and seemed to know his job. Then, after I had duly instructed that he be installed, it turns up that his reputation in the community was nil because he had abandoned his wife and children, and was guilty of all sorts of moral turpitude. Which is better for the job, do you think? The only doctor left in this town who isn't in the party is a morphine addict.

"I was interrupted last night at this point, about 10 pm, by the arrival of eight civilians under guard, sent to us because they were 'suspicious'. So until about midnight I had to go to work on them, and after a lot of painful interrogation it turned out to be the same old story, that they were soldiers trying to get home - we pick up 40-50 a day like that, and of course we have to send them to a P/W cage."

The final stop on the way to Leipzig was in the town of Halle. I remember it because there we ran into Count Felix von Luckner of World War I fame. As a boy I had read Lowell Thomas's book about von Luckner's exploits on the high seas; and although he was an antagonist in that war, the story made stirring reading. He had outfitted an old sailing vessel with armaments and engines, all hidden below deck. In that ship he roamed the Atlantic looking for defenseless Allied merchantmen; and when he spotted one, the guns were raised up to fire on his prey and sink it. I have no idea what role in Nazi Germany he may have played, but in 1945 he was a very ancient hero of an earlier war, and an honored citizen of the community. I had a chance to chat briefly with him about his seafaring days, and Lowell Thomas.

And now we reach the end of our long journey. On April 29 we have arrived in the city of Leipzig, and our troops are facing the Russian army across the river Mulde. On the surface we seem to have reached the end of the rainbow.

April 29: "We have moved again now since my last writing, and are set up in a very large city - larger than anything we've been in yet. The officers' mess is in a large hotel where the whole staff has been retained, so that we eat in splendor with waiters hovering around, and music for dinner. I remarked this evening that I'd almost rather not have these amenities around because it only made me think of normal life without the soul of it.

". . . Mike Varenick has been very busy this week attending various functions and meetings between the Americans and Russians. We had a couple of generals and their staff here today, and it was quite a festive occasion, from Mike's reports (he acts as the General's interpreter). I hope we'll have a chance to pay a visit to the Russian army soon, for I'm naturally curious about an organization we've heard so much about. Needless to say, I've seen thousands and thousands of Russians of a different variety since coming to the continent - all beaten down and in a daze. I don't imagine the Russian soldier will be exactly that way.

"It's an awful anticlimax to say it, but I guess the war's just about over as far as we're concerned. We have a great deal to be thankful for in having merely lived through it safely. There has been no real suffering on the part of either of us - no permanent loss which cannot be forgotten when we once more take up our old life."

But now that our goal has been attained, and victory is in sight, we are consigned to the waiting game, and I begin to feel some weariness and a kind of malaise about the future which will continue to afflict me in these waning days of the war. Our minds are very much on one subject: will we be ordered to remain in Germany for occupation duty? By the nature of our work and training we know we are uniquely qualified for that, and much of my correspondence with Mariette dwells on what she can do to prepare herself and Vinny to join me here. All this comes through in this first letter to Mariette from Leipzig.

April 26: "I wish I could write 'like an angel' (so said Samuel Johnson of Oliver Goldsmith) to make up for the shortcomings I feel daily in my dealings with this strange world, for no matter if in speech and action the goal and desire of the heart are never reached, it is an abiding comfort to know that for one fleeting moment the essence of a thought or a sentiment, or even just an effect, has been caught and made fast for another to understand and respond to. If what I say to you in my letters is enough to stir up in you an emotion, a smile, or a tear, then it doesn't matter if what I do and say here is of no import. I don't want to make a big splash in a surrounding which is alien to me - I only want to preserve the responsiveness of the one whom I've chosen to be my world and my inspiration. Adventure and novelty and change mean nothing more to me - that's why I can't write as I once did, like a schoolboy venturing forth into a romantic new world, about all the new sights I've seen, and people I've met, because my senses have been dulled by too much of that kind of thing. This is what is meant, I guess by the disillusionment of a wartime generation. We are suffering from it, in our own way."

My daily life now affords many of the comforts of home. Our resourceful foraging detail has requisitioned a large house on the edge of a park, where some of our meals are cooked for us and I have my own bedroom. I have an office in town, and again my days are mostly spent interrogating Germans who have fled from the Russians - sorting out soldiers from civilians and sending the former to POW camps.

May 9: "We are now in Leipzig - have been for about 10 days. Our town office, where I spend my working hours, is a busy little beehive, and we have now hired two civilian secretaries, to give a little air of cheerfulness to the place, to do the typing and to answer some of the foolish questions that people come to ask us. They are really quite presentable, but I can see that if the non-fraternization rule is relaxed at all, the having of females around is going to give rise to lots of intrigue. Speaking of fraternization, I had to prosecute one of those cases before the court yesterday. The rule is an unpopular one at best, and gives rise to all sorts of abuses, like Prohibition did. These two boys I had to prosecute had done no more than sit down on their helmet to talk to a couple of girls in broad daylight, because the girls had beckoned to them to ask about curfew. Once again, my victims were found not guilty, but as in the last case I had, I feel that the just verdict was reached."

The May 9 letter was written right after the proclamation of VE Day - Victory in Europe. For the Allied forces attacking from the West, the war had really ended when we met the Russians and hostilities had ceased on the Western front. Hitler had committed suicide in his Berlin bunker on April 30 (along with his mistress Eva Braun whom he had married the day before). Before he died, Hitler had appointed Admiral Donitz as Chief of State to conduct the unconditional surrender of Germany.

VE Day was therefore somewhat of an anticlimax for me, and in the May 9 letter I write: "The big day is come and gone - VE Day - and I settle down now to write my sweet one about her husband's feelings on the subject.. . .And on VE Day, of all days of the year, your husband must go and fret about all the things that are undone, instead of those that are done. But there is at least one thing that does give me comfort, and that is that you won't have to be anxious about me any longer - I may have to stay here a long time still, but the danger is passed. If that adds even a little to making your own life cheerful, dearest, then a big step for the better has been taken."

A more tangible consequence of the official proclamation was some relaxation of the fraternization rules.

May 9: "We did have a wonderful party last night to celebrate. It was held at our house, and about 20 of the officers from our headquarters, resplendent in blouses, trim new jackets, overseas caps and lots of brass, came for c'tails and dinner. There were about 10 Red Cross girls, too, all in nice fresh civilian dresses, looking really quite lovely, as well as a few of our German employees. The punch was delicious - something like some of our old rum drinks with maple syrup, for we unearthed some honest to goodness Jamaica rum to add to the German brandy and fruit juice we usually drink. During dinner a pianist entertained, and after dinner there was dancing while one of the girls played. You certainly couldn't have asked for a nicer gathering, considering the circumstances in which we find ourselves. It was unusually well-behaved, too, even though this morning there were one or two of the male guests found sleeping in odd corners of the house. I wish you could see me in my dress uniform, darling - I really look quite smart. And oh, how I wish I could have seen you among the girls last night, and how you would have shone!"

From then on our chief preoccupation continues to be: What next? Occupation Duty? Or back to the US and on to the Pacific?

May 12: "There's a certain amount of tension in the air today, of a little different kind than recently, because the actual plans for occupation seem to be getting into motion. That means, for one thing, that our detachment is beginning to be split up. Jim Dorsett has just received word that he is to be prepared to leave within 7 days, so it looks like they're beginning to pluck us out one by one, to be reassigned on a territorial basis, and to lose our identity as a team. It's not unexpected, but we had been hoping that we might remain together if we had to occupy. There's still some chance that Jim will be able to swing a deal when he gets to wherever he's going, for he's a master at that kind of thing. But the whole problem is so vast and complex, that any individual feels pretty powerless to affect his own destiny, or that of others. Losing Jim will be one of the greatest blows that can befall us, for the patience and tact with which he has dealt with the difficulties surrounding us has been almost unbelievable, and there aren't one in 1000 who would make as good a commanding officer. Now that the old order is changing, we will soon grow wistful about 'old times'. But at least this can be said: change gives rise to the unexpected, and for a while anyway, the hope of a miracle to bring about happiness again has been fanned.

". . .We must now just do our best to make what we can out of our situation, and face squarely the prospect of your joining me here. I don't want it that way any more than you do, because this is a world I want to forget, and not drag the wonderful happiness of our marriage into it. But we must rise above these considerations, and not be too particular about where we seek our happiness. I know, darling, that with you by my side I can be a 1000% better man than I am now. Germany will not be as bad a place to live in as I once thought. There will be privations, but there will not be the kind of danger I've mentioned to you before. The Germans are thoroughly beaten, and, I believe the fanatical element has disintegrated. There is only one thing they want now - to keep us here and thus get protection from the Russians. I am today drawing up a letter for Jim Dorsett to sign, requesting your presence here. There are no channels through which it can be sent now, but I will at least have it, and I will send one original of it to you, in case you find anybody over there from whom it would draw attention."

May 14: "We have just been for a walk in the park - a lovely wild park with thick green foliage and dresses of all colors decorating it. One or two of the passers-by look away as we stroll by, and seem to be saying to themselves that we are the enemy who have shattered all their dreams. We are rather amused at them because it gives us a chance to chuckle. But the other 97 or 98 are harder to handle, because they look straight at us, friendly or brazen or inviting, and it makes us feel kind of stiff and unnatural to catch their eye and remember that we must be aloof.

". . . Now maybe I can break a bit of a shock to you - Charlie Bulkeley is on his way home. Why? Well he was just lucky enough to be attached to a HQs which is being transferred over there. Whether he will stay there is another question, for there is probably some reason behind his transfer other than a chance for him to see his wife for a while. But the mood of irresponsibility towards the future has spread like an epidemic, and the idea of a 30-day leave at home, plus indefinite time of preparation in the States, makes me very jealous. We are all preparing ourselves to be the forgotten men over here, and there's an intangible feeling that getting out of this theatre at all is half the battle, and that the world of opportunity would open up when it happened.

". . .Jack R. is so wrought up over the general conditions under which we find ourselves that he has come close to a nervous breakdown, and he's been laid off the job for a few days. Nothing serious, I guess, but I mention it just to illustrate that I'm not alone in my upside down feelings about the world at present, and therefore you need not consider me as abnormal.

"I've just had a big blast from Heminway for writing long dull letters, because he has come in and wants to eat ice cream and cake, and drink wine. He says to me and Stony who are writing that our wives probably open up our letters and read a line or two and than say, 'Oh well, I better save this until I go to the bathroom.' Guess you don't think that's funny, but that's how the mind seems to work around here. As for that ice cream and cake, well, we've just had some, and it was wonderful - the first in Germany. It's no particular occasion, but we're finding that all sorts of good things can be obtained if we provide the raw materials. Of course it's fraternizing when we do it, but I doubt if we'd be prosecuted for that."

May 22: "Jack Reber, who has had symptoms of a breakdown as a result of all the nervous vicissitudes we've been through, was evacuated by plane either to France or England today and may even get sent back home. I think I've told you a little something about his case already - he has worked very hard, is very much of a perfectionist, and with the chaos which the advance from the Rhine has brought he has reacted in his own way to the strain. He worries about every little thing, and imagines pains in various parts of his body. He has definitely been classed as a combat exhaustion case, though it's not a serious one. It's just the let down of the end which has brought us all into this particularly susceptible frame of mind.

"Maybe you're wondering how I got 100 points ('points' were one factor in determining your priority for discharge), so I'll explain it to you: 41 for each month in the army, 17 for each month overseas, 12 for a child (you don't count for nothing in the point system), 25 for the 5 campaigns I've participated in (Normandy, France, Ardennes, Rhineland, and Central Europe), and 5 points for the Bronze Star award which I just got. I got that for 'meritorious service', and am entitled to wear a ribbon for it, so I now have 3 ribbons. ETO, Good Conduct, and Bronze Star. They'll make nice color patterns on my blouse when I smarten up for stepping out with you."

During this period of anxiety Mariette's letters sustain my spirits and restore my soul - alas, all of those letters have been lost in the course of my wanderings. By June 3 I seem to have cast my cares aside, and begin to enjoy the springtime delights of Leipzig. "Imagine me sitting here in Leipzig day after day and feeling forlorn when I have a wife such as you who after more than a year and a half of absence can still take me so tenderly by the hand and sweep the clouds from in front of my eyes. This morning Leipzig seems almost like a beautiful place, darling, thanks to you. I notice, for instance, that the sun is warm and bright and that there are abundant trees not only in the park but right outside my bedroom, and all along the avenue leading to the office where I do my work. I see also that there are many signs of life to which I hadn't paid much attention before - not just the girls in flimsy dresses on their bicycles but birds chirping in the gardens and especially the nice things in our house here which are a treat to have when the spirit is unburdened - paintings and statuettes and flowers which the Dutch girls working for us have arranged.

". . . Well, can you believe it, I've been playing some tennis with Jim Dorsett! We had quite a time digging up the equipment. First we found some courts on the outskirts of town, where amazingly enough people are still playing, and there's a caretaker who rolls and paints the lines. Then we sent one of the secretaries at the town office off to locate some racquets, for she plays too, and she produced two that aren't bad. I located some sneakers in a local store, and we found that our fatigues made good pants (though I also borrowed the secretary's white shorts to try, for she's big in the waist). The most difficult thing was balls - that's one thing they just ain't got anywhere here, and the people play with balls that have the cover almost completely worn off. But Kay Marshall of the Red Cross finally produced 3 new ones, with fuzz and everything on them, so we were ready to go. Well, the first day was remarkable, because I'm quite sure I was hitting them better than at any time during the last summer I played - though we only rallied, and of course that's deceptive. But I just couldn't miss, and could hit them as hard as I wanted. Alas, when it came time to try a few serves, the same twists and contortions were there - two years of inactivity has not found a remedy to my woe. The second day, and yesterday also, my ground shots subsided into a less spectacular form, and I was forced to take a defeat from Jim yesterday, though that shouldn't ever happen, because he's a steady pat-baller. The important thing, though, is the exercise it gave us, after a year of sedentary life, for we have had absolutely no exercise since hitting the continent. We now have the hot shower working in our house, so tennis, shower, dinner, and wine make our life approach country club style.

"Our first member has departed for good - Paul Hoffman. He is 47, and therefore eligible for discharge, and he took the chance immediately. He will be a great loss to our detachment because in his quiet way he did all the nasty administrative work of the detachment - payrolls, correspondence, etc., and now we have that burden ourselves, although we have obtained a new clerk named McBride who seems to know his stuff. It's important to me now to have a good man like that available, for I am working with Dorsett [I thought he was going to leave in 7 days as mentioned a while ago..] in the CP office as sort of executive, and Stony is running the town office. I was glad to get away from the town office, because I'd had so much wear and tear from it. But now, in the usual fashion, I'm agitating to return because I miss the contact with civilians - too much army around the CP. But that's me all over - never satisfied, and good resolutions don't seem to help at all. When Paul departed, we had a farewell dinner for him here, and it was one of the nicest parties we've ever had - sort of a reminiscing and sentimental one over the history of our detachment since England, and all directed into a well-deserved tribute to Paul. The highlight of the evening was Jim Dorsett's speech - sincere, well chosen words which epitomized right on the nose just what Paul has meant to all of us - and with plenty of humor thrown in. In the past few weeks, when I've had a chance to see and work with Jim more closely than ever before, my esteem for him has increased even more, if that is possible. In many ways, it's tantalizing to be with him, because he handles jobs so thoroughly in the manner I would like to be able to do it, that it makes me feel awfully far behind. Yet at the same time he makes you feel as though you were doing half his work for him, and never fails to give you a pat on the back when there's occasion for it.

"It kind of looks like Jack Reber is gone for good too, for we haven't heard from him in almost two weeks. He was evacuated from a hospital, where he was taking a rest for battle exhaustion, and there's a good chance he may have got back to the States. I hope so, for his sake - I think it's the only thing that could cure him. I think Jack is fundamentally suffering from homesickness, and it just takes a more violent form than the rest of us. It's the best rehabilitation and salvaging process I can think of, and I'll put in for it if I can't find any other way of getting home."

May 26: "Last night Jim D., Stony and I sat up late in the office discussing our future, our present, our wives and our sweethearts (case you have any doubts, the latter two categories happen to be the same person for me, and also for Stony, I should add). It was very nice to unburden ourselves of the longing we have for home and the doubts about what is to become of us. We talked about the things that make us miss the girl back home, and the little things she does or says to make her interesting and lovable, and also the amusing little traits that used to annoy us."

This letter goes on to tell how the three of us see the prospects for our careers when we are demobilized.

May 26: "The suggestion that was advanced for my future was the vague and unknown field of international law, or service in a field of government dealing with European affairs. That sounds fine and dandy, but I told them that what I wanted above all was a chance to settle down with my family, even if it meant a less exciting and stimulating professional existence.

". . . I've decided that my talents definitely lie along the line of professional endeavor, where the chance for concentration on a few well-defined problems exists rather than along organizational or administrative lines, where I have to care for the activities and direction of many people besides myself. I can only do a good job where I can concentrate my thoughts, and I shy away from exercising control over widely scattered activities and personalities."

June 7: "The weight of the world again seems to be on my shoulders, because I am in the throes of a great decision. The orders have come for VII Corps to prepare for redeployment via the States - and it's going to happen pretty soon, undoubtedly this month. That means the Pacific, of course, after a 21-30 day leave at home, and anywhere from one to three months of reorganization at some army camp where you could be with me, almost certainly. Then, the great unknown, how long in the Pacific, how long before the Japs are licked?

". . . This is all mostly repetition, but I am making my mind up right now as I write you, and I want to fortify my decision by talking it over with you, who are the sole end and purpose of my deliberations. Yes, I have reached a conclusion - that I must do all I can to remain here. It may be too late to do anything about it, but I shall try. It may, and probably will mean losing some rare good friends - Jim D., Stony, Jack H., John Schiller, and many others with whom I now feel at home and at ease, and who have been a great comfort during these restless and trying days. But the big thing is that by staying here I will in effect remain closer to you - for any of these things may happen: a) you may be able to join me here in a few months (I see that there is already agitation in Congress about this because the wives are getting upset about the infractions of the non-fraternization rule); b) I may get a 30-day leave at home sometime this summer, even if I return to occupy, which would counterbalance the leave I would get at home on redeployment c) I might get discharged at any time from here - a better chance for it than from the Pacific, once I'm on my way there. It takes a lot of will power to postpone just merely seeing you for a month or two, darling - the temptation is to take the chance while it's here, and close my eyes in bliss and say that God will take care of us when we get together again. But I guess I'm either not quite that desperate, or have too much faith and hope for our ultimate future to gamble it away against the odds.

". . . General Collins addressed the Corps HQs yesterday, and gave us quite a pep talk on our accomplishments in the war. He certainly can put his ideas across, and once again I must say that I'm very proud to have served under him. He now wants to go to the Pacific, where he started his career, because he's the kind of guy who likes to be carrying the ball all the time. It's too bad that Corps should be leaving here right now, for the Chief of Staff has begun to take an interest in CIC work, came to visit our town office the other day, and was about to bring the General around for a visit."

But by June 10 the decision has been taken out of my hands.

June 10: "News has just come that I follow in Charlie Bulkeley's shoes (i.e. head home) and very soon. This is not certain, but almost so. In other words, start making arrangements, but do not actually move until you get confirmation of this."

June 12: "This is it - the confirmation of my last letter telling you to get ready to move. The die is cast, and you and Vinnie must get back to Greenwich as quick as you can. By the time you get this letter, and if you haven't got a little advance warning from my cable, you won't have many days in which to get back, for our move takes place very soon. So use this letter when you go to see about your reservations - surely your plea and mine will not go unanswered, because if you don't get back it just cuts that much time out of our leave (looks like it would be 30 days now), and the leave starts as soon as we arrive."

At this point the scene switches to Mariette and Vinny in Coronado, California, where they have been waiting out the war near Mariette's sister, Sue Hubbard. When my homecoming cable reached her, she began frantic efforts to find transportation back east.

A dashing young Navy officer, whom she had met out there through friend Marge Adams, offered her the berth above his lower one on a sleeper train, but Marge vetoed this arrangement as too risque and too risky. But through my father's MobilOil connections a railway roomette was secured from Los Angeles to New York, provided she could catch a train from San Diego on one hour's notice to make the connection. They made the train alright, but in the rush the baggage was left standing on the platform in San Diego. So Mariette had to make the three-day train ride, with an 8-hour stopover in Chicago, with only a straw bag holding Vinny's diapers.

And now on to the happy ending.
Epilogue

By the end of June 1945 we were back in Normandy - our tents and cots nestled in peaceful sunny meadows near Le Havre. This was the staging area for our trip home. We had come back through Germany, Belgium and Paris in a sort of triumphant procession of vehicles - our jeeps and trailers as well as the assortment of civilian cars which we had requisitioned in Germany for our convenience and comfort. I learned there that my brother Carl was in another staging area nearby, so Norbert Barr and I drove off in a black Mercedes and presented ourselves to the commanding officer with request for leave to take Carl out to lunch. He being only a Private First Class, the commander was a bit startled to see his brother show up in such style. But permission was granted, and we carried Carl off to a nice country restaurant where we lunched on the best of Norman cooking.

I made a couple more expeditions before we sailed. One was in a BMW with Stony Stollenwerck to Deauville (this noted resort had not yet regained its pre-war glitter); and another drive with Norbert Barr to Etretat, north of Le Havre, where our family had spent several summers from 1925 to 1930. There we saw how the Germans had dug huge caves into the tall chalk cliffs and in them installed coastal batteries. The sight of this quaint fishing village-resort town on the Channel where I had swum and tennised in my youth was a nostalgic finale to my latest tour of Europe.

After a week of relaxing in the tents, we were dispatched to a Navy transport at Le Havre and sailed for the US. Two days out I developed a huge and painful carbuncle in my neck which confined me to the sick bay. A new drug called penicillin was administered in my rear end, and the raging infection subsided within hours. But the Navy doctor kept me bedded down for several days, and I enjoyed the luxury of hospital care for much of the crossing.

We landed in Norfolk, VA, and I rushed to the phone. She was waiting at the other end, and the next day we were joined together for our first embrace in eighteen months. At that moment I truly was Ulysses returning to his native shores of Ithaca from the Trojan War, and Mariette the ever-faithful Penelope.

"Now from his breast into his eyes the ache of longing mounted, and he wept at last,

His dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms.

And so she too rejoiced, her gaze upon her husband,

Her white arms round him pressed as though forever –

Never to let him go."

\- The Odyssey

Nor shall I forget my first glimpse of Vinny, now fifteen months old and grinning at me under a shock of curly blond hair. Happily there were no suitors of Mariette's around to contend with - or if there had been any, they had vanished into the sunset.

This epic of mine was nearing its end. Not all sagas of legend or fable have happy endings. The Ring of the Niebelungen concludes with the Gotterdammerung and Siegfried's immolation in the great fire. Young Jolyon and Fleur in the Forsyte Saga never consummate their love. But my odyssey had its own fairy tale ending. Although VII Corps was scheduled to sail for the Pacific theater in July, a miraculous reprieve fell on us from above. While Mariette and Vinny and I were savouring a second honeymoon in a little cottage in Preston, Conn., we heard President Truman announce on a crackly radio that an atom bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima. Like most everyone, we did not at first know quite what that meant. But as the world soon learned, it meant that Japan was to capitulate, culminating in the joy of V-J Day on August 15 1945 - three years and eight months after Pearl Harbor and my enlistment in the US Army.

Like many war stories - truth or fiction - this tale of soldiers in action is also a love story - perhaps a bit old fashioned for younger readers. The effusions of a young man separated from his bride fill many pages of the letters, but most of those passages have been omitted so that children and grandchildren will not be discouraged from reading on. I do venture, however, to end up with a touch of romance which continued to burn throughout my eighteen months away from Mariette; and to this end I have chosen excerpts from two letters - one at the beginning and one near the end of the adventure.

The first letter is written on the first day of my CIC training course in Chicago.

Tower Town Club 820 North Michigan Ave. Chicago

August 3, 1943

Dearest,

How does the new address sound to you? Certainly not like the barracks of an army sergeant in the thick of a big war. It all makes me feel slightly guilty because I'm so strangely conscious of the evils and softness which flow from luxury and comfort! Fred Downing and I, being the first, have chosen the best room - twin beds, full carpet one inch thick, spacious closets, bath, and now after breakfast, bath, and nap, we wallow in ease, awaiting the start of formalities. The army, or at least our highly specialized department of it, occupies floors 12 through 16; the rest of the building houses navy officers also attending school. Of course, the first people I bumped into were Ed Harris and Bill Everdell, both here for seven more weeks of school; they reported that Dave Gamble and Al Macomber were both also in Chicago, although not in our building. So the adventure has started off on the theme of the Etonian who meets an ex fellow cricket player in the wilds of the jungle. Isn't it nice to have been brought up in a cosmopolitan atmosphere! I visited the quarters of these resplendent young officers (down on the 9th deck) and was delighted that their rooms had hard bare floors, no bath, and for furniture only double-decker bunks and a table - about eight bunks to a room. Glad our fighting men are being properly toughened up.

"I haven't been able to locate you on a map yet, but you're awfully far away - maybe 1000 miles; if we had only covered wagons to travel in, I'd have to start right now in order to get there for our appointment in September. But the knowledge that we are now on the homestretch makes me feel very contented inside, and, as usual, sorry for all the loose boys out here who are approaching the four coming weeks with the wild designs of school kids on vacation. To me the purpose is to become engrossed in the facts and figures so that I won't languish into despondency while we are apart - to create a temporary reality while the real one moves on to maturity. It has truly been sung: 'A man without a woman is like a kite without a tail.'

"Last night on the Pullman my thoughts strayed for some time from the prospect of our marriage; they went back to our first meeting, and covered all the phases of our romance which had left their mark. It really makes a nifty story, you know, and the delight of it all is not spoiled by the fact that we have gone over it many times before. I wonder whether you believe my tale of love at first sight, or whether you minimize it as a bit of pleasant gallantry? I was brought up in France, you know, where there is no limit to the compliments one pays the ladies in the early stages of acquaintance! But I also acquired in France a more than Anglo-Saxon susceptibility to the dizzy and glorious significance of relationships between man and woman; I set my ideals in that department mighty high, and without any specific standard of what she should look like or be like when she came, I had long nursed a conception of how I should feel when the moment arrived. None of the girls I had ever loved before really passed the test; sometimes the emotion was an outgrowth of competition or jealousy, sometimes just a sort of habit which I fell into. Needless to say, I always had some faults to find with the object of my affection, which I just had to swallow, and which caused me many uneasy moments. With you, darling, the first few minutes of belief that you belonged to another were enough to rule out the confusion of the ordinary meeting between boy and girl; you were as remote from me as the heroine in a play, and I could say to myself, as you came upon the stage, without worrying about what I was meaning to you: 'There is the one who has everything.' By the time I learned that you were still in circulation, the germ had been planted, and the rest of the evening was as overwhelming as would have been the day you told me that my most dangerous rival had fallen by the wayside. I'm sure that after that, if for some reason you had been whisked away, the blow would have been as severe as any I had ever had. It would not have been the loss of a loved one, but the loss of hopes, of possibilities and of faith in my own attainment of happiness.

"The funny thing is that I have never been really worried since about whether the hopes would be realized. You have not once fallen short of my expectations, even during the early period of acquaintance when we were busy discovering things about each other. It was a Tuesday evening that we went out together again, I think, and you might have been appalled if you had known the weight of responsibility you carried that night. It didn't take two minutes for me to become convinced that everything was all right - that I had not been carried away by intoxication at Manursing; but I would have been a terribly disillusioned youth if in some inexplicable way you had turned out to be common, or cold, or ugly. All the things that I love about you were in evidence above the things that went on, and I was already feeling all the humdrum of my old life slip out from under me. I won't try to explain just what it was, because if you know too well what it is I like about you, you might get self-conscious about it, and it would spoil. It boils down to the fact that you were charming in a soft, sparkling, and unstudied way, and that you were being that way not to be attractive for your own satisfaction, but for mine. That's quite a distinction, if you think it over.

"Maybe you'll think from these reminiscences that I had too little care about whether I was making the grade in your eyes. But if the attention which a fellow devoted to a girl is complete and richly fed, he should have no time to think of himself; I did in truth lose myself in admiration of you until I asked the vital question, and in doing so I know I avoided many blunders. I am more grateful to you than I can say for having spared me from hesitation, doubt and anxiety. You'll always find me worthy of you, too, so long as that relationship persists.

"Besides that, you have helped me to achieve a sense of physical balance with the world and with you which makes little disturbances easier to bear (even if I still get mad when my tennis game is off); you are so unashamed of the intimacy which love brings, so responsive, and so trusting in the affection which you return, that I feel for the first time almost, as if God had made me right, and all the others were only variations on that one standard.

"All that, and much more, I think of when I go back to our first meeting. As we grow up together I guess a lot of it will change - a lot of things will go, and a lot of new things will come. I've never been more confident of anything than I am in the success of our marriage. If that doesn't work, nothing else I ever do will. I really pray for the end of this war, which can and may raise a lot of hell with our snug little plans. But it's no use thinking about, and I'm not.

"Good-bye, darling. I'll have a little news next time about our life here, but if you're anything like me it's what you think, rather than what you do, that counts."

The second letter is written near the end of the war, a few days before we reached Leipzig.

April 19, 1945

"My dearest love,

Here in the Kreisleiter's house where a magnificent collection of haunting music was left behind for our enjoyment, I find that the tones flood my heart, and my every instinct, with an overwhelming desire for you. The cares and troubles of the day are spinning around in the background but more compelling than any of that is the glowing thought of you. It's one of those moments in life when all other influences have no meaning, except the one great urge to take into my arms the lady I love. The sad thing is that feelings such as those can't be set down on paper, and even to mention them here may, I'm afraid, sound a little crude when you who read it may not be in the same tingling mood when the words have spanned the ocean. But you can't help responding, darling, even in pure imagination, when I tell you that the only thing in the world that would matter to me now would be to hold you close until we were unconscious of anything around us except ourselves. No, it isn't the kind of thing one writes about and yet our love can exist now only through the written words; and I'm sure you won't mind if I let my passion run away with me. You may be the mother of a very sweet looking babe, but to me at moments like this you are still the girl whom I could smother in my arms, just as in the days when we were first married, and ever since, for that matter."

(1997 Comment: Was that Cyrano whispering sweet words of love to Roxanne?)

This is the end of my story. It has been stimulating to relive these wartime days - the anxieties and frustrations as well as the fun and glory. I reflect again how fortunate I am that I was not among the thousands of those who died in the assault on Hitler's Germany - many now resting in that beautiful US military cemetery near where I landed on D-Day in Normandy, beneath the rows of white crosses - that I lived to witness the exultation of final victory, and that I am here now to tell the tale. May some of these remembrances live on in the memory of a few Badger descendants.

