It's D-Day. Who Remembers a Hero?

I laughed and then felt like I really shouldn't have.

Good thread, dude.

My grandfather was in the Pacific in WW2, among other places. Didn't speak much of his experiences there, except on rare occasion and those doors only began to open towards the end of his battle with lung cancer.

Stacking up corpses of enemy soldiers so they could eat meals without sitting in the mud (by sitting on these bodies) is something I can't begin to imagine. So, while I wish I'd been able to hear some more stories, I am rather grateful I didn't, and hope he was able to leave this world and his family with a light heart and as clear of a conscience and mental image as he could. He was a great man, and who I was named after.

My son will share his name as well.

 

My dad was there on D-Day. He was a Signalman on one of the battleships .... busy communicating with all the other ships in the assault. That was a totally different generation .... tougher than nails.

 

God bless those heroes, living and gone. My dad served in the Pacific during WWII. After the war, he PCSd to Europe where he met my mom working in the American snackbar in Linz Austria; they will be married 70 years on 21 June.

A few years back I took them to the WWII museum in New Orleans. Dad, who went on to serve through Korea and Vietnam, was treated like a celebrity. At one point I looked around and a whole crowd was following us through the exhibits listening to his stories. If you ever get to NOLA, check out the museum!

What I didn't figure on was how hard reliving those years would be on Mom. At the end of the 3D movie about the war, she wept uncontrollably-- remembering the losses of many family and friends, including many of her Jewish friends who were rounded up and shipped off from her hometown.

 

I suppose he was a Marine? Do you know where he was at all during that time? I imagine many different places. When I was freelance editing, I worked on several military history books. One included the invasion of Tarawa, the first such island assault in the Pacific. Holy crap. If you are beginning the liberation of Europe, it is a totally different kettle of fish compared to the alien nature of "island hopping" and fighting a fanatical army in the middle of the world's largest ocean.

 

USMC.

He did 3 years, Bougainville and Okinawa off the top of my head.

 

My dad was there. He joined the Army in 1939 when he was sixteen years old. He was out riding with his motorcycle gang in September of '39 when they all heard that the war started. They all got riled up and decided to join the Army. They were all there lined up at the recruiting office at 8:00 on Monday morning. By 10:00 my dad was the only one who was actually enlisted. All the rest had been disqualified either for medical reasons or because they were underage. My dad was underage, but he had been born in Canada, so when they went to the city hall to find a birth certificate to check his age there was none. He was a tall burly guy, he looked eighteen, so they took him at his word. His mom almost died, but his dad was proud and wouldn't let her go down to the office to tell them.

They shipped him off to boot camp at Fort Knox, Kentucky. He was in boot for four days. On the fourth day they called everyone out on the line and asked, "Is there anyone here who knows how to ride a motorcycle?" My dad stepped forward. So they pulled him out of boot camp, made him a Private Specialist, and sent him over to the school where they were teaching motorcycle couriers. Sixteen years old, they made him a DI.

When that gig was up two years later, he decided that airborne sounded fun. He went to airborne school, did his three jumps, got his wings, and said, "To Hell with this!" At that point the war had just started, and he realized that he was actually going to see combat. So he decided that if he was going to be shot at, he would rather be shot at in a tank. So, ever the silver-tongued, he talked his way into getting transferred to armored school and was trained as a tank driver.

He shipped out for North Africa, his unit saw their first action fighting the Vichy French in Morocco. But he said he never saw any fighting in Africa, he was always assigned driving or supply duties. His fifteen minutes of fame were that he spent a couple of days as Omar Bradley's driver while they were in North Africa.

After that his unit was transferred to England and equipped with DD Tanks and he went ashore in the first wave on Utah Beach on D-Day. DD tanks were a great idea on paper: You take a tank and put a canvas screen around it so it displaces enough water so it will float. Then you put a couple of propellers on the back. You drive the tank through the water to the beach, and when it's on the beach you pull a lever in the tank that drops the screen. Great idea. Except that in my dad's case an artillery shell landed too close to his tank and shredded the screen and the damn tank sank. He barely made it out alive. He said he was glad he had to swim to shore because it washed the shit out of his pants.

He gets to shore, and he picks up a rifle. Here's the irony of the whole thing: This is the first time in almost five years in the Army he's actually had to fire a rifle! In fact, he's never fired any kind of small arm in his entire life! He got pulled out of boot camp on the fourth day. None of his other Army schools involved firearms. He trained on the tank's gun, on the tank's machine guns. He's been walking around North Africa for almost a year with a .45 on his hip, he never fired it. And here he is, on Utah Beach, in the middle of D-Day, with a rifle in his hands that he hasn't the faintest idea how to use properly. So, he wound up fighting with the infantry for a week before they got him another tank. He discovered that the best weapon for him was the Thompson sub-machine gun. When the bullets started flying, he would just dump half the mag in the general direction of the enemy and hope that kept their heads down long enough for him to find cover.

So after the breakout they wound up in Hurtgen Forest, which was bad. And when that was finally over they wound up in Luxembourg for their first R&R in December of 1944. He said they went and parked all their tanks in a huge soccer stadium that had been converted into a motor pool. And they all went into town that night and got roaring drunk. And the next morning they got the word: The Germans had launched the Ardennes Offensive. So there they were, all hungover, walking back into the motor pool the next morning, and they all got back into their tanks and drove out. They didn't wind up getting any R&R again until after Christmas.

Over the course of the war he was shot out of nine tanks and lost eleven crew members. He was never injured once. Finally, two weeks before V-E Day, he had been shot out of his last tank and was once again fighting with the infantry when he took a mortar splinter in his calf. He was still recuperating in the field hospital when the war ended. He rode the Queen Mary back home to the States.

He still had time left on his second enlistment, but his calf injury was combat-disqualifying, so he wound up becoming an MP and got transferred out to the Pacific where he spent the rest of the war flying back and forth to the front escorting accused criminals to Hawaii to face court martial. After the war was over he spent the rest of his enlistment as (I kid you not) the pool lifeguard at the officer's quarters at Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. He said it was two of the best years of his life. He had nothing to do but work on his tan and screw the officer's daughters. He got out in 1947.

He never really thought he was a hero or anything. If there was an opportunity to avoid getting shot at, he took it. But he did his part.

 

He was in the 6th Marine Division in Okinawa, and that's the unit he discharged from when his service ended.

He was in a different division for Bougainville, IIRC the 6th didn't exist until Okinawa, or similar.

I remember it was/is the only division to be both formed and disbanded overseas and never exist on US soil.

 

Glad you asked. Yes I did have the pleasure of knowing my great-uncle Bill. He was my fraternal grandmother's only brother. My father, who is a retired college professor, helped Bill write a book of his memoirs back in the early 2000s. Here is a synopsis of his Army life.

Uncle Bill Diehl volunteered for the Army in 1943 when he was 19 years old. He managed to pass his physical despite having had Polio as a child. He spent his first few months Stateside as a clerk, and he liked to tell the story of how when he got his first assignment after Basic someone noticed that he had not had training in the use of a grenade.

So he reported for grenade training and was sitting in the bleachers at the training ground when the instructor "accidentally" dropped a "live" grenade after he had pulled out the pin. It was a fake grenade, of course, but they wanted to see how the troops would react. (A few dove for cover, but most just sat there with dumb looks on their faces).

On his second assignment, some of Bill's paperwork got lost and his file said he still had not attended grenade training and was ordered to go again. This time when he reported for training, he maneuvered himself to a seat on the front row closest to the instructor. Now when the instructor dropped the fake grenade and everyone freaked, Uncle Bill quickly reached down and picked up the fake grenade and hurled it into the training field. The commanding officer happened to be there that day and witnessed Bill’s "heroism", commended him for his actions and said, "Private, if you ever need a favor, come see me."

A few weeks later, when a girl from his home town was in the area and invited him to breakfast, Bill decided it was time to call in the favor. He asked his sergeant for permission to speak to the CO, and the CO remembered “Yes, you’re the young man with the grenade and yes, I did promise you a favor. What can I do for you Private?” Bill began to explain about his breakfast invitation and before he could finish, the CO was on the horn ordering up a car and a driver for Bill and his girlfriend, and said he would pick up the tab for them. And all Bill was going to ask for was just permission to go!

By 1944, Uncle Bill was in Europe, and in late December of that year his family received the distressing news that he was MIA. After two arduous weeks of worry they learned that he was one of many US soldiers who had been captured by the Germans in the Battle of the Bulge. A month later they received a postcard from him via the Red Cross saying he was alive, he was not wounded and was being treated as well as could be expected under the circumstances. But this was the last they'd hear from him for months.

The captured Americans were lined up for inspection by the Germans and were ordered to empty their pockets of all personal belongings. Grown men were in tears as pictures of families and sweethearts were torn to pieces in front of them and tossed in the mud along the side of the road. When the German guard - who himself was not much older than Bill - came to Bill, Bill handed over his all belongings including a small pocket bible his aunt had given his before he left to go overseas. ("You keep this with you at all times," admonished his Aunt Minnie, "and you'll always be safe.") The guard took Bill’s belongings, then paused, looked at the Bible, looked at Bill, looked at the Bible again, then quietly handed the small book back to him. Bill would carry that little Bible with him everywhere for the rest of his life.

The captured Americans were loaded on a train for transport to the POW camp. Now if you paid attention in History class, you'll know that the European winter of 1944-45 was one of the coldest on record. They traveled, 100 men to a boxcar, for five days without food. The only water was a little bit of snow that blew in through the drafty boxcar doors. (Bill would blame his later-in-life problems with kidney disease on that week without food and water. More on that later). One corner of the car was designated as a latrine, but it didn't get much use after the first day; with nothing "going in", there was not much to "come out." The men huddled and slept close together to stay warm; closer than most men would prefer to get with other men. But you do what you have to do to survive.

So for the next four months, Private William A. Diehl was a Prisoner of War. He lived in the Stalag barracks along with his other POW buddies. As he got to know some of the other captives he learned that one of the men from another unit was from the neighboring Pennsylvania town as Bill's and they had some friends in common. They themselves would become lifelong friends. Since food was scarce in the camp, the men made bread out of mashed up potatoes mixed with sawdust (what they called "tree flour" in their own brand of gallows humor) to make it go farther. They improvised gloves and socks from rags, and burned whatever they could to stay warm. During his stay as a guest of the Luftwaffe, this strapping young soldier would lose about 30 pounds of body weight.

This was so far along in the war that the Germans had begun resorting to desperate measures to keep its fighting effort going; measures that included the conscription of senior citizens. The guard on Bill's barracks was a 68 year old man, who didn't even carry a gun. (Most of the small arms had been gathered up and reissued to soldiers on the front lines). Why didn't they try and escape? Because one, there was no place to go without getting caught, and two, if they were caught they'd most likely be shot. It wasn't worth the risk.

But even as POWs, Bill and his comrades continued to fight the war any way they could; mostly through small acts of sabotage. When the POWs were put to work refueling trucks, they made sure that a generous amount of the precious gasoline got spilled on the ground when the guards were not looking. The Germans had also developed a car, a steam powered vehicle that ran on wood chips, which could be used for short-distance travel (thereby freeing up gasoline for the front lines). Uncle Bill was often assigned to a work crew that operated a chipper machine to make fuel for these vehicles. Occasionally, a rock or a piece of steel would "accidentally" fall into the hopper rendering the machine useless for a few days until repair parts could be found. Bill said in retrospect that these little actions probably didn't do much to help the Allied effort, but it helped to keep the morale elevated and let the men think they were making a contribution.

One time a German soldier, a sergeant, asked one of the POWs what he could say in English that would be considered an insult to Americans. Seizing the opportunity to make a fool out of the German, the POW told him to say "San Francisco." So this German sergeant goes about the camp sneering the words "San Francisco" to every POW's face, only to be met with snickers from the G.I.'s and puzzling confusion from the sergeant. When the sergeant tried the "San Francisco" line on Uncle Bill, Bill said he just looked him straight in the eye, put on his best Happy-face, and in a jovial sounding voice, replied "Go to Hell, you Fat-nosed Bastard!" The sergeant smiled, turned, and walked away utterly clueless about what had just been said to him.

In late April of 1945, the POWs were again loaded onto a train for a destination unknown. While they were underway, the train was spotted by Allied aircraft. Unaware that the train was carrying American POWs, the planes attacked. The attack put the train out of commission but unfortunately also killed several G.I.'s. Fortunately, for my family at least, Bill was not one of them. It was then that the POWs made their move: In all the confusion right after the attack they overpowered and killed the few remaining guards, took their weapons and ammunition and headed west towards their best guess as to where they might find friendly forces. They walked by night and by day they slept in the forest to hide their whereabouts from the Germans. They were found two weeks later by a British patrol that told them that Germany had surrendered and the war was over.

The word came down from Command that any men who was not wounded should stay where they were until the Allies could get a foothold in Germany and that every soldier could be accounted for. Bill and his buddies lived in a small German town for the next four months. Bill was taken in by a German woman who lived with her three children. Her name was Marta Siegel and Bill liked her a lot. She reminded him of his mother who had died when he was only ten. Mrs. Siegel was educated and spoke a little English, and by then Bill could get by in German enough that they could communicate. He enjoyed eating dinner with them, doing handyman chores around the house and playing sleight-of-hand games with the children. After the war, he continued to send this family "Care Packages" every month for the next five years.

In September 1945, Bill was again Stateside for discharge from service in the United States Army. He got promoted to Corporal, was issued his back pay for the months while he was held captive, and soon returned to a hero’s welcome in his little Pennsylvania farm town. He went into the quarrying business with his father. This was at a time when Pennsylvania was embarking on an aggressive post-war road-building campaign, and limestone from the Diehl & Son Quarries was much in demand. He married a local girl and they had three children.

Bill’s oldest daughter followed in her father’s footsteps and enlisted in the Army after she finished nursing school. She ended up making a career of the Army, spending most of her time in Germany of all places, until she retired after 30 years at the rank of Lt. Colonel. Around 1985, Bill and his wife made a pilgrimage of sorts to Germany to visit their daughter. Time had assuaged the horrible memories of war and Bill was eager to go visit some of the place he had been 40 years earlier. While he was there, he looked up and located the oldest son of Marta Siegel. The son, now in his 50’s, remembered Uncle Bill and his generosity that had helped get his family back on their feet during those difficult years of post-war recovery.

Uncle Bill became a local celebrity of sorts; a prominent member of the VFW and several local organizations. He was active in several ex-POW groups, counseled ex-POWs from Viet Nam, and once ran for town council (he didn’t win). He was a gifted story teller, and was often asked to speak at many of the local gatherings.

Uncle Bill was a devoutly religious and patriotic man. When his church refurbished its 100-year-old church building Bill noticed that the American flag that had been in the corner near the altar was missing. "Where is the flag?" he asked the church committee. "We removed it because it does not fit the new decor."

Well, that did it. Bill was livid.

He raised such a stink, loud and long to anyone who would listen, that the flag was soon replaced.

During much of the second half of his adult life, Uncle Bill had been plagued with kidney problems; a condition he attributed to a poor diet and the unhealthy water he consumed during his POW days. He had a diseased kidney removed sometime in the 1990s, had been in ill health for several years, and had been undergoing dialysis for the last six years of his life. His doctors did not consider him a viable recipient for a transplant. So in March of 2007 Bill decided enough was enough and decided to take himself off dialysis. He wasn't depressed and hadn't lost his will to live or anything but he was never the fool. He knew that he was not going to be getting any better, he was in a lot of pain, and he had lived longer than anyone ever expected him to. Most people can only get three years of successful treatment from dialysis and Uncle Bill was blessed six, so he knew he was on borrowed time. He said he made his peace with the Lord, and he was ready whenever He was. His family supported his decision and were at his bedside when he passed.

He was buried in the local cemetery with full military honors, rifle salute and all, courtesy of the VFW. In preparation for his wake, his family went up into the attic and found some boxes of old memorabilia from the war. Among the items they found was a Purple Heart medal. No one, not even his wife, knew he had been awarded the Purple Heart. Like many soldiers of that "Greatest" generation, he probably figured "No big deal. We just had a job to do and we did it."

Uncle Bill used to say that when he was a POW, he didn't think he'd live to see his 21st birthday. He died on March 21, 2007 at the age of 82.

Not bad for an old soldier.

 

Gunnery Sergeant Ernie Price, landed 6 beach heads in the pacific, too many stories to share, but he was pulled out of the hospital in Okinawa, put in dress blues to serve in the honor guard welcoming President Truman.
My personal motivator to join the Marines!
My Uncle served as a Chief Petty Officer on a light cruiser in the Meditteranean with the Royal Navy, I still have his medals.
Both WWII

 

My grandpa was part of the 11th Armored trying to break through and get to the guys in Bastogne. He was an artillery spotter.

Somewhere outside of Hubermont Belgium on Jaunuary 4th 1945, he was holed up inside of a structure. They were spotted and started taking fire, and he decided it was best to make a break for it- when he was in the doorway the structure took a direct hit from artillery and blew him clear. When he got up he realized that a decent sized piece of shrapnel (IIRC from relative's stories it was part of a corrugated tin roof) was rather deep in his arm. So he got away through a forest full of Nazis (apparently with a Private with him, also wounded in the blast) to the safety of Allied forces.

He died of a heart condition a month after I was born. I never got to hear any of these stories firsthand.

On a more lighthearted note I also have a picture of one of his brothers leaning up against a Sherman Tank with a Walther P38 in his hands and the biggest, dumbest, proudest shit eating grin on his face.

 

Cool stories.. I've always admired the WW2 gen. And been into the history of it etc. Both my Grandfathers were in WW2.

Altho I'll I agree that gen was a tough bunch.
Sometimes I think we don't give the same level of credit to all who've raised their right hand since, with the same appreciation. There's been plenty of real men since and still here today, who have made many of the same sacrifices.


We have to understand the time periods in general and the differences.. Especially in how during WW2 the whole country and most of the world was behind those men and women who served.

The generations since, have gone on to fight in wars that in most the country/world hasn't stood behind (at least no where near the way it was in WW2). Imagine how they (WW2 gen) would've felt if they'd not had that knowing of a whole country and majority of the world behind them.. Knowing that will bring out the best in men and women alike and raise morale to high levels.. Not having that and feeling and sometimes knowing you're involved in BS half the time you shouldn't be and to have almost no backing and forgotten, is defeating to the morale... So in some essence to fight without that knowing takes more.


But on the same note I totally agree about this huge populous of pussies. The ones we all hear about needing their "safe space", protesting BS etc.. They really are a disgrace to real men and women alike.
If it were left only to them, we'd all be doomed for sure.
If you have been paying attention thru the last bit of years.. There's been a ever so growing programming of certain things thru TV (Kill TV) and other outlets.. It's no wonder this is happening. There's an agenda behind it.

 

This thread is awesome. Cheers to all.

 

Most heroes don't. He was a hero for being there!

 

https://www.instagram.com/p/BVALowtDINK/

 

That is an awesome damn story! Thanks for taking the time to share it. What a career, and with a seriously happy ending, or many of them, it would seem.

I saw that rifle deal coming from the moment they shifted him into the motorcycle duty. Pretty unbelievable they didn't at least give him a one-day crash course first. Job number 1 in the forces, right?

The "funnies" they created for D-Day were something else. The Brits had a bunch too based on the Churchill tank chassis.

I also edited a book on tankers, including the Hurtgen.

As far as hero, anyone who was there and put his life on the line was a hero.

 

Nice!

 

Six beaches in the Pacific? No doubt there are many stories there.

 

Many stories including him saving me losing my rt foot!
I used to go with him grave yard shift to clean up a couple bowling alleys, including the lanes, always had some whiskey with him...

 

It's funny, because that stuck with him. When he came home he turned into a complete gun guy. After he and my mother moved out to California, he joined the National Guard and became an expert marksman, especially with the 1911. He went to the state championships several times in the 1960s, although I don't remember if he actually won anything.