Taught to Kill: An American Boy's War from the Ardennes to Berlin

Lay That Pistol Down, Babe

Lay That Pistol Down, Babe z Half my three-year World War II military indenture, from 1943 to 1946, was served at camps or forts that trained infantry replacements. All ten million Americans who were in the service during World War II went through ‘‘Basic,’’ ‘‘Boot Camp,’’ or some sort of military orientation. For many, it was a harsh and cruel transition from life back home. Only combat itself justified the rigors and discipline of being taught to serve as a foot soldier. The lessons were strict, the rewards few. Infantry Basic took place in ‘‘camps,’’ if the facilities were constructed especially for use during the war, and ‘‘forts’’ if they were permanent military installations. I yearned to serve in a more hospitable arm, and bucked for transfer to several safe-haven noncombatant services such as the quartermaster or signal corps. I finally escaped replacement-training camps only to end up in a rifle company in an infantry division designated for overseas duty. I had ‘‘out-clevered’’ myself with all my maneuvering. Regularly stripped of newly trained men shipped out as replacements in various war theaters, several infantry divisions, including mine, the Seventy-eighth, started to rebuild permanent combat rosters of fresh candidates qualified to serve in battle. The 3 4 Taught to Kill nation’s manpower pool of top-quality physical and mental specimens had been depleted as priorities grew for a European campaign that started on D-Day, June 6, 1944. The United States was finding the enemy very stingy about giving up ground, hedgerows , and villages as our troops came ever closer to the fatherland. Exacting physical or mental qualifications for combat candidates gave way to expediency. One sardonic T-5 medic told us that the doctor he worked for looked down a man’s throat while he, the medic, looked up his ass. Only if they could see each other was the man rejected. I had been called up in April 1943 from Voluntary Enlisted Reserve status to active duty. Initial routine basic training was followed by selection to participate in the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP). The Army determined that some privileged college students should be earmarked for further training. Many of us were sent to accredited colleges for advanced study. Some were accepted in special programs to become Air Corps or Signal Corps officers. Others engaged in studies to repair equipment, operate motor pools, even become cooks and bakers. Then, in mid-April 1944 came the abrupt termination of academic privilege. All trainees were ‘‘washed out’’ and sent to the infantry, with the purpose of providing fresh leadership and high intelligence to the combat commands. We were suddenly destined to be tomorrow’s cannon fodder. Most bitter were the Army Air Force cadets, who were washed out even though they were competent and well into flight training . There were quite a few men with a ‘‘T’’ below their corporal’s or sergeant’s stripes indicating that they were specially trained technicians in the Signal Corps, cooks’ and bakers’ school, or mechanical repair disciplines. Now they were all simple soldiers: infantry riflemen. The bottom of the barrel had been scraped to include marginalbehavior incorrigibles, perennial AWOLs and the woefully illiterate who signed their names with an X. By combining the brightest and best with the teenagers and deadbeats, the Army sought a mix that could become a cohesive fighting unit with potential leadership blood in its ranks We were taught Infantry tactics by old Reg- Lay That Pistol Down, Babe 5 ular Army noncoms (cadre) who had long ago dismissed all thought of actually practicing in real war what they taught in peace. We were consistently abused, bullied, and demeaned. Our First Sergeant, an old-timer, was the most miserable prick I was to meet in the service, and that’s going some! I am not sure I knew his proper name even back then, for we called him either Sergeant, Top or, behind his back, Slewfoot. He looked like a battle-scarred veteran, if his facial contours were any indication. It looked like his lower jaw had been shot away, leaving above it a beak-like nose over a drooping upper lip that was adequate to cover both upper and lower teeth. Although he had the look of an experienced combat leader, he had never heard a shot fired in anger. He resembled an almost comical, cartoon likeness...