When it became clear beyond any doubt that Brest and the Crozon peninsula were both in hand, we moved to bivouac areas near the town of Morgat, close to the sea, where hot food awaited us. That night we had blankets to keep our teeth from chattering and pup tents to keep us dry. It was warm and good to relax, to rest, to feel reasonably sure we would see the sun rise.
Our first morning in the bivouac area, a group of men asked if we could make up a swimming party. The battalion commander, Colonel Casey, was reluctant at first, hesitant to risk losing men by drowning, but I assured him I had been a lifeguard most of my life and would make sure nothing happened.
“I’ve been responsible for their safety for the past two months in some pretty tight spots, so I guess I can be responsible for them when they’re having fun,” I said. The Colonel agreed.
I rushed back with the good news but they had anticipated me and were ready to go. We walked down to the water and then along a sandy beach until we came to a particularly pleasant spot. The men stayed out of the water while I dived in to make a preliminary search, for the entire strip of beach was studded with German defenses against attack from the sea, tall poles with land mines and shells attached to them, great iron tetrahedrons, and other obstacles. But in this spot there were no mines or obstacles other than those above water which we could see. The men quickly skinned out of their uniforms and plunged in with a raucous chorus of whoops and yells.
Though the sun was warm, the water was brisk, for now it was September. We ran in and out of the water, as naked as the day we were born. All along the beach men from other units began following our example, piling their uniforms on the sand and taking advantage of the water and the magnificent day.
The taste of salt water in my mouth and the fresh feel of the breeze on my face created an overwhelming case of homesickness within me. Staring out across the endless ocean, I wishfully believed I could see Eleonore far away at the water’s edge in Long Beach, looking toward me. I had a tremendous desire to become the first soldier ever to go AWOL by swimming the Atlantic Ocean.
Our antics in the surf meanwhile drew a gallery of French civilian sightseers. Though our spectators were of all ages and both sexes, they all seemed equally oblivious of our somewhat exposed condition. Realizing that they were some little distance from us, I excused their disregard, but I never could understand the motives of one young Frenchman who walked along the beach with a pretty young mademoiselle. Hand in hand, they strolled right among us. The only explanation I could hit upon was that the Frenchman must have been sure of his own physical proportions and was trying to prove to his companion that he was quite a man by comparison.
The peace of our spot gradually disappeared as more and more men arrived for a swim or a stroll. Nor did it help when some of our artillery units began using a small strip of land out in the water as a target for zeroing their weapons. That kind of spoiled it, so somewhat reluctantly we put on our clothes and headed back toward the bivouac area.
For the next few days we were able to return to the beach every day. Entertainment units also visited us, and in a nearby town movies were shown. One night Jack and I made the long hike into Morgat for a movie. As we waited for the film to begin, a happy buzz of conversation filled the building. Gradually, as the makeshift theatre became jammed with men and the show still failed to begin, the buzz changed to wisecracks, then to whistles, catcalls, and stomping of feet.
A hapless Special Services officer finally responded.
“Men,” he announced apologetically, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but we’re having trouble with our generator. We’ll start the show just as soon as we can.”
By this time night had fallen. We sat in pitch darkness, shifting restlessly in our seats, eager for the film to begin, when off in a corner somebody began to sing. Here and there over the hall lusty voices joined in until the air vibrated with song. There was no leader, and even had there been one, we could not have seen him, for the only light in the building came from myriad cigarettes glowing and subsiding—but no sooner did one song end than another began.
We ran through a vast repertoire of familiar songs, some from World War I, others from World War II, some with no wartime connotation. Then from somewhere rose a clear, resonant voice—
“God Bless America! Land that I love.”
Others joined in. The volume swelled, loudly, proudly, confidently.
“Stand beside her, and guide her . . .”
Warm little prickles ran along the back of my neck.
“God Bless America! My home, sweet home!”
When it was over, no one spoke. The faintest whisper would have sounded like thunder in the silence which settled over the hall—a deep, penetrating, reflective silence.
At long last a brazen, raucous voice piped up with a shout.
“To hell with France! Give me Brooklyn!”
The audience broke into a spontaneous cheer.
For two hours we sat in the building waiting for the film to begin, but in the end the Special Services officer had to return and confess failure. We drifted out into a dark street and slowly picked our way along the road back to our tents.
We had seen no movie, but the evening had not been wasted.
I got paid during this interval of rest, my first pay in several months. Before leaving the States, I had arranged for Eleonore to receive the majority of my pay in the form of a monthly allotment, but despite this, I had managed to accumulate about 9,600 francs. This amounted to approximately $ 196. Yet when you have nothing to spend it for, money means nothing. I sent the entire amount home.
I used the francs from the Jerry wallet I had picked up to buy a Post Exchange (PX) ration for my platoon. This paid for plenty of candy, cigars, and the like. While visiting regimental headquarters, I also managed to liberate a number of cans of sardines and a few bottles of wine. I took these back concealed under my field jacket and we had a feast.
We had no way of knowing as we ate, but this was in the way of a farewell ceremony for me. Word came shortly after we finished that I was to be transferred from the platoon to become executive officer of Company E!
If my men were not genuinely upset, they put on an excellent show to that effect. They even got up a petition to the battalion commander, asking him to rescind the order, but I talked them out of it. I knew the reason for the order. In the fighting at Tal-ar-Groas, Easy Company had lost all its officers. Colonel Casey had taken Bob Fay from his job as S-2 on the battalion staff to take command of the company. In looking around for an executive officer he had settled on me because he was aware that most of my training experience had been with a rifle company. Besides, the appointment was somewhat of a promotion since the executive officer takes over as company commander if the occasion demands.
I was naturally touched at the efforts of the men in the platoon to keep me, but I did not kid myself that it was all personal attachment. We had been through a lot together and, in the process, had suffered fewer casualties than any other platoon in the battalion. Every man likes to stay with a lucky combination; my men were no exception. As a parting gift they presented me a tiny pair of wooden shoes which each man autographed.
I never received a finer gift from a finer bunch of men.
About the same time I shifted to Company E, the entire regiment moved back to the heart of the Brittany peninsula near Landernau. This brought an end to the swimming and produced an increase in the work that came my way as Executive Officer of the company. With the lull in combat, we naturally had to catch up on the small mountain of paper work that had been piling up steadily. My unfamiliarity with the men of the company added to the problem. Fortunately, I had the whole-hearted assistance of the best first sergeant I ever met in the Army, Fred E. Foy, a North Carolinian. Sergeant Foy was a little older than most of us. He had seen years of service, knew his job, and did not have to be prompted to carry it out. It would be a long time before I lost the feeling that I was merely a novice in many respects in comparison with Sergeant Foy.
Rest and relaxation were over; rules and regulations took their place. We had a definite time for reveille each morning. Training schedules went into the planning stage and were to include such comparatively dull subjects as “Military Courtesy and Discipline.” Rumors began to percolate throughout the regiment that the 8th Division was to see no more combat but was to train for a role in the Army of Occupation. The rumor sounded so good that we embellished it with each new day and passed it along to anyone who would listen.
The emphasis on garrison soldiering reached a climax when we polished up for a regimental parade and review. Though the very thought of a parade was abhorrent, we tempered it with the feeling that things could be a lot worse. Then we learned we had to make a 21/2-hour march to the parade ground. By the time we arrived and put in an hour of practice, we might have welcomed a few big artillery shells to bring the thing to a halt. To make matters worse, it rained hard most of the day. Yet we did get a certain amount of satisfaction out of it all when our new company commander, Lieutenant Fay, was awarded a Silver Star. We felt the company was in good hands when we saw the division commander pin this medal on him for gallantry in action back in Normandy.
A minor miracle took place when someone authorized passes to visit the town of Landernau. Jack and I got on the pass list, determined to see what a French town looks like when you don’t have to fight your way into it first. But when we got there all we saw were long rows of olive-drab clad soldiers lonesomely wandering the streets or sitting around talking and trading with hopelessly-outnumbered Frenchmen. Here and there a lucky GI passed with a girl on his arm, but usually he came in for merciless razzing because his date’s entire family brought up the rear as chaperones.
Hardly had we returned to our bivouac when we learned that the wishful rumors of the past few days had been no more than just that. Orders had come that we were to prepare for another move, this time by train across France, and get back in the fighting.
In preparation for the move and approaching winter we drew warm clothing, and I even managed to find an overcoat to fit me —a notable achievement. Service Company also sent our barracks bags forward. This proved to be for many a cruel, disheartening experience. First we had to cull out the bags of those who had been killed or wounded. Then when we arrived at our own, many found that their bags had been rifled. Since the bags had been held in our own regiment’s care all the time, this meant that our own men were guilty of stealing. The bitterness felt toward whoever was guilty exceeded anything we might have demonstrated toward an ordinary thief, for we felt that the men of Service Company, privileged to have comparatively safe jobs, should have shown some respect for those who were doing the actual fighting. Some of the men lost genuinely valuable articles. Jack, for example, lost an expensive wrist watch. My own belongings arrived intact, probably because nothing of mine would fit anybody else.
Thus, with mixed feelings we packed our belongings and prepared to move to the railroad marshalling yard. It was a long hike over rough roads, and because the regiment’s vehicles had already left in convoy for the journey across France, we had to carry all our equipment—sweating, swearing and stumbling every foot of the way.
When we struggled into the railroad yard and got our first look at our transportation, it was quite a shock. We were to travel in small, battered, dirty freight cars. On the sides of them were the words that had become so familiar a generation before during World War I:
40 Hommes
8 Chevaux
Translated: 40 men; 8 horses!