August-September, 1945
Private James T. Colling watched the green fields and orchards of the Belgian countryside roll past the window of his railway carriage. He found it difficult to reconcile what he was seeing with the newsreels of battles that had occurred here only a few months ago. If he had left college to enlist a year earlier, as he had wished, he would have been part of it. As it was, his father had convinced him to finish his second year, and the Germans had surrendered two weeks before classes ended. During basic training, everyone in his company had expected to be part of the invasion of Japan. But for the success of the Manhattan Project, his life, like many others, might have taken an altogether different direction. Now fate, and the unfathomable administrative processes of the U.S. Army, had decided he would be part of the occupation of Germany.
Hostilities in this part of Europe had concluded nearly eight months before, and the first summer of peace for the Belgians in five years was coming to an end. The last remnants of scorched, rusting hulks of trucks and other military vehicles were still sometimes seen, scattered along the sides of the roads that occasionally chanced to parallel the railway tracks. Civilians in small groups were here and there picking over the salvageable remnants, apparently continuing to find bits and pieces that would bring some money from the scrap dealers. Colling calculated that some of them must have been scavenging for almost a year, and winter would probably see the disappearance into some final junkyard of the last, most obvious evidence that armies had once faced each other on this plain.
The fields that ran to the hills on the horizon presented a green contrast to the gray shabbiness of the towns and cities through which the train rolled. For the first time in five years, the farmers would not see their crops requisitioned by an occupying army. It seemed to Colling that they might have come back to the soil with an unusual enthusiasm that boded well for a good harvest.
Here in the countryside, the smell of masonry dust that had permeated the air in the urban areas through which they had passed was absent. The sky itself seemed bluer and clearer. From the way that recent issues of Life and Newsweek portrayed what lay ahead in Germany, Colling expected that the optimism he seemed to sense in Belgium, technically one of the winners in the conflict, would not survive once he crossed the border to the losing side.
He glanced at the five other American soldiers who were his travelling companions. They were slouched in their seats, their eyes closed, sleeping or trying to. From the insignia on their uniforms, he knew that they were Signal Corps men, and their service stripes and ribbons, together with the fact that they were all wearing the new unofficial “Ike” jackets, advertised that they had much more military experience that he. The chevrons on their sleeves also told him that all of them out-ranked him, so that when they had first filed into the compartment in Antwerp, the reticence towards non-commissioned officers he had learned in basic training had prevailed, and he had not initiated any conversation. Other than a nod of acknowledgement in his direction, none of them had said anything before leaning back and closing their eyes or pulling their caps down over their faces.
The railway car in which they were riding had seen better days. Below the window, a piece of plywood served as a patch in its side, and there were other signs that it might have been the target of gunfire in the recent past. The carriage swayed and bounced constantly, confirming the dilapidated state of tracks that had been repaired too many times. Perhaps because of the movement, Colling found himself dozing, and he eventually dropped off into a light sleep.
He had not closed his eyes for nearly 24 hours. He had been too restless to sleep as the transport sailed up the estuary into Antwerp near midnight, and he had gone to stand at the rail with his fellow soldiers, taking in his first impression of the buildings and lights of Europe drifting by. It seemed that simultaneously with the ship’s docking had come the shouted orders to prepare for disembarkation. Leaving the transport did not occur as rapidly. After better than an hour standing packed together on the transport’s deck with their baggage at their feet, the troops were finally bustled down the gangplank to the floodlighted wharf, where non-commissioned officers and port officials wearing black armbands with “Transportation Corps” emblazoned in white were sorting the men out in preparation for the next leg of the journey. More waiting followed. Like everyone else, Colling eventually dropped his duffel bag and used it to sit on, but he was too distracted by the new sounds, sights and smells around him to do so immediately.
The NCOs continued to search their clip-boards and call off names as they directed the men on the quay into groups. It was more than an hour before he heard his name called, and he was directed to a line of fifteen or twenty men. A corporal wearing one of the Transportation Corps brassards called Colling’s group to attention and marched them to the train, where assignments to specific cars and compartments were made. That had been before dawn, and it was now mid-afternoon.
A sudden rough jarring of the car, accompanied by a series of metallic clanking noises, woke him. A stooped gray-haired conductor glanced into their compartment and moved on. A few minutes later, there was the sound of movement and voices in the companionway, and a pair of railway officials wearing a different style of uniform walked past, speaking in German, and he realized that they must be changing crews in preparation for entering Germany.
The stop had awakened his companions, and they were looking out the window and asking where they were.
Colling offered, “Germany, I think. We’re in the British Zone right now. The train crew that just came on was speaking German, and those are British MPs on the platform outside.” He extended his hand to the nearest signalman, “Hi, I’m Jim Colling.”
As he leaned across to shake Colling’s hand, he introduced himself as Joe Vitarelli. The three chevrons with a “T” underneath on his sleeves marked him as a sergeant technician fourth grade. Vitarelli went on to give the names of the other four men seated in the compartment, pointing to each of them as he did so. They, in turn, each gave a short greeting as they shook hands with Colling.
The accents that he was hearing told Colling the men were probably from the New York-New Jersey area. Vitarelli confirmed that supposition when he announced that he and his friends were from New York; then he asked, “Where you from, kid?”
Colling replied, “Wisconsin. A little town called Belle Cors. Most people haven’t heard of it. It’s actually about half-way between Milwaukee and St. Paul, Minnesota.”
Vitarelli gave him a quizzical smile, “You just get drafted?”
“No, I signed up.”
“Jesus, why?”
The other signalmen laughed at the way Vitarelli emphasized the “why?” in his response.
“It was back in June. I figured I had to, and I thought I’d be going to Japan.”
“Lucky for you we got the A-bomb. Looks like the Japs are gonna give up.”
“Yeah,” said Colling, “All the guys in my basic training company actually had orders for the West Coast, and when we went to get on the train, they sent us the opposite direction, to Charleston. There was about twenty of us who were enlistees, and they put us on a steamer for Europe.”
“Well, it looks like none of us is going to see the States for awhile.”
“You guys over here long?”
One of Vitarelli’s friends spoke up, “Ever since ’42. We was all in the National Guard together in New York. Second New York Signal Company.”
“Federalized into the 485th Signal Company,” said Vitarelli, adding, “Yeah, we all joined the National Guard long before Pearl Harbor.”
“By mistake,” said a little corporal sitting near the compartment door.
“Come on, Dobson,” said Vitarelli, “You did it for the money, just like the rest of us.”
“Yeah, Dobson,” said the other tech-four sitting next to Vitarelli, “You liked that check from Uncle Sam. Times was hard.”
“My wife liked it better,” replied Dobson, and the other soldiers laughed.
Vitarelli explained, “I joined the Guard, ’cause it was twenty bucks drill pay every three months, and full Army pay for summer maneuvers. I had a good job with the phone company, but the extra cash was a big help.”
“Yeah, Joe, things was just fine until we got federalized in ’41,” said the tech-four who had spoken earlier. Turning to Colling, he went on, “We got called up in time for the Louisiana maneuvers. That was a crock of shit, I have to tell you. Just like Noah, it rained forty days and forty nights.”
“And now, instead of sending us home, we get to go and rebuild Germany,” said Dobson.
“But you guys have been in a long time,” said Colling. “You should be heading home for discharge.”
“Not the way it works, kid,” said Vitarelli. “We do not have enough points, and you need eighty-five to qualify for discharge.”
“But you’ve been over here for more than three years,” responded Colling.
The tech-four sneered, “Yeah, but in England, not in combat. We’ve spent the last three years giving Scotland the best damn telephone system in the world.”
Vitarelli came back at him; “Right, Al, but at least we weren’t at Normandy, getting our asses shot off.” He turned to Colling, “See, the limeys gave the Air Force all these airfields in Scotland to use, and there wasn’t enough phone lines, so we had to run ‘em. We was all over Scotland, and even down in England some,” and speaking to the other signalmen, he said, “And you guys have to admit it was good duty. Them Scottish lassies was real friendly…especially the ones whose husbands was off fighting the war.”
The signalmen nodded their heads in agreement. Al and Dobson began discussing the comparative virtues of Scottish women versus American girls, versus Italian females, and Colling quietly took it all in. The other signalmen interjected their own opinions, causing the argument to become more intense.
Vitarelli had not joined in, and he leaned back and turned to Colling, “Yeah, well, it wasn’t so bad,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling. “Jesus,” he exclaimed.
Everyone looked up at once to where he was staring. A piece of ragged plywood had been nailed to the ceiling of the compartment, and was now hanging down a few inches, apparently dislodged as a result of the train’s movement and vibration. Daylight could be seen above it.
“Shit,” said Al, “Them’s bullet holes. This here train must have got the once-over from one of our bombers.”
“More likely a P-51 or ’-47 on a strafing run,” said the tech-four whom Colling had heard the others call Hank, with an air of superior knowledge.
Having realized that the top of the car had been penetrated, the men almost as one looked down to see if they had missed corresponding holes in the floor of the compartment. They found it intact.
Colling called their attention to the similar piece of plywood under the window.
“Shit, it’s a wonder this Goddamn train is still running,” said Al.
“You think anyone got killed in here?” asked Dobson, slightly nervous.
“Well, if they did, somebody did a good job of cleaning up the mess,” said Vitarelli. This caused all the signalmen to begin examining the upholstery for bloodstains and bullet holes. Finding none, they continued to speculate among themselves on how many Germans might have been slaughtered by the machine guns of the strafing plane.
Their conversation was cut short when the door to the compartment was slid open by a thin-faced German wearing a dirty raincoat. A soiled shirt collar and threadbare tie showed above the lapels of the raincoat. The man stepped into the crowded compartment and in heavily accented English, asked, “Do any of you wish to exchange for German currency?”
Dobson was the first to speak, “All’s we got is English money.”
“That is good,” said the German. “I can make you trade for German marks. You will need them for the beer and the ladies, now you are in Germany.”
The signalmen began bringing out their wallets. Dobson held out some folded bills to the German, “Here’s five pounds.”
The German pulled a folded leather case from the inside pocket of his raincoat. He began leafing through the banknotes that it held. After extracting several bills, which he quickly counted, he said to Dobson, “Here, my friend, is your money, one hundred marks, Allied Military Currency. Good money for Germany.”
Colling reached up and stopped Dobson’s arm as he was about to hand his money to the German. Staring into the man’s face, Colling spoke in German, “Ein moment, Herr Geldswechsler. If it is correct what I have read in yesterday’s Stars and Stripes, the mark trades properly at ten American cents. At somewhat over four dollars the pound is, making five pounds worth more than twenty dollars. This man here is entitled to over two hundred marks. I fear that you are cheating him.”
With a startled expression, the money-changer backed away as Colling reached for him, and eluding Colling, stepped quickly into the companionway and hurried away.
“What was that all about?” asked Dobson.
“He was getting ready to screw you, I think,” replied Vitarelli.
Colling explained to Dobson that the German was trying to give him half as many German marks as his five pounds would bring at the American Express office, bringing forth a stream of curses and threats to the absent money-changer from the little corporal.
Vitarelli interrupted his diatribe to ask Colling, “Where did you learn to speak Kraut?”
“My dad’s mother,” responded Colling. “She lives with my mom and dad, and they all encouraged me to learn the language. There’s lots of Germans in my home town, and it helped my dad’s business to be able to talk to them.”
Vitarelli asked Colling what business his father was in, and Colling described his father’s drug store in Belle Cors. He told the sergeant how he started out jerking sodas, then moved up to working behind the prescription counter and delivering prescriptions. Vitarelli spoke of his work for the Bell Telephone Company before the war, and of his wife and two children, showing Colling snapshots from his wallet. The other signalmen talked quietly among themselves, dozed or simply sat looking out the train window.
Colling had taken notice in passing of the signs on the railway stations at each stop that revealed that the first German city they had traveled through was Aachen, and that they had then turned south, passing eventually through Bonn. Picturing in his mind the occupation map of Germany that he had seen in Life, he was aware that they had passed through the British Zone and were skirting the French Zone to their west. The conversation in the compartment had distracted him from the scenery outside, and when he and Vitarelli paused in their discussion, he was able to pay more attention to what could be seen from the train window. Destruction was more evident outside than it had been in Belgium, if that were possible. The people he saw looked dirty, tired and despondent, and he realized he was seeing the outward signs of a defeated people. He felt no pity for them, however, having convinced himself that they had chosen leaders who had brought them to this state. Despite his conscious acceptance of their fate, he was unable to shake off a sense of sadness that he had not experienced previously.
Ever since he had left home to go to college, Colling had made it a habit to write his parents at least once a week, and when there was a pause in the conversation with Vitarelli, Colling dug into his bag and brought out the leather folder that held his stationery. As Colling uncapped his fountain pen and started to write, Vitarelli pulled his garrison cap over his face and leaned his head back on his seat. Colling’s last letter home had been mailed the day before he left basic training camp, so Colling filled six pages with a description of the ocean voyage, his arrival in Europe, and his impressions of what he had seen since leaving Antwerp. When he had finished, he placed the addressed envelope in his inside jacket pocket, promising himself he would look for a place to mail it at the next stop.
It was early evening when the transition from open country to shattered buildings and heaps of broken masonry signaled their approach to another German city. At the stops in each major city over the past few hours, a conductor had walked the cars, calling out the place-name. This time was no different, and they soon heard the German shouting a guttural, “Frankfurt Am Main.”
Before the train came to a full stop, they were all on their feet, pulling their bags off the overhead racks. The final lurch threw them against each other, and then, the railway car motionless, they stood waiting, unconsciously whispering in the unaccustomed quiet. Colling shook Vitarelli’s hand, “Nice to have met you, Sarge. I doubt we’ll ever run into each other again, but if you’re ever down in the 61st Division area, look me up.” Vitarelli thanked Colling for saving Dobson’s cash, and hearing him, Dobson repeated his own thanks. A Signal Corps captain came down the companionway, shouting for the 485th. to de-train, and the signalmen shambled out of the compartment. Colling followed close behind, his duffel bag over his right shoulder, and a smaller bag in his left hand.
The signal company was falling into formation on the train platform when Colling stepped down from the car, and he made his way around the milling soldiers, looking for a sign that would direct him to the military transport office.
As Colling made his way along the platform, he saw that there were two large warehouses across the tracks, and the remnants of a rail yard behind the stationhouse. He guessed that the principal railway stations closer to the city center were no doubt flattened, and this outlying station was serving as the Army’s terminal for the city. Behind him, he could hear the shouted commands of the signal company officers marching off their troops as he opened the door marked “Transportation Office.”
A technical sergeant with a bored expression on his face was engrossed in his work at a desk behind the high ticket counter. Something or someone had ripped off the barrier that had been on top of the counter, so that where normally there would have been two or three barred ticket windows, there was now only a flat surface. Colling could see a pink-faced second lieutenant at his own desk, set further back from the counter. Colling eased the weight of his duffel bag to the floor.
“Sergeant, can you tell me when the next train to the 61st Division will be leaving?”
Without looking up from his work, the technical sergeant answered, “No train to the 61st until day after tomorrow. If you want to go to Munich first, you can go tomorrow noon time, but you might not be able to make connections from there back to division headquarters at Landsgau.”
“What about billeting, Sergeant?”
“Closest is at Camp Chesterfield. That’s about three miles that way,” the transportation sergeant said, motioning over his shoulder towards the rail yard. “There ain’t no motor transport running this time of day, so you’ll have to hoof it. Or you can sleep here, but the floor is the best we can offer.”
“I noticed a bench outside, can I sack out there?”
“Yeah, I guess, but there’s four more trains due through here tonight, so you won’t have much peace and quiet.”
“Any place I can mail a letter, Sarge?”
“Yeah, drop it in that wire tray at the end of the counter,” he said, still not looking up from his work.
Colling tossed the letter into the tray, which was labeled “Mail,” hefted his duffel and stepped outside onto the now-deserted platform. In the fading evening light, he observed the open doors of a warehouse on the other side of the tracks from where he stood. The warehouse was well lit, and through the high open freight doors he could see a soldier working at a desk. Colling climbed down from the platform and picked his way across the tracks to the building opposite. He had to throw his bags up onto the loading dock and then boost himself up. His luggage in hand, he walked up to the man at the desk. Closer up, he could see that he had corporal’s stripes. He was also the first Negro soldier that Colling had ever seen. He didn’t look up from the stack of papers in front of him as Colling approached.
“Hi, Corporal. Any chance I can sack out on top of one of those crates over there?” Colling asked, pointing to a stack of wooden boxes.
“Well, sir, I guess you could do that. Makes no mind to me. But it might be better for you to use that cot over there instead. It be a might more comfortable.”
Colling followed the corporal’s gaze, and saw that an area had been curtained off, and several folding cots had been set up. Colling thanked him and carried his gear over. “Does it make any difference which one I take?” he asked.
“Take the one farthest to the back. The others is my crew’s.”
Colling dropped his bags at the foot of the cot that the corporal had indicated. He took off his jacket, and was about to lie down, when he realized he had not eaten since breakfast. “Is there a mess hall near here?”
“Onliest one for white troops is over to Camp Chesterfield.”
“That’s pretty far away.”
“Yep. And probably not serving now anyway. But we got our own rations here. If you wants to scrounge, you might find somepin’ to eat over there,” replied the corporal, pointing to another curtained area half-hidden behind a stack of boxes.
When Colling pulled back the curtain, he saw that a makeshift kitchen had been arranged next to a tap projecting out of the wall over a stone sink, made up of an Army field refrigerator and two hot-plates resting on a table. “Should be some eggs and maybe some ham in the fridge,” called out the colored soldier. Colling discovered that he was correct. He found a frying pan and, in a few minutes, he was wolfing down four scrambled eggs and slices of fried ham. When he finished, he washed the dirty pan, plate and utensils.
“How do you guys get your rations?” he asked.
“Truck come from our battalion mess tent over to other side of the city once a week.”
“You guys sure seem isolated here.”
“Well, we is supposed to have a squad of ten or twelve men, but everybody is having to work unloading and loading over to the main depot. Only me and two others assigned here.”
Colling stepped over to stand beside the Negro. “Need any help?”
“I don’t reckon you know anything about filing, do you?”
“Sure. Just show me what you want, and I’d be happy to do it. By the way, Corporal, my name’s Jim Colling, what’s yours?”
The corporal hesitated a moment, then said, “Woodrow Blackshear.” Colling extended his hand, and they shook hands.
“Well, Corporal Blackshear, let’s get started. What do you need me to do?”
The corporal showed Colling several piles of papers. He explained that the two other men he was supposed to have help him had left on a three-day pass with the permission of their Quartermaster Company’s commanding officer, Captain Quincy. The captain was running the company because the first sergeant had returned to the States, and the closest other NCO, a staff sergeant, was at the supply depot six miles away. Captain Quincy was white, and disposed to be lenient to his colored enlisted men, and Blackshear was not pleased that he had given both his men passes at the same time.
Colling quickly grasped the filing method as the Negro explained it, and began working on the stack of papers. He worked steadily, distracted only by the trains that rattled in and out of the station through the night. It was nearly 22:00 when he pushed the last of the supply requisition forms into a file folder and placed it into a file cabinet. He was taking his first real break of the evening, drinking a cup of coffee that he had brewed in the makeshift kitchen, when the corporal spoke to him, “Don’t often see a white soldier willing to help out a colored soldier, Mr. Colling.”
“I’m not a ‘mister,’ Corporal. For crying out loud, you out-rank me.”
“Well, anyway, I wants to thank you.”
“My pleasure. After all, you’re giving me a place to sleep. And it looks like I’ll be here all day tomorrow, so if there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”
“Does you know how to type?”
“Yep, and run a mimeograph machine, too.”
“Lord say! You must be heading to be a company clerk.”
“Nope. Just a rifleman. In basic training, I didn’t make a big deal of the fact I could type. My dad was in the First War, and he advised me never to volunteer for anything.”
Corporal Blackshear declared their work done for the day, and as he was pulling the warehouse doors shut and cutting off the lights, Colling undressed and slipped into his own cot.
The sound of the doors sliding open on their rollers the next morning woke him from a sound sleep. Blackshear greeted him cheerfully, “Good morning. The latrine is over to the back there. Krauts was pretty fancy. They’s a shower in there if you wants to clean up.”
The tiled shower did not have hot water, but the spray was welcome nevertheless. Colling dug out a clean shirt from his duffel bag, and sat down to eat the breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast that Blackshear had fixed for them. As they ate, the Negro corporal explained that the warehouse they were in was used to stock furniture and miscellaneous items. The main supply depot he had mentioned the night before was located in a larger freight yard, and handled food, clothing and other materiel.
When Colling asked about gas and ammunition, Blackshear reminded him that the Ordnance Corps was responsible for those. Blackshear went on to describe how he was unable to transfer the information from the many requisitions that had been received to the manifest forms required to ship out the items. He figured he was about a week behind because he had to use the “hunt and peck” method of typing. He had been working on filling out the forms when Colling had arrived. Neither of Blackshear’s helpers could type either, but they would be able to pull the ordered items together for shipment, once the manifests were ready.
Colling told him that if he would show him what needed to be done, he would help him.
Colling quickly discovered that completing the forms was not particularly difficult. While his typing was not as skilled as a trained stenographer’s might have been, he was able to finish most of the manifests fairly quickly, especially if only one or two items had to be listed. For lengthier requisitions, producing the finished paperwork was a more burdensome task.
The arrival of the first train of the day interrupted his concentration, and he took the occasion to have another cup of coffee. He watched the usual flurry of activity as troops were unloaded and marched off to their destinations. It did not seem to Colling that any soldiers ever boarded a train, and he considered that the next day, he might be the first to do so. When the locomotive pulled out of the station, Colling noticed two figures standing on the platform. The two newly arrived soldiers seemed to be trying to figure out what they were going to do next, when Colling shouted over to them.
“You guys waiting for the train to the 61st?”
“Yeah,” replied one of them.
“If you don’t want to hike over to Camp Chesterfield, why don’t you come over here? We got a place to sleep, and food.”
The two men clambered down from the platform and crossed the tracks carrying their duffel bags. Colling gave each of them a hand up onto the warehouse loading dock. He asked, “What outfit in the 61st are you guys headed for?”
The taller of the men responded, “Sixty-first Quartermaster Battalion,” as he offered his hand to Colling. “I’m Jim Hendricks, and this is Wally Prentice.”
“My pleasure,” said Colling, introducing himself and Corporal Blackshear. The two soldiers seemed surprised to see the Negro, and Colling thought it best to keep the conversation moving. He explained that he had been helping Blackshear with his paperwork, and that he would greatly appreciate Hendricks’ and Prentice’s assistance, since they were probably more familiar with quartermaster procedure and forms than he was.
Hendricks walked over to the typewriter that Colling had been using, and examined the form that was still rolled into it. He commented, “Looks to me like you’re doing okay. A couple of overstrikes, but most supply sergeants overlook those.”
Colling offered the two men coffee, which they gratefully accepted. As they drank, Colling spoke quietly, seeming to want to keep their conversation from the Negro corporal, who was stacking crates as he assembled an order. “This colored guy has been real nice to me, guys. There’s cots here, a shower, and he’s got a kitchen where we can fix our own food. It was a lot better for me than walking all the way to Camp Chesterfield. He’s really not a bad guy, and he needs help. I don’t know how you feel about it, but I would appreciate it a lot if you could give us a hand.”
“Hell, Jim,” Hendricks said to Colling, “We ain’t got nothing against coloreds. If this setup is as good as you say, I got no objection to doing what we can. It’s better than hanging around over at that train station.” Prentice nodded his agreement and the two men asked what they could do to help.
As the day progressed, the two quartermaster soldiers took over the typing, and Colling and Blackshear worked at pulling together each of the orders and separating them for shipment. Some of the containers were heavy, and as Colling worked up a sweat, he stripped off his shirt and worked in his undershirt.
At one point, Colling noticed several large wooden crates with the name ?