This is a 68 year memoir.
Actually, the 68 years are the interval between two opposing stories.
In late 1945, I was cooling my heels in a place called Camp Cook, California. I had been stationed there ever since my return from Germany in July of that year. My division had performed so well in Europe during the closing days of WWII, that we had been awarded the “honor” of being allowed to spearhead the invasion of mainland Japan on D-Day + 1 on Honshu Island.
Tokyo, the main city of Japan, and the home of their sacred Emperor was our objective and our staging area in the US was Camp Cook, where we were to be reassembled and scheduled for our invasion mission in November of 1945.
It never happened…
The atomic bombs were dropped. Japan surrendered and WWII had ended. Ended officially on September 2, 1945. But, instead of being discharged we were kept in service, in spite of the supposed fact that we were only obliged to serve for the duration of the war. Our government had other ideas, and we were kept from going home and resuming our lives by those in power. Their alleged reason was that they feared the Russians would overrun Europe if we demobilized.
That did not sit well with most of us. We were angry and frustrated that our agreements were violated. Many of us, including me, found ways to express our anger. I was never a model soldier to begin with, but this made me very angry. I became rebellious and my attitude became extremely hostile to the powers that be.
I no longer lived within the bounds of sanity and began doing stuff I would never have dreamed of doing before. I joined groups of guys who created havoc for our offocers and non-coms. We would set up water bombs to drench the 1st Sergeant when he would come through the barracks for wake up call. I, even jumped in the commanding General’s car, stuck my grinning face out the window and had my picture taken. It is included in this story.
Finally, in early 1946, the Army decided to cut us troublemakers loose and sent me back to Fort Dix to be discharged. While there, they asked me if I wanted to reenlist. I said: “Are you kidding?” I never wanted to see the insides of any Army barracks or formation for the rest of my life. I was really angry for all the broken promises they had made. There were many.
So, OK, would you believe it? I finally rejoined my 13th Armored Division in September of 2013. Exactly 68 years after WWII ended. My wife of 62 years had died and I came to the realization that I had some good memories way back in those days, and I really needed all the good memories I could find. Even those mixed in with the bad. I saw a posting in the VFW magazine about my divisional reunion, and in my need for good memories, called and made arrangements to attend.
To make a long story short, it was held in Texas, where I had taken my basic training. I had no fond memories of either Texas or my basic training, but I went anyway.
From the moment I entered the reception room door to this very day, I have had nothing but fond memories. I was greeted with such enthusiasm and respect that all my angry memories evaporated. They were replaced by the long lost camaraderie of my wartime buddies and, more importantly, their families who now attended the reunions.
The camaraderie was so moving that it completely wiped out my anger and replaced it with affection and enjoyment. I was back. I was with my buddies, and not being treated badly by officialdom. Everything so reversed course that I am now President of the 13th Armored Division Association. Me a lowly PFC, now at the head of what is left of my division.
Last September we went to the WWII Museum in New Orleans. The picture shows me with one of my buddies. A Purple Heart Tank Commander. We are passing the reins of our association to our children and grandchildren. They are all for it.
Good Bye Anger – Hello Deep Friendship…