War Letters

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WWII wartime letters reveal doomed GM military romance.
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sr71plt
sr71plt
3,010 Followers

Now that he'd gotten this far with it—contacting the man and driving all the way up to Gettysburg from Washington, D.C.—Hal Collins was having second thoughts. He arrived at the house fifteen minutes early, but drove right by it and pulled over to the curb two blocks farther on. Several minutes later, the pain in his hands registered in his brain, and he realized he'd had a death grip on the steering wheel. He took his hands away and popped his knuckles.

The old wooden cigar box was sitting on the passenger seat beside him. He remembered seeing it in the bottom drawer of the general's desk in his study, when he was a boy and the family was visiting the general, his grandfather. While the older folks sat out on the porch and talked, Hal would sneak into his grandfather's study, which was stuffed with memorabilia from three wars his grandfather had fought in: World War II, the Korean Conflict—as it was called until recent decades when it was finally given the respect of having been a war—and Vietnam, which his grandfather had fought from the Pentagon, having been called back into duty from retirement. Generals were always subject to being recalled, and Hal's father was a symbol of extraordinary bravery, honor, and service.

But the general never would talk to his family about his war service. Hal's father—and later Hal—had to find out about the general's war service and the stories behind all of his medals and citations through magazines articles from the time, or, like Hal did, while his parents and the general chatted on the porch, by surreptitiously going through his grandfather's study.

For some reason, although Hal always checked that the wooden cigar box, closed by two rubber bands, was always in the bottom drawer of the desk, he never, while his grandfather was alive, had had the courage to open it.

After his grandfather's death—ironically from lung cancer contracted by chain smoking the same cigar brand of what Hal thought of as the general's secret box—Hal's father had quickly packed up all of the memorabilia and sent it off to the general's regimental museum.

For years Hal had kept thinking about the box and wishing he'd had the courage to open it to see what was inside when he was a child. When his own father died, Hal was surprised to find the box—the same one; he'd memorized every torn scrap on its sides and top—tucked away in his dad's attic along with other things Hal knew were very private to his father.

The rubber bands no longer were on the box. Now it was closed with thick string. His father must have opened the box and seen what was inside. He must have read the few notes that were inside, crudely penciled on yellowed paper and secured with a black ribbon.

And when Hal read those notes, he was glad he hadn't read them until now and he knew why both his grandfather and his father had kept them secret—and, most of all, why his father hadn't sent them off to the regimental museum with everything else. Underneath these ribbon-wrapped notes was a short letter from his own father, addressed to Hal. His father not only had kept the notes, but he had known that Hal would find them.

Hal: As it is evident that you have now found and read of your grandfather's secret, I turn over to you the request that he made of me but that I was not equipped—either emotionally or by nature—to fulfill, as you are. You can understand all of this better than I can, I'm sure, and are much better able to decide what to do about this. The enclosed notes were written to your grandfather when he was a young army officer during the Allies' Anzio invasion in World War II, when his unit marched from the boot of Italy to Germany. At the last, the general begged me to find what had happened to the young private who wrote these notes, Benjamin Montgomery, and to pass on the general's highest regards and appreciation and his apologies to Montgomery or his surviving descendents, if any.

I had no idea what he meant before I found and read the notes. When I did find them, I regretted having promised to try. And I put off trying until it was too late for me. But by then, I knew you would be the one to fulfill this request, if anyone could or would. Both because of who you are and because you have the means of searching the records from the Pentagon. So, I leave it entirely up to you on what you can or wish to do about this.

Dad

Hal sighed, picked up the box, opened the car door, and started walking back to the house wherein lived Benjamin Montgomery's grandson. It had taken some time to trace him through the Pentagon files, but Hal had done so. He now wished he hadn't been persistent in doing so. He had assumed he would find nothing, and then when he did, he assumed that Montgomery's grandson wouldn't have any interest in a few notes his grandfather had written in World War II.

He had called ahead and he had said the minimum he thought necessary to be able to claim—to himself—that he'd done what he could to fulfill his grandfather's death wish. But the young man on the other end of the line, Bud Montgomery, had surprised him. There had been a pause before he had spoken.

"General Henry Collins? Yes, I know of him. You say you have some notes from my father, sent to him in World War II?

"Yes, and I promised my grandfather when he was dying to try to track down what had happened to your grandfather in life and to pass on his regards, appreciation, and—he said—his apologies. It might be enough to have done this over the telephone . . ." Hal certainly hoped it would be enough, and he had now passed on the three things the general had asked for, so this would be enough for Hal. "There are just a few notes, probably in your grandfather's hand. But you may not want those, and perhaps just this connection over the telephone is enough." Hal hoped the young man wouldn't want the notes. It was bad enough that Hal knew about them and had read them.

"Where are you?" the young man answered. "I think we should meet."

"I'm in D.C., but I can come to you, if you wish," Hal said, hoping that the young man didn't wish. "But perhaps a meeting isn't . . ."

Hal had done what his grandfather had wanted. He didn't really want to get any further into this.

"I think we should meet. I think I have the notes your grandfather sent mine in this exchange."

Oh shit, Hal thought. "Maybe we should just leave this . . . I don't think it would do either of our families any good to . . ."

"It's fine, Colonel Collins," he answered. "This need go no further than the two of us, but I loved and respected my grandfather, just as I'm sure you must have yours to be doing this. I think we owe it to them to put these notes together, if they do go together, just to give them both some peace and closure."

And thus Hal found himself knocking on the door of a neat little bungalow on the edge of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

A trim, handsome young man met the door. "Colonel Collins? I'm Bud. Please come in. The living room's over there. Would you like to have a beer?"

While the young man was getting the beer, Hal entered the living room, which was minimally but neatly furnished. He sat on the sofa and looked around. There were photographs across the room on a table. A wedding photograph, obviously of Bud Montgomery and a pretty, young blond woman. And a few others, of a couple of older couples—their respective parents? And a more recent one of Bud and his wife and two small children. And one of an older, but handsome man. The Benjamin Collins of the notes?

Despite the table full of photos, Hal got the distinct impression that he was alone in the house with Bud Montgomery.

After bringing in the beers, Bud left for a few minutes and then came back with a small wooden box—not a cigar box, but obviously an old one. He took a small stack of folded, yellowing paper out of it, and sat on the sofa next to where Hal was sitting, the general's cigar box in his hand.

"Well, if these are the two parts of a story, we'd best see what the story was," Bud said.

"Are you sure?" Hal asked. "The notes I have are very . . ."

"From what I have here, I have no illusions about what these represent," Bud answered.

And so, they began.

* * * *

"It would be suicidal, Major. And it would be cruel to the soldiers who we know won't last the night or beyond tomorrow. We need to let them die and peace. Then in a couple of days we could—"

"It's what regimental headquarters wants, Captain. We must move with the regiment and they are moving on from the Monte Cassino area."

Captain Collins knew that Major Dunlap was lying about that. Collins was the "Sparks"—the commo operator—for the unit of fifteen soldiers of the 157th who had been assigned to maintain the wounded until the ambulance corps unit could catch up with them. And since they'd been assigned those duties and managed to pull the wounded up to this warren of caves around the base of the mountain that the Monte Cassino monastery supported, all hell had broken out on the battlefield below. They hadn't heard from regimental headquarters for two days. A German artillery unit had advanced to support the Italians, and Captain Collins strongly suspected there wasn't a 157th regiment anymore.

The unit had landed in Oran, Africa, in June of 1943 to stage for the invasion of Italy at Anzio at the end of January 1944. The landing had gone well, but by early February, as the regiment worked its way up the peninsula, the Germans began throwing everything they had left at the invasion force and the 157th had stalled at Monte Cassino, seventy miles short of Rome.

So, Dunlap and Collins were the officers of a fifteen-man unit guarding thirty-two wounded soldiers in a series of caves opening up onto a broad ledge. The wounded, a good third of which would inevitably die soon, were stashed in the caves. The fifteen combat-capable soldiers were pulling eight-hour shifts of five men each at positions near the edge of the ledge, watching for Germans or Italians, while five soldiers maintained a mess and other support needs and the other five were sleeping in a cave dedicated to their needs. Dunlap and Collins each had a shallow cave for their own billet.

The ambulance unit consisting of seven medics had reached them less than an hour previous to the disagreement conversation between the major and the captain near the entrance to the cave holding the terminally ill. To the major's great disappointment they arrived with no news of the rest of the regiment's disposition or condition.

Major Dunlap was about to reiterated the order to prepare the men to move out, when the head medic, a corporal, came out of the cave.

"We have assessed the wounded, Major," he reported. "Three of the soldiers will die within the next couple of hours, and I doubt that five others will last the night."

"That's unfortunate, Corporal, but we must be on the move to meet up with the regiment."

"How far will that be?" the corporal asked.

Captain Collins, who had been turned away from this discussion, turned back and said, "We have no idea how far it is. We have no idea where the regiment is now. Or do you know, Major?"

The major looked irritated—but also fairly called. "No, it will be up to us to find them."

"Many of the wounded can't move on their own, Major," the corporal said. "We've just done our assessment. Now we have to dress the wounds. Some of the soldiers still have bullets in them. It will be hours before we can stabilize the wounded."

"And by then it will be dark," Captain Collins said. "We will stand less of a chance finding the regiment through enemy territory in the dark than in the light. And, as I said, it would be cruel to force march men who will be dead, one way or the other, in the morning—and the able-bodied soldiers can't fight, as needed, with two wounded men each on their back."

The major's face was beet red. He didn't like to be second-guessed, even by clear logic. But the logic, in fact, was clear.

"Very well. We will reassess the situation at dawn tomorrow. But I then want us on the move by noon."

Collins and the corporal watched the major stalk off. They turned and looked at each other. Both were fine-looking men, the captain in his late twenties and the corporal, by the look of him, barely twenty-two. They each shook their heads, giving the other a sympathetic look, and walked off to perform their respective duties.

It was late afternoon on February 12, 1944.

That evening, Captain Collins found a note that had been placed under his pillow that gave him some comfort that his near insubordination with the major earlier that day had not gone by without some form of support from the men of the unit.

Shouldn't be doing this, I know, but just wanted you to know that most of us guys are with you on this, Cap. Some of the man we have here are too shot up and played out to be on the move just yet—some of them forever, and it would just be cruelty to bring those men even more pain in something that isn't going to save them. Just want you to know you aren't alone in this, even tho none of the rest of us have a say in anything.

The next day dawned with no further contact from the regiment, two soldiers that had to be buried in the soft soil at one edge of the ledge, and a heavy fog enveloping the mountain. The fog helped them in the respect of making it less certain that any of the remnants of the German and Italian forces roaming around—the enemy having suffered as much in the battle as the Americans had—would find them under those conditions. They still could hear the occasional sound of rifle shots. But the German artillery was silent, and perhaps on the move up the peninsula. The 157th was a vanguard regiment in the march up from Anzio. Soon wave after wave of American forces would be in the area. This was why Captain Collins favored staying put. They could always catch up to the 157th later, he reasoned with the major.

The fog hurt them in the respect that it brought the disagreement between Major Dunlap and Captain Collins even more in the open. There really was no place they could go and not be overheard if the major insisted on blustering his position. And the major did insist on blustering his position.

The fog stayed with them all day, though, and by late afternoon the major had to admit that they were going nowhere that day. Two more of the critically wounded had died in the night and two beyond that during the day.

"But what about those with only minor wounds?" the major asked the medic corporal.

The corporal called out a young private, who looked barely old enough to be at war out of the cave were the less-critical soldiers were being treated. The private was shy, although he managed a smile at Captain Collins when he emerged from the cave. "The major has asked about the progress of the health of the minimally wounded, Private Montgomery. Please report. How many of them would be ready to march tomorrow—and to fight, if need be."

The private flared up a bit at the question, glaring at the major probably a bit more than the major would tolerate if the soldier were directly under his command, but he calmed down as quickly as he had shown irritation. "Most of the men not in the critical care area could probably march tomorrow, sir. But I doubt if more than a dozen of them could point rifles steadily. Perhaps a few more days and—"

"Thank you, Private," Major Dunlap said with an icy voice. "You may go back to your patients now."

Once again the private gave Captain Collins a smile as he turned and fled back into the cave.

That night Collins received yet another handwritten note under the pillow of his pallet, which gave him encouragement to hold off on the withdrawal from the caves.

Stand up to the major, Cap. There are enough of us who will stand behind you on this. The caves are the best place to be in this until the fighting gets beyond us. We got more sick and wounded here than we got men who could fight. We didn't march all the way up from Anzio to Monte Cassino just to get out in the open for Krauts and Spics to pick us off. There's nothing cowardly about it. I, for one, would pick up a gun and join it out there if you tell me to but none of us medics can be doing that and caring for the wounded soldiers and carrying them out of these caves on our backs at the same time. You are told the major right about that.

One who cares and stands behind you.

Late that night, not being able to sleep, Captain Collins had left his cave and was standing by the entrance into the critical care cave, chancing smoking a cigarette to calm his nerves. He normally wouldn't have considered doing this at night, but the fog had settled in again, and he doubted that a lighted tip of a cigarette could be seen at the edge of the ledge from here, let alone down the mountainside.

He thought he heard a strange noise from inside the critical cave—like perhaps one of the patients choking—and instinct drew him into the entrance way. He stopped there, though, instantly understanding what was happening at a pallet over in a corner.

The young soldier on the pallet was one who had been thought not to be alive this morning, but he was still alive. One of the medics was kneeling beside him. The medic had unbuttoned his fly and had his cock out, and the dying soldier was sucking on it, while the medic had his hand inside the fly of the soldier and was stroking his cock.

Collins wasn't surprised. There had been indications about this solider earlier, the one who was dying, but nothing definitive had been established. It was clear from what Collins could see and hear that what the medic was doing for the dying soldier was an act of solace. Regulations, of course, demanded immediate charges and punishment for both of the soldiers. But, muttering "fuck it" under his breath, Collins just turned and left the cave.

Exhausted, he was able to fall into a deep sleep on his pallet for the few hours left in the night. When he awoke, he found another note—in the same hand and on the same lined notebook paper as the two earlier notes—laying on top of his mess kit. The note thanked him for turning his eyes away from what he had spied in the night, and for not reporting the incident.

Just want to thank you for understanding, Cap. There's lots of ways to take care of the wounded and dying. It's not being less of a man to be human and carrying with all this shit going on. Private Craig is on his way out. He knows that. Jimbo knows that. If Jimbo allows him to get what comfort and pleasure is left in life that ain't up to no one but the two of them and God, I say. It's war, and it's still bad out there. Krauts everywhere and the Spics are just shooting at anything that moves. We're probably all gonna die. Probably none of us are going back to a regular life as the Bible tells us to do.

Thanks—for the private Jimbo's caring for in the best way he can see and for the remaining time the private has—for just overlooking it and not telling the major. Everything about where we are and can't get out alive is unnatural. And we're stuck with everything. So, nothing's unnatural here.

With the greatest respect,

Private Benjamin

When Collins checked the next morning, he found that Private Craig had died an hour earlier. Collins also now knew who had been sending him the notes. This one was signed by the private who had been called out to report the combat readiness of the less critical wounded, Private Montgomery. He had signed the note "Private Benjamin," but the only Benjamin in the caves was Private Montgomery.

Other news he received that morning was that Major Dunlap had taken two soldiers and set off on his own to reconnoiter the area, still being hot to lead the unit off the mountain and to meet up with the 157th. This was fine with Collins except for the part of not having been informed that the major was doing this. It was a clear sign that the major didn't trust or want to work with Collins, which couldn't possibly be good, especially when the unit was in the peril that it found itself in.

sr71plt
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