Cold Determination

by Jennifer Lyons

  I didn’t want to leave my home. I loved the mountains I lived in and only felt truly alive when I was in them. I appreciated every tree, rock, and gulley as I walked and fished my way. I had no desire to leave them behind, even if for a short time. I was like any other young man who craved adventure and recognition, but deep down, my soul was content.

  December 7, 1941 hit fast and hard, bringing that pinching feeling of reality back to my gut. The United States no longer had a choice to stay apart from world affairs as the Japs dragged us into it. Mama was terrified as Peter and I filled out draft cards, praying and crying the entire time.

  Peter kissed her forehead, “Don’t worry so much, Mama. When the U.S. joins, the war will be over before you know it.” Watching my mother dry her eyes, I couldn’t help but hope he was right.

  We submitted our cards early in the New Year. The United States responded to the attacks on Pearl Harbor by sending troops to both Europe and Asia. I was anxious to go as young men from our hometown waited orders. I felt this was my duty, like it or not. I never mentioned my fears to anyone else, pushing them deep down past the pinching feeling in my gut. Peter talked big, especially to young women, calling on their sympathies for a young man facing the tragedies of war.

  Soon enough, we were both called up. Peter left first. He was ordered to basic training and follow on orders to a new division in the Colorado Rockies. He would receive specifics later.

  I was ordered to Fort Benning, a base located in Georgia. I had no idea what to expect but as time drew nearer, I began hearing how tough basic training really was. I wasn’t too worried—I was in great shape and was even used to early mornings, both thanks to the hard ranch work I performed since high school graduation.

  The day I boarded that bus taking me so far from the only life I knew and understood, I fought hard to keep back my tears. Mama held me too tight and covered my face in tears and kisses. Aunt Anya came to say her goodbyes. Loud as ever, she cried as she told me goodbye, cried as I walked away, and cried to my mother that we just grew too quickly. Mama was quiet, her shoulders shaking and hands clutching for Nils and Anya. As I waved from my seat, I realized how small Mama was. Nils held her up, and Anya waved to me. All of Mama’s children were now gone. I wished, once more, Rosie had survived. Blinking back my own tears and fears, I waved again and then focused my attentions to my journey ahead of me.

  I had been excited to board that bus, to see another part of the country but soon realized how long and terribly boring riding a bus across the United States was. Mostly, I slept. I talked with my neighbors, and when we stopped, I gratefully stretched, but most of the ride was uneventful. It took four days and three drivers to get across the country.

  The first time I stepped onto Georgia soil, I was overwhelmed by the humidity. It was June and already, the heat was intense. Instantly, I felt a trickle of sweat making its way down my back. My lungs balked at the heavy air, and I found it difficult to breath. It was so humid, I could see the haze of water hanging in the air before me—I could taste it. I did not like it.

  Then I was introduced to my drill sergeant, Sergeant Rust. He was fit, only a few years older than me, and though shorter, he was so intense he invoked fear and respect from his new recruits. He called us to order, and we obeyed. He was not a man to disobey.

  “Welcome to Jump School. My name is Sergeant Rust. I am sure we will get to know each other well over the next few weeks. I doubt most of you will make it—none of you looks smart enough, and I bet most of you are wishing you were already home with your mama’s.”

  As he spoke, he wandered through our group, leaning in too close, glaring deep into our eyes. His voice was low but carried a threat he was yet to utter. I kept my eyes forward as anxiety filled my body and soul.

  Sergeant Rust wore the army fatigues, stretched over his fit frame, showing off muscles I wasn’t sure I had, no matter how many hours I’d spent working at the ranch.

  “It is my job to provide the army with the best soldiers trained in the art of war, ready to fight the Krauts. I can see I have been given the impossible task. None of you will make it; this training is only for the elite, and I can’t think why I see so many young men in front of me with zero ability to complete this training.” With each word, his voice grew harsher and louder. “You can leave. In fact, leave now. There is no shame in leaving now.” He stood in front of me now. “Leave. I know men and I know you are not strong enough or smart enough for jump school. You will never wear the wings.” He was practically shouting at my face, every word articulated ensuring I understood his warning and threat. I didn’t want to wash out my first day. He stood in front me, glaring into my eyes, daring me to back down. I stared straight ahead, more afraid than I ever felt before, but I kept my place in the line.

  After that, we counted off by two’s and organized ourselves into messy lines, marching off to retrieve our uniforms, get our haircuts, and stop for lunch. We were ordered not to talk and a grim determination settled over us as we did as we were ordered. Lines, I realized, were an important part of the military lifestyle. Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. I followed as best as I could. I took my uniform, sat through my haircut, and hurried through the chow line, all without talking once. I listened as Sergeant Rust ordered us, berated us, and promised us Hell. It was a terribly long day, and by dinnertime, the moral in our group was low.

  I missed home. That clean, clear air, crispy and abundant in my lungs was the first thing I thought of when I finally lay down on a top bunk. The night air was as hot as the day and soon, my clothes and bedclothes were wet from my sweat and the air. I missed my freedoms and my mama. I missed Peter. Somehow, I held it together that night, but I could hear the strange gulping sounds penetrate the night as others succumbed to our fate. Morning dawned too early. We ran to breakfast. Then, we ran to calisthenics and to judo training. After that, we ran to the field for shooting. I ran everywhere, every day. It was exhausting and nearly unbearable that first week. All the while we remained silent, only speaking when spoken to and listening to Sergeant Rust critique our every move.

  He promised us more Hell as we progressed and a few washed out. He made good on every single promise and by week four, I was so busy, I nearly forgot life before training.

  I missed home, but I was so busy I couldn’t stop to think about that. I missed eating meals at the normal leisurely pace meant, but I was too hungry to take the time to care. Everyday went by in a blur of anxiety and hard work.

  I learned to obey without argument or thought to argue. My body hardened with muscle. By the time we began jumping, I believed I was ready for anything.

  Our first jump was from a two-hundred-fifty-foot tower. I was given a parachute. I climbed the tower and hooked up. Then, I looked down. It was so high, the ground seemed unreal. My fear dissolved, and I jumped. Every single one of us made our jump. Our next jump was more difficult and more than a few hardened men washed out.

  Sergeant Rust didn’t give us any direction or idea of what to expect. We did our morning run and headed out to the field. We ran right past the two-hundred-fifty-foot tower towards the back of the field. There, in front of us, was a short tower with a wooden box at the top.

  The box looked like part of an airplane with a narrow entryway. I estimated the whole tower to stand about thirty feet high. I joined the line in front of my newest obstacle. I was wondering how the hell a chute could operate on such short notice. It seemed impossible.

  Sergeant Rust informed us there was no chute. Instead, we would jump from the tower towards the ground, connected to a cable that would save us just before we hit. After his abrupt explanation, it looked even more impossible. We hooked up and began our climb. By the time we reached the top I was sure the cable would never hold.

  I stepped into that makeshift plane and was hit with air so musty and so full of the smell of dirty men, I gagged. I heard people coughing and gasping as they encountered this challenge we hadn’t anticipated. The world close
d in around me, and I desperately wanted out. I made my way to the door, questioning my own logic and especially the army’s.

  “Whose idea was this? They want to kill us all before the war? Fuck.” Apparently, I wasn’t the only one worried about the potential outcome.

  The line moved slowly forward. Then, a guy pushed by me, choosing to climb down rather than face the jump. Another guy pushed by me, followed by another, then another. I could logically conclude some had completed their jump but the windows were angled wrong, making it impossible to see anyone walking away. There was no way to know if or how many were injured during this jump. Somehow, I kept walking towards that door. I checked my cable, the guy behind me checked it again, and out I went.

  It happened faster than I could even think. I felt a terrible jerk in my groin area that I was sure would bruise and hit the ground, hard, nearly simultaneously. My breath was knocked out of me but I had done it. I graduated from jump school soon after.

  Everyone earned a weekend pass the week after graduation. I was a different man. Even my appearance had changed—I stood straighter and my body was void of any fat. I was excited to finally experience Georgia. I looked forward to Southern girls. So far, I hated Georgia and had only seen the base.

  My hometown, Sheridan, was actually diverse and accepting, thanks to the mining camps and people’s desire to grow a better life. Luckily, I had grown up with colored kids, Chinese kids, and all the rest, never questioning their worth. There were no segregation laws and men took their hats off to all women, black or white. Georgia was completely segregated.

  Not long after I left the base, I realized black folks refused to look me in the eye. As we passed each other on the street, they looked down and stepped out of my way. I had never had a lady or old men move out of my way. I felt myself staring, but I couldn’t help it.

  I followed my friend, Taylor, up the road to a bar. On the door was a small sign that clearly stated ‘NO BLACKS.’ I couldn’t believe it. Here we were, fighting a white devil while denying good people a goddamned drink. I left town, making my way back to the base. I was disappointed in Georgia.

  I wanted to leave and got my wish. A few days after my weekend pass, I found myself on my way towards North Carolina. It was further north, but it felt the same. It was still oppressively hot and humid. It was severely segregated. I added Glider Pilot School to my resume, and then received my orders overseas.

  My unit was ordered to French Morocco, Africa. I was surprised, and most of us couldn’t understand how we were going to Africa when the real fight was in Europe. During our entire jump school, we were cut off from most news from the rest of the world. No war updates penetrated to distract us from our training. At night, we talked and theorized but no one had any real answers. Morocco was an excellent staging area. It was only ninety miles from the shores of Italy, making it the best waiting zone, protected, far away from danger, but Europe was near enough. Never in my wildest imaginings had I ever thought I would find myself in Africa. Never.

  Unfeeling to my consternation, the Army Air Corps ordered us to prepare. After just a few days, I joined a line to board the ship that would take me across the Atlantic. More than a few of us worried aloud about German U-boats. I worried as much as anyone but I had never seen an ocean before. For a while, all I could do was wonder at the vast amount of water that surrounded me. I wanted to fish, to catch the big one from deep below us but, of course, I had no tackle.

  I spent as much time as I could on deck, no matter the weather. I had no desire to be caught below in case of attack and I enjoyed the ocean air on my face. While on the ship, we stuck to our severe training schedule and silence. I was extremely relieved when we made it to French Morocco.

  Landing there, I was strongly reminded of the American south. It was hot and humid. I could stand the humidity after my months of training but I missed the crisp mountain air. We set up living quarters best as we could and immediately began speculating how long we would be there. No one was eager to sit around or continue training. We admired ourselves, the brave soldiers we had become. There was no doubt it would be us that would stop Hitler.

  We acted as if we were already in theatre. We ate from our own mess kits, washing them best as we could when we finished. Our beds were little more than cots and even the latrines were made to move. Everything, our entire world, felt ready and poised for the action we had so ardently trained for.

  Most of us took time to write letters home—who knew how long we would have the time for letter writing. I told Mama and Nils all about training and segregation. I told them all about the ocean, even though both them had crossed the same one. I told Mama I missed her and her cooking and I meant it. I wrote Peter and poked slight fun at him for still training while I was headed out. And too soon, the call for action found us.

  That last night in Morocco, Taylor and I found a way to town and drank to life. Girls surrounded us American GI’s and were only too giving for American money. No one said too much to any of us—we were headed to war.

  Sicily

  Jumping was terrifying. I never found it thrilling. I hated it but I did my duty, feeling a desire deep in my soul to succeed that I could never fully understand. All through training, I was inspired to do better, especially when I saw good men wash out. There was nothing so difficult jumping into the dark abyss of the night sky, trusting only in my chute. Every jump I made, I did it without thinking. Sicily was no different; I simply fell into the open sky, mind as blank as possible. I readied my body for the jerk of my chute. Out of nowhere, I felt something was off. I crashed into the earth and my gut instinct guided me to take cover.

  There was chaos and plenty of firing, but that didn’t make sense. The Sicilian shores were almost void of any Nazis, thanks to Operation Mincemeat. The operation, which had worked more than ever hoped, was devised by the Brits. During the months leading up to our invasion, a plan was thought up and carried out. It began in Wales and ended in Spain.

  They needed a body. A male in his late thirties was preferred. They needed someone no one would miss. A man, with no family and no ties to his home was sought. After a few failed attempts, they finally found the perfect guy—Glyndwyr Michael.

  They found him in an abandoned warehouse in Wales. He’d been dead a few days from ingesting rat poison. He was unemployed and on his own. No one knew if he ate the poison on purpose or out of hunger. They removed the body and shipped him out for the next phase of the plan.

  They dressed him as Royal Marine in, possibly, the nicest suit poor Glyndwyr ever wore. His pockets were stuffed with personal identification naming him Captain William Martin. As a finishing touch, they handcuffed a briefcase to his hand that was full of fake documents. Those detailed a planned invasion, naming Greece and Sardinia as starting points and Sicily as a feint. Next, the poor bastard was dropped into the sea off the coast of Spain with high hopes the German navy would find him. The plan worked better than clockwork.

  The guy was found and the documents read. Both the body and documents were reported right up the chain, all the way to Hitler. Hitler was never convinced the plan was nothing more than a ruse and ordered all his troops to Sardinia and Greece. The Nazis even buried Captain William Martin beneath a plaque in Spain. It was the perfect plan, with the perfect outcome, except…

  The United States Navy had never fully been notified of the 82nd Airborne parachute drop. Friendly fire took out over three hundred 504’s before we were even out of the sky. We knew war was Hell but we had never trained to expect such animosity from our own. Someone, somewhere stopped the Navy, but there was blood and bodies everywhere. Guys hopelessly tangled up in their chutes with limbs and heads bent at every unimaginable, terrible angle, their eyes stuck open.

  I met the ground with every muscle in my body taut, ready for action. Every sense I had improved as I listened for any new noises. I looked for signs of danger. I was now a soldier. Later, I acknowledged there’d been the briefest moment of change during th
at fall to earth. Before the drop I was just a kid from Wyoming, ready for action. After that drop, I was a soldier.

  I rallied around and somehow found my friend, Taylor. We walked, together to the pre-set meeting point. We saw a few Germans running northeast, but they were too far away. The chaos of friendly fire finally ceased, and the night filled with sounds of the ocean, distant yells, and just a few rounds of fire here and there.

  When we finally reached the rallying point, we saw cleanup of the beach already taking place. Those poor guys who hadn’t made it through the jump were being pulled from the water and untangled from their chutes. Their lives wasted, without even witnessing battle.

  Taylor whispered, “There’s going to be Hell to pay for this,” I could only nod.

  The first days in Sicily were wonderful. We knew the fight was close, but all we experienced were grateful locals. We ate enough and the weather was perfect. All too soon, the peace ended.

  We marched northwards, into Italy, in search of Nazis. I wondered if we would run into Peter.

  He was part of the elite Mountain Division. They trained somewhere in the Rockies of Colorado, and, from his last letter, I gathered he was bored. The Mountain Division did some of the hardest training of the war. They learned ski and repel. There were no towns near them, and I wondered how in the Hell Peter survived without drink or women. I wrote him asking how he was and shared what I could, knowing the censors would black out anything that gave away our position or mission goals. In the end, I realized how much I couldn’t tell him and ended up with only a few lines that felt empty for the relationship we once shared. I sent it off anyway and, for the first time since leaving the U.S., felt the enormity of the distance that separated myself from my family. I had no true idea where Peter was, just as he had no idea where I was.

  Our battalion was given a rather vague objective of liberating Italy. The only option was victory. We were the heroes, the only ones left on God’s green Earth, to end Hitler and his Nazi regime. I wondered if I would ever feel true freedom again.