We spent several days in Ohio; Dad and Mom shared with John and Rose details about the reunion and all that had transpired since their last visit. Naturally, during our visit, we pulled out the photographs of our trip to Europe. When we came to the pictures taken in Sainte-Suzanne and Dad indicated the site where his tank was knocked out and where Willinger was killed. John said that he remembered that event vividly.
When Dad’s tank was disabled, John had to go to the front line to retrieve the tank after Lloyd Sparks brought it back into the American side of the front. John said that he had the grim job of removing Willinger’s body from the tank. A few minutes later, John began to weep over this memory. We put the pictures away and neither the war nor the trip were discussed again. Rose indicated that on several occasions she had mentioned to John about returning to Europe like Dad and I had but that John was not interested. All through their married life, he rarely mentioned anything about the war. She said that the only time he enjoyed the service was before the war when he was in the 11th Cavalry stationed in California and when he rode border patrol on horseback.
Capt. Belton Cooper described the gruesome task of service personnel in recovering and repairing tanks.
When a tanker inside a tank received the full effect of a (shell), sometimes the body, particularly the head, exploded and scattered blood, gore, and brains throughout the entire compartment. It was a horrible sight. The maintenance crews had to get inside and clean up the remains. … With strong detergent, disinfectant, and water they cleaned the interior of the tank as best they could so men could get inside and repair it. After the repairs were completed, the tanks’ fighting compartment would be completely painted. In spite of this, the faint stench of death sometimes seeped through.3
I can only imagine the horrible memories our discussion and photographs conjured up for John that evening. Our visit to the Ockenga farm in September of 2000 was the last time we saw John. He passed away several months later.
As I mentioned early on, the reticence of veterans to speak about their experiences was a common characteristic of combat veterans. Paul Wannemacher once told me, “We never talked about the war because people who weren’t there would never believe all the things that we saw.” In an interview with Aaron Elson, Otha Martin of the 712th once said, “A lot of people say veterans never talk to them. The reason they don’t talk is they couldn’t get the picture over to somebody that wasn’t there. Somebody that wasn’t there, he would think that you’re making that story up.”
This silence among veterans was not unique to World War II combatants. In 1869, the poet Edgar Lee Masters authored a poem entitled “Silence”. In it the inability of Civil War veterans to talk about combat experiences is described. In one stanza, Masters writes:
A curious boy asks an old soldier …
“How did you lose your leg?”
And the old soldier is struck with silence, …
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.
Besides the psychological wounds from the war, many soldiers also faced physical disabilities. Jim Flowers was wounded on July 10, 1944 after only one week in battle. Yet he had to cope with his physical wounds for the rest of his life. After being wounded, he spent several months in hospitals in England before being returned to the States. Flowers spent the next three years in Army hospitals in rehabilitation and being fitted with prosthesis for both legs. He was discharged from the Army in November, 1947. He had been in the Army for a little more than five years, the majority of that time was spent in the hospital. After his discharge, Flowers went to work in the prosthetics section of the Veteran’s Administration Hospitals in Waco, Texas and then Dallas Texas.
Louis Gruntz, John McDaniel and Jim Flowers at 90th Reunion, Little Rock, Arkansas, 2002. (Author’s collection)
In August of 2002, the 90th Regional Support Command named a building at its Texas facility in honor of Jim Flowers. Dad was invited to attend the ceremony. Dad, Mom and I, along with the wheel chair flew to Dallas. I had been introduced to Jim briefly at other 712th reunions, but this was the first time, I actually had the opportunity to “meet” him.
Less than thirty days later, the Gruntz family and Jim Flowers were once again in each other’s company. The occasion was the 90th Infantry Division reunion in Little Rock, Arkansas, and the dedication of the Henri Levaufre Heritage Center at the 90th RSC Headquarters in Little Rock.
We saw Jim for a third time at the 712th reunion in Fort Lauderdale Florida one month later in September. Jim was a fiercely independent person, more so after his wife, Jeanette passed away. Despite being in his eighties, and having two prosthetic devices, Jim traveled alone to Little Rock and Fort Lauderdale. Jim also was never one to hold back his words, at times he could be very brusque. His friends in the 712th took this in stride because they knew Jim.
One day in the hospitality room at the 712th reunion, Jim was sitting in an cushioned armchair, the kind you sink into when you sit down. I was sitting to his right and Orin Bourdo was sitting directly across from Jim. As Jim was trying to get up out of the chair, he was having a little difficulty and he asked Orin to give him a hand. Orin, also in his eighties, used a cane to get around so I jumped up to assist Jim. In a somewhat harsh tone, Jim told me to get my hands off of him. I was startled by his response, but was not offended. Others nearby also were startled at the response. Orin later explained that Jim could only be assisted from the front, if someone helped him from the side he would lose his balance. With respect to the harshness of his tone, Orin said, “That’s just Jim.” Orin also explained that he believed that Jim’s rough exterior at times was his way of coping. “He always felt personally responsible for losing all those men under his command.”
The next day, I was again in the hospitality room but I was sitting across from Jim. When he went to arise, he asked me to help him, which I immediately did. He then paid me a huge compliment. He stated that he believed that my Dad was a very fortunate man to have a son like me to help him in his travels. Perhaps this was Jim’s way of apologizing for the incident the day before, but in my mind, no apology was necessary.
The reunion in Fort Lauderdale was the last time Dad and I saw Jim. He died two months later, over the Thanksgiving holidays of 2002.
In the late 1990s, Mom, Dad and I met Bob and Edith Levine, friends of Henri and Janet Levaufre. Henri and Janet were staying at Mom and Dad’s home during one of their biennial trips to the US to visit friends in the 90th and 712th. On this occasion, Bob and Edith, also happened to be in town on another matter and were straying in a local hotel.
Bob was in the 90th Infantry and fought on Hill 122. He was captured by the Germans and while being moved further behind German lines, he was wounded by artillery on July 11th, 1944. The German doctors had to amputate his foot just above the ankle.
Bob stated that every July 11th after that he would always imagine where he was on that day in 1944 and he would “start getting in his combat mode.” After many years he thought he was over this annual malaise, but fifty years later, on July 11, 1994, he went to movies to see Forrest Gump, believing it to be a comedy. During the Vietnam scene, when Lt Dan lost both of his legs, Bob said to his wife:
“I don’t believe it Edith, what are we doing here?” Of all days, the crucial day, we go see this thing…
It was very similar to Hill 122. It was real wild, sheer chaos. Going through the woods, down the hill, was like that. Shell bursts, and guys yelling and screaming, then I heard, you could hear tanks…
So
I realized at that point that maybe traumas like that just don’t go away forever.4
After learning some of Dad’s wartime experiences, I felt somewhat ashamed for my inquisitive behavior as a child. At that time in his life, in 1954, Dad was trying to forget all of the horrible aspects of war. He kept his physical memorabilia of the war out of sight in a box in the dark recesses of his closet. Likewise, he was also trying to keep all of those vivid memories hidden and tucked away in the dark recesses of his mind. My relentless questioning as a small boy caused him to relive those memories. At the age of eighty-four, when he voluntarily talked about the war, at least those memories emerged at a time and under the circumstances of his choosing.
Reunions
The World War II veterans eventually realized that images and events they tried to forget in the late 1940s and the 1950s was a virtually impossible task. Recalling these events at the time and circumstances of their choosing became easier as they attended reunions.
The 90th Infantry Association has long considered members of the 712th Tank Battalion their own. And although the members of the 712th also consider themselves part of the 90th, they remain fiercely proud of their status as an “independent” battalion. In fact, Dad once jokingly told some 90th members, “The 712th wasn’t attached to the 90th… the 90th was attached to the 712th.”
Dad had joined the 90th Association and paid dues over the years but the first reunion he attended was in August, 2002 in Little Rock, Arkansas. The reasons were two-fold for attending this reunion: the 90th Regional Support Command, the successor of the 90th Infantry, has its headquarters in Little Rock; during the reunion, the 90th RSC was opening the Henri Levaufre Heritage Center. The center is to house research materials and other items of the 90th and its support units and was named in honor of Henri who collected a wealth of information over the years regarding the 90th’s battle history in Normandy. Henri and Janet were present for the occasion. Secondly, the 90th RSC was premiering a documentary film it had produced on the 90th, Dad and Mom had been interviewed for possible inclusion in the film. Although their interview ended on the cutting room floor, two still pictures of Dad, during the war, were included in the final cut.
Over 1,000 people attended this reunion, several like Dad, were attending for the first time. During one dinner, we sat at a table with another first timer, Leonard Patulski from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. With many of Dad’s friends from the 712th hailing from Milwaukee, the conversation naturally turned to mentioning the names to see if he knew any. Although Leonard did not recognize any 712th members by name, Dad and Leonard quickly engaged in discussions about the war.
Louis Gruntz and Leonard Patulski. (Author’s collection)
Patulski was in the 359th Regiment of the 90th during the Battle of the Bulge. He had recalled riding on the outside of the tanks on a few occasions. He then mentioned that one of those tanks contained a Russian, and all that Russian wanted to do was kill Germans. Dad was flabbergasted; he quickly exclaimed, “You were riding on my tank.” Dad then proceeded to tell him about Jack the Russian.
Of all of the banquet tables set in the hotel ballroom, what providence had led these two first time attendees of the reunion to sit at the same table?
Another strange occurrence happened in July of 2003. In gathering the audio tapes of our journey in 2000, my trip journal from 1994, and other source materials for putting Dad’s story on paper, I also pulled from Dad’s closet the box of his memorabilia from the war. I also discovered a separate box belonging to Mom, containing all of the love letters she received from Dad during the war. Until this time, I had never opened that box that Mom hadn’t opened in decades. Mixed in among Dad’s letters was a letter that Dad received from Joe Mack Reeves in 1943, the young boy on the farm where Dad’s tank broke down during maneuvers in Tennessee. I also brought out the two photographs of Joe Mack that were in Dad’s box of memorabilia. Neither Mom nor Dad realized that Joe Mack’s letter was inadvertently mixed in with Dad’s love letters that Mom had secreted away.
Joe Mack, 1943 letter. (Author’s collection)
In that 1943 letter, the little boy tells Dad about recent developments on the farm, he also wrote:
I missed you so much after you left, I wish I could see you. Write me sometime soon, I love you,
Joe Mack
When Dad was being shipped overseas at the beginning of 1944, he had sent several personal items home with Mom and during this process young Joe Mack’s letter had been misplaced among Mom’s letters.
Dad had always lamented that he had lost contact with this little kid and that he could not find his address after the war to see what had happened in his life. Even though sixty years had passed since Dad’s tank broke down on the Reeves farm, I made an attempt to locate Joe Mack Reeves. With only this skimpiest of information, I did an internet research and found over a dozen Joe Reeves’ in Tennessee, but only one named Joe M. Reeves who was the right age and who lived in Murfreesboro, TN, not far from Alexandria.
I wrote to this Joe M. Reeves on July 21, enclosing a copy of little Joe Mack’s letter along with a copies of the photos. In my letter I asked if he was the boy in the pictures. I received a four page letter in response, Joe Reeves wrote, in part:
Dear Mr Gruntz,
I am the Joe Mack Reeves you are looking for. I’m so glad you put forth this effort which truly brought tears to my eyes as I read your letter.
On Friday night, July 18, my wife Nancy and I were with three couples of friends and the subject of the World War II maneuvers came up. I quickly injected my lingering thoughts about Gruntz and what happened to him after he departed our farm. I have thought many times about whether he survived the war. I’m delighted to know that he survived and has been blessed with this life span.
Of all the soldiers who participated in exercises and/or camped on our place, Gruntz is the only name I have remembered. My parents often related to others my pain and crying when he departed. Ours was one of those somewhat rare occasions in life when one truly bonds with another without analyzing the reason […]
I share Tom Brokaw’s conclusions that the World War II participants were our greatest generation. I have thanked God for the sacrifice made by so many for the rest of us. […] Having observed the maneuvers, listened to the nightly news reporting on the progress of the war, and seeing the dead and wounded arriving home, my life was impacted and shaped forever by World War II. […]
Gruntz is one of the very special people in my life and I’m thankful […] you who took this initiative. Tell him I still love him.
Sincerely, best wishes and God’s blessing
s Joe Mack Reeves
I telephoned Joe to learn if he would be receptive to the idea of seeing Dad again. I explained that Mom, Dad and I would be passing through Tennessee in the fall in order to attend the annual 712th Tank Battalion Association reunion, being held that year in Fort Mitchell, Kentucky. Both Joe and Dad were excited about seeing each other again after all these years and our plans for this unique reunion were made.
CHAPTER 17
The Final Battle
Old soldiers never die, they just fade away.
Gen. Douglas MacArthur
Dad had been an outpatient at the Veterans Hospital in New Orleans for over thirty years. During this thirty-year period, his most serious ailment had been angina which was under control with medication His final battle began in November, 2002, when he went for a regular checkup. During the routine examination he complained of feeling completely exhausted and short of breath
Dad’s primary care physician at the VA informed Dad that he would order an echogram to see if his heart was getting weaker and that he was also ordering a breathing test. He also had an x-ray taken of Dad’s chest.
Several days later, the doctor called and said that there were two suspicious spots on Dad’s lung but not to be alarmed because he was ordering CT scan in order to see more clearly this suspicious area on the x-ray.
Dad rece
ived word from the VA Hospital, at the end of November informing him his appointment for the CT Scan would be January 29, 2003. Mom complained about having to wait two months for this critical test and was told that he could have the CT scan done on December 27 when he came for the echogram.
The entire month of December was unsettling. On December 27, 2002, Dad and Mom arrived early for the echogram, which was scheduled for 8:00 a.m. only to be informed that the echogram would not be performed that day and it would have to be rescheduled. They were advised that department was short one employee that day and that the employee that was on duty would only perform six echograms that day and did not have time to perform our scheduled appointment. They were both devastated and outraged by this news. At ages eighty-three and eighty respectively, it was difficult for them to get to the VA Hospital, and then after arriving at that early hour only to be informed that an important diagnostic test, which had been ordered one month earlier was cancelled without their knowledge.
Since Mom and Dad were at the hospital, Dad proceeded to have the CT scan performed. After having the CT scan, Dad had a heaviness in his chest and the doctor performing the CT scan recommended that he go to the emergency room for a cardiogram. The emergency room personnel had Dad admitted to MICU for fear that he was on the verge of a heart attack. He stayed for two days in MICU and it was suggested that he undergo an angiogram. Our family has had two unfortunate incidents with members who have undergone angiograms, one died on the operating table and the other had a massive stroke while undergoing the procedure. Because of this fear, Dad hesitated in having this procedure and wanted more time to consider the necessity and to discuss it with his primary care physician upon the doctor’s return from his vacation. But Dad told the doctor in MICU that if he really needed to have one, he would consent to it. Since the heaviness that he had felt in his chest at the time of the CT scan had subsided and not returned, Dad was released from MICU and sent home.
A Tank Gunner's Story: Gunner Gruntz of the 712th Tank Battalion Page 25