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Some of y'all may not remember because, after all, this happened
away back in February, 1942. Shortly before my civvies were mothballed
for almost four years, 3rd Armored Division was activated with
cadres, a goodly number of them drawn from Old Blood & Guts'
2nd. Patton was nicknamed "The Green Hornet" since
he had devised a garish tanker's uniform of that hue.
Initially, aside from some months of desert training in the Mojave,
we were never commanded by that flamboyant officer. To this day
otherwise intelligent students of military history seem convinced
that our later-designated Spearhead was a part of Patton's over-publicized
Third Army.
From beginning to end we were cogs in the bogey-wheels of First
Army. In the beginning, 3rd was called "Bayou Blitz",
a moniker dreamed up by Haynes Dugan. Later, I am sure in the
desert, the name was changed to "Always Dependable."
It wasn't until we had participated in the Normandy Breakthrough
that General Collins, commanding 7th Corps of the First Army,
complimented our outfit by referring to it as his spearhead division.
But back to Louisiana in those first days of service. Surely
we were a motley crew, practically all draftees hailing from
a variety of American states. Aside from a scattering of non-coms
and budding professional officers who appeared to have chosen
the Army as careers, rank and file were predominantly dewy faced
rookies, understanding nothing of close order drill or necessary
discipline.
Seems to me there was a single common bond, not shared by some
comrades who were there under duress. I'd guess that a majority
of inductees desired service and would have been terribly depressed
had we been classified as 4-F. There was an apparently overpowering
wish to be part of that war and to be classed as "panzer
troopers", then thought to be a real blast and a magnificent
adventure.
Turned out to be a "blast" all right, but hardly in
the sense of our early dreams. All, then young and tough youngsters,
were bemused optimists - sure that we were immortal, eager to
learn how to be consummate soldiers.
Among new dogfaces there were a fair number of hillbillies from
the deep south and other areas, including my Damn-Yankee natal
ground. Ancient, immprinted enemies nurtured by that conflict
when our grandfathers were children almost immediately discovered
that we were all birds of a feather, in spite of puzzling regional
accents.
General Chuck Yeager in his memoirs made a point of noting that
a majority of West Virginia and other southern hillbillies wre
already proficient marksmen and needed little training on Army
firing lines to center rifle slugs in, to them, a remarkably
easy bullseye to hole, at 100 yards.
Fact is that a healthy percentage of inductees from every section
of the US. were in a sense hillibillies although categorized
by different names. Prospective soldiers who had grown up in
the relative outback had hunted big game and small since they
were knee-high to a proverbial grasshopper. Fanatics who currently
clamor for a ban on citizen ownership of sporting firearms conveniently
forget that they might have been slaves of the boastful master
race had not rough-hewn and honest marksmen been there when needed.
Packed into troop trains, uncertain about the entire business,
we arrived at Camp Polk where billets were generally pyramidal
tents. Right, most of us who hailed from frigid northern states
had deluded ourselves into believing that Louisiana was "sunny
south" in all seasons. Personally, I became fond of Bayou
land and the citizens thereon, but swiftly learned that Cajun
country can be damnably cold and raw in mid-February and much
of March.
Lengthy road marches with full field pack wre almost welcome
because one would at least be warmed by exertion. Under capable
drill sergeants rookies slowly developed a modicum of discipline
and, at first, a bumbling attempt to obey orders, to stand or
march rigidly erect.
Discipline, of course, and important. But you and I well recall
after our first encounter with Hitler's janssaries in Normandy,
that it was pretty unhealthy to stride around like a model wooden
soldier. In action, the "St. Lo Stoop" was quickly
adopted.
At Polk, in those early days of basic traaining, there were Jeeps
- and we were regularly chewed out if we called them anything
other than "Peeps." Some staff cars and half-tracks
mounting close to obsolete guns. Latrine humor held that 703rd
would shortly be issued a heavy tank destroyer fitted with eight
wheels. When M-10's finally arrived they were awesome machines.
At the gate, you'll recall, a WW-I vintage French tank stood
guard. We all boasted snapshots of ourselves posing beside that
defunct cracker barrel. High command was then worried about a
Japanese invasion of the Pacific Coast, so we experienced a few
pseudo alerts.
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