Winter Training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin
"It wasn't long until that day arrived. In November of 1942, the
2nd Division was moved by rail in its entirety to Camp McCoy,
Wisconsin, a thousand miles northward. I left Texas with mixed
feelings; a sense of sadness about a lost love, and with a curiosity
of what Wisconsin would hold.
We played cards as the train moved along, sang songs, and looked
at the changing scenery of five states. During some of the stops our
train made, we had to fall out of the coaches and take calisthenics,
and were counted as each one went back aboard. For food we had Army C-
rations to chew on. At night, there were sleeping bunks above our
heads that we pulled down to sack out on. I would let the shade up at
night and lay there looking out the window at the lights in sleepy
towns, as the land changed from sagebrush, then flat barren wheat
land, to empty rolling farm country, while listening to the hum of
the rails and lonesome wail of the engine's whistle at the crossings.
Nearing our last stop, out the train windows I could see a
scarecrow in his lonely vigil over a farm field; his tattered clothes
waving in the wind; almost like a welcome.
When we arrived at Camp McCoy, a tall, thin soldier with piercing
blue eyes and wavy, red hair, swung off the train and rolled in the
new fallen snow that covered the ground. Many of the men had never
seen snow before, and this Florida native was one of them. He picked
up handfuls of it and let it run though his fingers like sand. But
after a few minutes of this, his teeth began chattering and he was
shaking from the cold. He shook his head and said, "This is awful
stuff -- it's not half as nice as it looks."
We were marched from the train station at Camp McCoy to the
barracks we were assigned to, and as soon as we settled in, we
started looking around for the nearest town. Some of the guys took
off to a town named Tomah, and I found a place called Sparta--a small
farming community that had brick and cobble-stone streets graced by
antique street lamps. When we got some time off, the fellows explored
other places in Wisconsin. I didn't have much money so I didn't stray
too far. Sparta was only a few miles from camp, so I
and many of the men settled for Sparta.
The people there were friendly, nonchalant, and had broad,
Midwestern accents which sounded strange to my ears. Taverns were
plentiful, but money and women were on a strict war-time ration
basis, so we had plenty of fights over both. As quick as we arrived
in town we hit all the booze joints, which was about all there was to
do outside of taking the girls away from the local boys. Whenever we
spotted a local boy in a cab with his girl-friend, we ran him off and
commandeered the cab and the girl! If the girl objected to our
advances, instead of taking her to her intended destination, we took
her home and deposited her there.
At that time, I thought I had the world in a jug and the stopper
in my hand. I didn't think there was anything I couldn't cope with.
Some of the time I went along with the other guys and all the
horseplay, but as a rule, I was a loner. I had grown up that way.
Every chance I got as a child, I'd go off by myself to get away from
my home environment and stepfather. I'd grab an old cane fishing pole
and head for the creek or nearby Cumberland River. Along the way I'd
pick a few ears of sweet corn out of a field and dig a couple of
potatoes out of the garden. I usually carried a small skillet and
some salt and pepper with me, and in my hideaway under a rocky river
bluff, I'd build a fire, fry the fish I caught, and with the roasted
corn and taters have a meal fit for a king. If I went home with the
fish, I was sure to get a beating for going fishing, but they always
ate the fish. So I grew up alone, secretive, and took my habits into
the Army.
My first weekend in Sparta, I pounded the sidewalks looking for a
room to rent; a place I could call my own on my time off. That first
day I didn't have any luck, so that night I settled for the first
convenient spot I could find--a parked car. Its owner found me there
the next morning and asked what I was doing there. I answered,
"Sleeping." He didn't appear to pleased about it, but he didn't say
anything, except to thank me for the money I offered him, which he
refused to accept. Later that day I got lucky and found a room to
rent with a very hospitable family. Now on my weekends off I would
make all the bars in town first, then go "home" to my room and sleep.
Early the next morning, I would get up and do the same thing over
again, but in another bar.
Even if my free-time routine was the same, I found Army life
changed, now that we were in a different climate. In place of the
brilliant, scorching Texas sunshine, which tanned our skin the color
of light brown leather, we were now facing a four month program of
intensive winter warfare training, in the deep snows of Wisconsin's
rugged northern weather. Our division tested new equipment for
fighting under conditions of extreme cold, on one of the largest
artillery ranges in the world. When winter really set in, I was
beginning to think we were next door to the Arctic. I had never seen
so much snow. The pine and shrub oak forests were completely white.
We soon became proficient with skis and snowshoes out of necessity as
well as training.
At the end of February, our division went to Watersmeet, northern
Michigan, for a period of intensive winter maneuvers. We learned
there what cold weather really was--the thermometer stayed at a
steady forty degrees below zero. Even so, tempers sometimes ran hot.
Our long motor convoy jammed the small roads and set some of the
local people to cussing. I was near enough to hear one incident. An
MP sergeant was directing traffic at a little crossroad, when some
civilians in a car shouted, "Hey soldier, you're holding us up!" The
MP looked over at them, rolled his quid of tobacco from one cheek to
another, and asked them very politely, "What place is this?" One
civilian answered, "Watersmeet, Michigan." The MP looked out of
grave, deep-socketted brown eyes, spat a well aimed stream of juice
on the ground and said, "Never heard of it," then motioned our Army
vehicles on through.
Here, we learned to build make-shift lean-tos of pine twigs, with
their pine needles encassed in ice, glittering like shiny jade. Changing our clothes in
these cold primitive places when we had to was an experience.
One frozen day, I told the fellows I was going to town to get us
something to drink to keep us warm. So, I set off on snowshoes and
shuffled back to our campsite with it. That kept us in warm spirits
for awhile, even though some of the boys suffered frostbite before we
left for Camp McCoy again. My big toe still hasn't completely thawed.
Back at McCoy, we were started on another extensive program of
training and battle indoctrination which kept us busy until early
spring. Both as individuals and units, we were put through specific
types of combat instruction designed to prepare us for the kinds of
fighting we might be expected to run into over-seas, until we
believed we were the toughest outfit in the whole U.S. Army. Training
and divisional integrity that was put to the test the next winter in
the European Ardennes against Hilter's last great attack against the
Allies.
One spring Monday morning on the 300 yard rapid fire target
range, I put ten bulls-eyes in a target with a .30 caliber carbine.
My coach was a Tennessee boy like myself, a big plow boy looking
type, named Sgt. Ruth. I had been out drunk all night and wasn't
feeling any pain when I got there, so he was going to show me how to
get into position and... "Never mind all that," I said. "Just count
the rounds I put in that target." I commenced firing as he watched
and then ran to a range phone, cranked it up and roared, "Are you
sure that was ten out of ten?" The answer came back, "I don't know
who is shooting on that target. I just disk them as I see them." I can still see
the look of amazement on Sgt. Ruth's face as it turned beet red. I
just lay there, laughing.
On weekends, I would head back to my haunts in Sparta. My biggest
gripe during this time was the Army's choice of hatwear. My outfit
wasn't allowed to wear its garrison hat, but instead our overseas
cap; something we called an unprintable name. So I carried my
overseas cap in a paper sack, putting it on whenever I spotted the
MPs to avoid being caught out of uniform, and wore my garrison hat on
the sly.
I wasn't the only one bending the rules. There was a curfew in
Sparta for the younger people, and one night I was amused to see
several teenagers running down the sidewalk of Main Street, with a
local policeman in hot pursuit. They rounded the corner of a build-
ing and jumped into a car to hide, with the cop coming around the
corner almost at their heels. He stopped short just as he turned it,
looked down the empty street, scratched his head, turned around,
shaking his head as if he had imagined it all, and went back on his
beat, swinging his night stick.
Summer had long since melted the mountains of winter snow, and I
was walking down a Sparta street lined with huge elm trees forming
a canopy overhead, feeling kind of aimless. By now, a lot of GIs had
been invited into the homes and hearts of the local people, but I
don't think any of them got an invitation the way I did! I'd spent a
Saturday night in Sparta, as usual, and this early Sunday morning in
June, I was up and out looking for the first place open where I could
meet other people.
I turned down onto Main Street and saw a
place which had the front door open. As I sauntered in, my eyes swept
the room. An elderly man and two young men, one of whom was in
uniform, were beside a pool table, and to the rear of the place, I
saw three girls standing near a back door. I didn't waste any time
getting back there to ask them if they would like a cold drink, but
got a frosty, "No thank you."
I went back to the bar and stood there looking at them and
thinking that over. I hadn't met anyone like them around there, and I
was curious about who they were. On impulse, I walked over to the GI
at the pool table and asked him, "Pardon me, but could you tell me
who those three stuck up girls back there are?"
He smiled and came back at me with, "Sure, they are three of my
stuck up sisters.
Momentarily taken by surprise, all I could think to say was,
"Oh, I beg your pardon," and with that I walked back to my place at
the bar.
Not to be put off or take no for an answer, I decided I'd find
out who those girls were, so I bought three bottles of Coke anyway,
and took it to the girls. I introduced myself and asked them what
their names were, and like polite parrots they shook their heads in
unison, saying they didn't want the drinks, and that was the end of
the "conversation." I thought, "Well, the hell with them," and head-
ing back to the bar, noticed that several other people had come in.
When I got back to my own drink, I discovered that my billfold was
missing from where I'd left it. I demanded of the bartender, "Who
took my billfold?" He shrugged his shoulders and said he didn't know,
and that really made me mad. I went over and locked the front door
and informed
them that no one was leaving the place until I got my billfold back.
The girls, again in unison, quickly and quietly left by the back
door, as the bartender hurried over and opened the front door, saying
no one was going to close his place of business. Sizing up the
situation, I called the MPs, and when I did, several of the late
comers said they'd like to try me on for size. I said, "All right,
just come one at a time-- there's enough pieces for each of you." As
the seventh civilian fell or quit in bloody submission, the
bartender, thinking I was all-in, got brave and grabbed a cue stick
and came at me. Before he got his first blow in, I took it away from
him and was about to wrap it around his scrawny neck when the MPs
arrived and asked me what the matter was. I told them some bum stole
my billfold, and while they were questioning some of the other people
in the place, an old man started in through the door. I quickly
approached him and asked him if he had a family. He answered in the
affirmative, and grabbing him by his shirt collar, I spun him around,
kicked him in the pants, and told him to get home where he belonged.
He took off down the sidewalk, saying, "Yes, sir! Yes, sir!"
I never did get my billfold back, and as I left the building, the
elderly man and two younger men who were there to begin with, who had
nothing to do with the fight, also started to leave. The tall one in
uniform looked at me and said, "You play kind of rough, don't you?" I
didn't answer. I pulled out the change in my pocket and stood there
looking at all the money I had left to my name, when they asked me if
I cared to spend the day in the country at their home. If so, I was
welcome to come along and have dinner, and
they would bring me back to town in time to catch the evening bus
back to camp. I thought, "Why not?"
I got in the back seat with the now wide eyed girls who looked
like they couldn't believe what had happened in the last few minutes.
Clearly, they were embarrassed by it all. So, here I was, sitting
next to the "three stuck up girls" I'd been trying my best to strike
up a conversation with, and thought what a strange turn of events it
had turned out to be.
Their first stop was at the hospital to see their mother, who had
been ill for some time. While the family went to visit her, I waited
for them in the car and asked myself what I was doing there. When
they got back, we headed for the country where we spent the day at
one sister's home on the outskirts of a small village known as Leon.
I met her husband who seemed kind of surprised to find them bring a
stranger in with them-- and a soldier at that!
The rest of the afternoon was pleasant and I thoroughly enjoyed
the good dinner they fixed; it had been a long while since I'd had a
home cooked meal. Later, I missed the eldest sister and went looking
for her. I found her sitting alone, reading. The afternoon shadows
were already long, and not one to beat-around the bush, I asked her
if she had time to jot down her name and address on a piece of paper
I handed to her. She was as eager to do that as she was to take the
pop back at the pool hall, but finally agreed. While she was writing
on that little piece of paper, I decided then and there to marry her.
She looked up at me as she handed me the note, and I asked her, "Will
you marry me?"
Thunderstuck, she looked like I'd said a
four letter word instead of asking her a four word question. "I WILL
NOT!" she stammered, "YOU'RE CRAZY!"
And as quickly I said, "Right, crazy about you!"
She got up and left faster than at the pool hall when the fight
started, with me following, hat in hand, telling her to stop and let
me explain....
"But I know you. You're the girl I saw in the well back home, and
you're going to be my wife."
"You are a lunatic," she said, "and crazier than a hoot-owl."
I explained to her about an old Southern highland superstition
that, on a certain day of a certain year, you take a mirror and look
over your shoulder into a well, which will hold the reflection of the
boy or girl you'll marry. "You're the girl I saw in the well, wearing
glasses, sitting there reading something."
I was never one for giving a girl a line I thought she'd heard
before, but I guess that one was almost too much, even though it was
the truth. Or at least, the truth as I saw it. Before I went back to
camp, I told her I'd be back and that she might as well make up her
mind to marry me because that was the way it was meant to be.
Back at the post, I was given two weeks extra duty and confined
to camp for "losing" my wallet. This was in the early part of `43,
and it was about this time that elements of our regiments were sent
to Detroit, Michigan, to restore order after race riots in that
troubled city threatened to become explosive.
I remained at camp and in the course of small town life, ran
into Mr. Sherpe and his son Johnny again, and went with them to their
home in Pleasant Valley. It was a large, white,
two-story house looking out from a carefully tended lawn with flower
and rock gardens. To the back was an orchard on the hillside, and
down the walkway, two dogs came wagging their tails in welcome.
By this time, Mrs. Sherpe had returned home from the hospital and
I learned from her that Selma suspected that I might already be
married. So, I wrote my mother asking her to write to the Sherpes and
explain to them that I was indeed single, or as I put it; "free,
white, and twenty�one."
It wasn't long until I went out to their farm armed with that
letter from my mother. Word soon spread through the neighborhood
about the presence of the "man from the Second Division," and
suddenly, everyone was agog with the news. Some of them came to get a
look at this stranger in their midst. One of their neighbors wanted
to know if I was from the Philippine Islands, since my skin was so
dark from the Texas sun. I don't think that a visitor from another
planet could have stirred up more interest than I did.
Many happy evenings and weekends followed, and I found I was
growing very fond of the Sherpe family, who gave me a sense of
belonging I never had at home. We'd all get together, along with
their friends, the Thompsons, and visit nearby places of interest, go
to movies, and summer carnivals where we joined the milling crowds of
local people and throngs of bustling GIs looking for all the action
they could crowd into their short free time.
Other things were in short supply too, such as gasoline and car
tires, so everyone had to conserve. People started taking second
looks at the flowerbeds that were encircled by an old tire, thinking
maybe there was still
some use in them for the family car, after all.
One evening, the family piled into the car and headed for
Sparta, rickety tires or not. About six miles down the road, for,
safety's sake, I decided to stop and check the tires. I got out just
long enough to get my hands on my hips, when one of the tires let out
a long, tired sigh and fell as flat as a pancake, to the complete
amusement of everyone in the car. Standing there, I was the only one
without a smile, as I was the one who had to roll up his sleeves and
put on the spare, for the now anxious faces of the passengers. I'd
been changing so many tires lately, I felt like a one-man pit crew,
and had it off and another on in no more than a few minutes. Then we
were off again in a cloud of swirling dust.
Later that evening when we left the theatre I checked the tires
again, and found them holding up pretty good. The only problem now
was that we were completely hemmed in by other theatre goers jamming
the streets. The Army had a saying for such occasions: "The right
way, the wrong way, and the Army way." In this situation, I chose the
"Army way". I got behind the wheel of the car with everybody aboard,
and headed straight down the sidewalk--right past the ticket booth
under the theatre marquee, past a group of startled movie goers whose
boxes of popcorn spilled in all directions, including an apple which
went rolling down the sidewalk past a short, fat policeman who stood
there with a look of disbelief on his face: until he saw the
Indianhead patch on my shoulder. Mr. Sherpe's laugh was louder than
during the Laurel and Hardy movie we'd just seen. "Pa" thought this
extremely funny, and for a long time afterward he couldn't keep a
straight face. He just went off into gales of laughter
whenever he looked at me.
Despite an underlying current of sadness felt by everyone at the
time, we had a summer filled with fun and laughter. The spirit of
fellowship prevailing of the men of the 2nd Division caught up with
this population, too. The Sherpes found my rendition of old country
songs like "Chickens A-Crowin' on Sourwood Mountain," and "Has
Anybody Seen My Moo-Cow," equally hilarious, while I thought their
liking for western and popular music not very compatible with mine.
We had one song in common-- "San Antonio Rose." Our 2nd Division
theme song was popular wherever the men of the Division turned up.
Around this time, I learned that the Sherpes had noticed me long
before I met them. They had wondered about the paper sack I always
carried under my arm; it was something that set me apart from other
GIs. Everytime they saw me they'd say to each other, "Well, there
goes `GI Joe' again. I wonder what he's got in that sack."
My Southern accent also provided some amusing moments. One
Sunday, while assisting Mrs. Sherpe with Sunday dinner, I asked where
she kept the "flare" (flour), and had the house in a small uproar
trying to figure out and find whatever "flare" was. I kept saying,
"You know, flare, cookin' flare.., the white stuff." When she finally
figured out what it was I was looking for, she was unable to stop
laughing long enough to tell me where the staples were kept in the
pantry. Selma came to my rescue, only to end up joining her mother in
laughter. Wearing one of her mother's aprons, I ended up looking like
a dusty miller, with flour in my eyebrows, on my face, and all over
my overseas cap.
Dinners were a merry meal, and visits were
as pleasant as the valley's name. I felt at home with this sprawling
family of sisters, brothers, close cousins and friends. I .
thoroughly enjoyed being with them. During one dinner the topic of
Southern food was brought up. I told them we ate wild onions, poke
salad, wild mustard greens, and drank sassafras tea; things they had
never heard of.
When I mentioned corn bread, Selma said their grandfather, Torger
Bekkum, a Union soldier in the Civil War, had told of how he had felt
great pity for Southeners "who ate bread made out of corn we feed our
chickens." She also went on to tell the story of how, during one
incident on the Union march into Tennessee, the other soldiers in his
group confiscated a farmer's pig and chickens to butcher, but Torger,
being religious, refused to be a party to what he considered
stealing, and stood off to the side, alone. He had been standing
there for awhile, when the Southern farmer came out of his house with
a plate of food and a piece of corn bread for him -- the first he had
ever seen.
They were intensely interested in knowing all about our way of
life in the South and the difference between northern and southern
farms, which I explained while being shown around the place. The
country music people of my area were also a topic of conversation.
They enjoyed hearing about my folks at home at the foot of the
Cumberland Mountains where you had to "swing in on a grapevine and
funnel in the sunshine!" Incredulous stares followed the statement
that before I had joined the Army, I had worked as a bootlegger sell-
ing "white lightning" under the very eyes of the law on the streets
back home. I told them how I would bury bottles of moonshine whiskey
along the sidewalks of the town at night, and
those who knew me would approach me for a bottle. I'd collect the
money for it, tell them it was at their feet, and they'd reach down
and get it while I went on my way. It was as simple as that. The look
on their faces told me plainer than words that they didn't believe a
word of it. Selma looked at me and said, "And I guess you'll be
telling us next that you're one of the first Americans?"
I said, "Yes, ma'am! Cherokee. My grand-mother on my mother's
side of the `tribe' was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian.... Anyway,
there's an Indian princess buried up in the
family cemetery at Silver Point."
The humor of this was not lost on Mrs. Sherpe, who sat there
listening to us, smiling. Selma kept looking at me in a strange way,
and I wondered why. Years later I learned she'd been thinking, "Maybe
there's more to that shoulder patch and handsome, tanned face than
meets the eye."
Soft summer days went by, and sometimes we'd walk the ridge road.
I'd hold her arm or hand and we would talk or just quietly walk,
while the hills cast off the sun and laid shadows over the valley.
She was studying me, sizing me up very deliberately. She puzzled
me, but one thing I knew-- I liked her. I liked her looks, her
voice and accent, and most of all I liked her quiet dignity. The
difference in our moods made her seem completely unattainable. As the
days passed I began to feel that we were all alone in the world.
But, it was a bit like a cat and mouse game, too. I'd grab her and
give her a hug and kiss whenever I got the chance. If I got too
passionate, she would struggle to free herself, and all the while I'd
be asking, "When will you marry me?" She would shake her head
and walk away. Come to think of it, I don't remember that she ever
did say she'd marry me!
Soon after this I was sitting out on the rifle range one
morning, wondering what made me keep going back out to Pleasant
Valley instead of a local beer hall. I'd tell myself, "I'm not going
out there, anymore." But everytime I got off duty, that was the first
place I went. It suddenly dawned on me that if this was love, I'd
better be getting married, because I would be shipping out soon. This
time overseas. Many of the boys were getting married and had someone
to come home to and live for. I had just about decided that I was
really in love when the sergeant caught me daydreaming and asked me
what was the matter. I told him I had to have a pass, and when he
asked what for, I told him I was getting married. He said, "In that
case you had better see the old man." I did, and he asked me if I was
sure that was what I was going to do with the three day pass, and
after I replied in the affirmative, he said: "Bring me back a copy of
the marriage certificate." I knew he meant it.
That we were to be married was hardly discussed at all. It
seemed to be a foregone conclusion. I stopped at the jewelers, bought
a bright ring, and started hitch-hiking the twelve miles to Pleasant
Valley, knowing that Mr. Sherpe and his youngest son, Johnny, would
be coming along soon on their way home from work at Camp McCoy. When
we got to their home, I showed Selma the ring. She didn't say a word--
simply looked at me and back to the wedding band in my hand and then
on her finger. It fit perfectly. The rest of the family was in the
kitchen, and as we walked in I showed the ring to my future
brother-in-law, and he smiled, saying, "So that's the way the wind is
blowing." With excited talk and laughter, everyone showed their
approval.
I spent the night in a spare bedroom downstairs. The next morning
I met her at the bottom of the stairs and told her, "You look really
beautiful. Ready to go?"
"Yes, I am," she said.
"So am I."
And with that, on August 9th, together with her mother and
father who acted as witnesses, we drove to Caledonia, Minnesota,
where there was no waiting period, and we were married by a Justice
of the Peace. On this solemn occasion, nothing went the way it
should. The clerk was late and arrived on crutches and he was too
proud to be helped. There was trouble with the door, he dropped his
crutch, and as he stooped to pick it up, his round, straw sailor hat
fell off his head and rolled down the hail. On this comic note, we
entered his office.