Posted on 11/09/2005 2:09:40 PM PST by bogeybob
I often wonder what he was thinking that morning as he crossed that swollen river into Germany. Perched up on the half track, I’m sure the vast majority of his concerns that morning were for the young kids at his feet, buck privates piled into the back of the clattering machine that was half tank and half truck. But I’ll bet one corner of his mind that November morning in 1944 was thinking about going home.
Home was Lewiston, Maine. A small town in Maine dominated by old brick textile mills and a smelly river flowing by it. His father was a loom fixer in the mill and his mother was a dressmaker in a shop down on Lisbon Street.
I have heard that he was quite an athlete at Lewiston High School. He covered center field for the Blue Devils and could run like the wind. Back stateside, he was on the camp baseball team. No small accomplishment in those days when baseball was truly THE American pastime.
Graduation Day at Lewiston High seemed like a lifetime ago. I am sure he thought of the good times back in Lewiston. His kid brother played 3rd base for the Devils. Always a leader out there in center field, he would often catch up with his brother as the team left the field. His brother could count on “hearing it” if he booted a grounder or made a high throw to first base.
Lewiston was a neat place to grow up. There were plenty of movies at the Empire and Strand on Main Street. You could take the Inter-Urban trolley out to Long Beach. The dances on the pier at Old Orchard were special in the summertime.
The weather briefing this morning for the Lorraine Region was for spitting snow and rain. They weren’t wrong. The clay roads and fields of Eastern France were a sea of mud. The fall rains had been plentiful in this year.
Every now and then, a German artillery shell whistled over head. One of the infantry privates yelled up at him after one shell went over. “Hey Sarge! That one says we ain’t going home!” yelled the young man in a strong New Jersey accent. As a 155 American round answered back in the opposite direction, he reassured his half track crew. “Hear that one? That one says ‘Don’t be too sure about that!”
The crew laughed. Nervously.
When they rolled out of field camp this morning, the officers and the non-comms knew how special this day, 19 November 1944, was to Generals Eisenhower and Patton. The American army was crossing onto German soil for the first time in the Second World War.
The driver shifted the truck/tank down to a lower gear as they started up the bank on the German side of the river. He kept his eyes peeled for Krauts in the trees.
They had engaged in their first contact and combat with the Germans a week ago. He remarked that the first taste of combat was more like a chase, with everybody running in the same direction. Towards Germany. Prisoners were a massive problem for the American General Staff.
It is said in wartime that you never hear the one that has your name on it. He didn’t. His crew didn’t.
It was over in an instant. There was no pain. He was 21 years old. His crew of ten men were mostly teenagers…some were older. They were full of hell and hailed from all over the United States.
Most had never left their home towns before they ended up in France.
All of them have rested in eternal peace in the American military cemetery at St. Avold, France for 61 years now. They lie together. All 10,489 of them.
All of their families received telegrams from the War Department. I can only imagine the gut wrenching grief that enveloped their loved ones that Holiday Season in ’44.
Some years later, all 10,489 families received an offer by the Army to bring their sons, brothers and husbands home for re-interrment in the States. All 10,489 of those families decided to let their loved ones repose forever with their comrades. Indeed, where they would say they belong.
They never saw a jet plane. Never watched a TV. Men walking on the moon was a fantasy to them. They never heard of a computer.
They never met their wife. Never bounced a grandchild on their knee. Never got to walk their daughter down the aisle. Never really got to say “Goodbye” to their family and friends.
We owe them much. Think of them on November 11th, Veterans Day. Never, ever forget them.
I won’t.
Written in honor of my uncle, Staff Sgt. Robert J. Stone, United States Army, killed in action on November 19, 1944. Sgt. Stone and his fellow Lewiston High School classmates killed in the Second World War will be honored at a special re-dedication ceremony in the Memorial Garden at the High School on November 10th.
May they all rest in eternal peace and with the blessing of God.
Nam Vet
"I consider it no sacrifice to die for my country. In my mind, we came here to thank God that men like these have lived rather than to regret that they have died." General George S. Patton
Thank You.
This brought tears to my eyes. I never met my Uncle Bud who is also buried in France. I remember seeing the letter my grandfather sent to the War Department, telling them that my uncle would have preferred to stay there with his men.
I will be thinking of him and so many others on this Veterans Day.
I am proud to be named after him.
Think, folks, of the 21 year olds that you know. Imagine that 21 year old as soaking wet, unshaven combat squad commander in the muck and mire of Eastern France, leading a crew of infantry soldiers.
What these men were thrown into was truly remarkable.
My uncle was one of three survivors from a crew of ten in a B-17 shot down over Germany. He spent over a year in a German POW camp. He was fortunate to survive and died just a few years ago. That was a very dangerous job during a very dangerous time.
Amen, I never got to meet my Uncle Sal. I was born in 1943. He was killed in action after crossing the Rhine near the end of the war. Prayers for all of our relatives we never got to meet and know because of war.
You are so right. My older brother, a Navy pilot, is proud to be named after my uncle. My uncle was Captain of his track team, played violin and sang. My mother cannot watch Saving Private Ryan or any war movie for that matter; she remembers not only her brother, but many of her friends who went to war. They WERE an exceptional group of men.
I grew up across the lawn from my Grandmother and Grandfather so I knew them very well. They never mentioned my uncle. I thought it was due to some sort of coldness. My father also mentioned him almost never.
I found out after they passed away that they took his death very hard and that there was tremendous grief all around. I think they just were blocking it all out by the time I was old enough to figure out what was going on.
My Dad was in the Pacific in 1944. How about getting a letter from Mom telling you that your older brother was killed? I am sure this was repeated hundreds of thousands of times in that era.
That was a beautiful but very sad story. God bless them all. Thank you for sharing your story of your uncle.
To the families of our fallen heroes, THANK YOU and may God bless and be with you always.
±
"The Era of Osama lasted about an hour, from the time the first plane hit the tower to the moment the General Militia of Flight 93 reported for duty." 
Toward FREEDOM
This is my Military/Veteran's Affairs ping list. FReep mail me if you want ON/OFF the list.
Hazy bump...
Thier spirit lives on today in the young men and women serving in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Amen
Thanks Neil, and thank you for honoring all our veterans, every day.
Thanks for the ping!
My family lost,(my) Great Uncles in WWI, Uncles in WWII, Cousins in Korea and Viet Nam.
I'm one of the lucky ones, I came home.
I pray that all of the souls that have perished in the fight for peace be restful forever more.
We remember you, now and forever.
Retired Airborne Ranger/Viet Nam Vet
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