My WWII Odyssey

Salerno to the Downfall of Nazi Germany

Jr. Dr. Alban E. Reid, Stephanie Reid Wilcox

• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781646631094
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

My WWII Odyssey describes how one day—December 7, 1941—altered the course of Alban E. Reid Jr.’s life, transforming him from an unconcerned and indifferent youth into a ferociously committed Army officer willing to lay down his life to preserve the liberties he had taken for granted only months earlier.

Dr. Reid takes you from disillusionment to dedication, culminating in the liberation of a sub-camp of the Dachau concentration camp in Germany. The leadership skills he acquired along his path to personal victory over doubt served as a foundation to his success in his chosen field of education. Those with an abiding interest in World War II history and how political upheaval can alter one’s future will want to read this compelling firsthand account.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: A Train to Somewhere

Chapter 2: Trinidad 1941-1942

Chapter 3: Pearl Harbor

Chapter 4: Back to the US

Chapter 5: North Africa

Chapter 6: The Landing at Salerno

Chapter 7: Purple Heart #1: Recovery in Sicily and Tunisia

Chapter 8: The Thirty-sixth Invades Southern France

Chapter 9: Purple Heart #2: Recovery in France and Italy

Chapter 10: Back to the Front Lines

Chapter 11: I Company Commander

Chapter 12: Liberating a Concentration Camp Near Landsberg

Chapter 13: The Occupation

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

A TRAIN TO SOMEWHERE

So, there I was on September 11, 1940, on a train to somewhere. All I knew was that wherever that somewhere was, I would be wherever the U.S. Army sent me for the next three years. I was an eighteen-year old without a high school diploma, because I couldn’t pay my tuition bill. The army had accepted me because they needed all the recruits they could find if the National Guard troops who had been called up for a year in 1939 were to actually fulfill OHIO chant “Over the Hill in October 1940.” But the regular army had been unwilling to accept me until my mother had supplied a birth certificate certifying that I was, in fact, eighteen years old. I had been on short rations for over a year and my body must have shown it (I had been relying on a bottle of chocolate milk and a sweet roll each day) but my semi-monthly paycheck arrived and then I could afford to have a proper meal. It took several days for the birth certificate to arrive. While we waited, I continued to get my rest at night on a park bench outside the downtown railroad station. Imagine trying to do that in Philadelphia today! During the day I tried to ignore the rumbling of my empty stomach. And then the birth certificate arrived and I was inducted, promising to serve my country loyally and faithfully against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Since America didn’t have any immediate enemies, as far as I knew, I didn’t think I would be called on to engage enemies, foreign or domestic, in the immediate future. To the contrary, I saw military service as a way of getting my life in order, paying off my school debt so that I could receive my diploma, and even saving money with which to buy off the third year of my enlistment so that I could return to Dartmouth and my medical studies which were now on hold.

The train ride proved to be a short one and it ended in Washington, D.C. where I was assigned for duty at the Army Medical Center, which included Walter Reed Army Hospital. Although my induction record listed my previous employment as a clerk at the Philadelphia Public Library, I had stressed during my induction interview that my ultimate goal was to study medicine and become a physician. So, there I was: instead of becoming whatever the army wanted a library clerk to become, I would do whatever the army wanted me to do at the Army Medical Center.

The train ride from Philadelphia to Washington, D.C. was fairly brief. I don’t recall the details of my arrival, though some of the other recruits stayed on the train, heading south for a different type of service. In Washington, I was whisked from the train station to the Army Medical Center where I was issued clothing, shoes and bedding. After a brief stop at the mess hall, I was escorted to the barracks where I would spend my nights for the next several months. I was assigned to a private first class who had just received his promotion for enlisting for a second three-year term. (Promotions were slow in the regular army at that time!) I would get to know him as Private First-Class Ogilvie, and he proved to be more a master than mentor for a time.

I don’t recall Ogilvie’s first name because I always addressed him by his rank and last name. He was a southerner, as were many of the soldiers who had enlisted during the Depression years, and he was proud of it. He regarded anyone from north of the Mason-Dixon Line with some disdain, and believed it necessary for recruits from north of the Line to go through an initiation process. He was not present when I first entered the barracks and made my way down double rows of bunk beds to my assigned space. I made up my bunk with the bedding I had been issued and bedded down for the night sometime before “lights out” was sounded by the bugler.

I enjoyed my first night in a bed in almost a week, and thus ignored the bugler’s sounding of reveille. Within minutes, I found myself on the floor with my bunk on top of me. That was my introduction to Private First-Class Ogilvie, who had returned from the city in the middle of the night. I received detailed instructions as to my expected response when the bugle sounded. In short order, we fell out for a period of PT (physical training), followed by a pass through the common wash room, dressing in the uniform of the day, and proceeding to the mess hall where I truly enjoyed my third meal provided by the U.S. Army. Immediately after breakfast I reported to the first sergeant who introduced me to basic military protocol and gave me my first assignment. I was to return to the mess hall which I had just left and report to the mess sergeant. I reported as directed and was led to the rear of the kitchen and was seated in front of the largest pot of unpeeled potatoes I had ever seen. He issued my weapon of the day, which was a potato peeler. I wondered if that was to be my weapon to use against enemies, both domestic and foreign.

I was told that the potatoes had to be finished in time for dinner that day. I found that the pot of potatoes in front of me was just the first of several that I would peel before dinner. Since I had spent three years living on an Iowa farm, I was familiar with the potato peeling process and was able to complete my assignment on schedule. Before returning to the barracks after dinner, I was directed to report back to the kitchen in the morning, two hours before reveille. Were we going to serve more potatoes for breakfast? At least I would miss reveille and PT for the next day! And so, I reported as I was told.

The mess sergeant greeted me and congratulated me on my work as a potato peeler. He said he was going to promote me today. I would be in charge of the pots-and-pans detail. The cooking pots and pans were not as large as the potato pots had been, but at least when they were empty, they were easy to rinse and clean. Not so, the utensils.

It seemed that half of anything that had been cooked in them stuck to them. After a full day of pot cleaning, I wished I were back on potatoes. Somehow, I got through the next few days. And then it was Saturday! Saturday and Sunday were free time on post or, if you were lucky, the first sergeant might issue you a day or weekend pass. But recruits would receive no passes until they had completed their six-week basic training program. Since I was off duty and restricted to the post for the weekend, I decided to familiarize myself with the medical center, and I checked out the post theater where free movies were shown at night. I visited the post exchange which offered a wide variety of items that a soldier might need. Unfortunately, I had arrived at the medical center with no money in my pocket and could not expect any until my first payday. I wandered on to the post library where books were free and could be checked out, or read in comfortable chairs. My continuing interest at the time was in medicine, so I was pleased to locate an extensive collection of medical books. Included in the collection was a copy of “Gray’s Anatomy,” a basic volume for medical studies. I took the book down and started reading on page one, continuing until the library closed at 9 P.M. As I left the library, I decided I would return Sunday and would spend my off-duty hours there continuing my medical studies.

Monday morning, I was back to reveille, PT, and breakfast; but this time I ate in the dining hall rather than in the kitchen. Today was to be the first day of basic training for me and a handful of other recruits. We started with close-order drill. How could an army win a war unless its troops could march forward, backward, and sideways with just an arms-length distance between individuals? Some of us had a tough time trying to differentiate between our right and left feet. Changing direction was a difficulty, especially going from front to back. After several days we began to get the hang of close-order drill. Our next lesson was on military courtesy. We learned to salute all officers, or anyone who looked as though he might be an officer. At times, medical officers could tend to be a little un-military in their dress and conduct. Officers, if you ever came close enough to speak to them, were always addressed as “sir” to show respect for their rank. Non-commissioned officers were never addressed as “sir,” but they were really the ones you had to show respect for. After all, they controlled the duty roster and who caught KP (kitchen police), and who received passes for leave.

Aside from continuing to enhance our physical strength with daily PT and some running at dawn, we undertook training in the responsibilities of medical personnel in combat. We learned to administer first aid to the wounded in combat, though we didn’t learn where the combat would take place or under what the conditions would be. We practiced carrying our fellow trainees back and forth on the green lawns of the Army Medical Center, in broad daylight with the sun shining, throughout our training day.

Another important event was the issuance of a Red Cross armband to be worn on the battlefield to ensure that, whoever the enemy might be, we wouldn’t be shot at. Though we were not at war at the time, some of us thought it might be a little better to be armed with a rifle, rather than a litter and an armband, if we ever actually saw combat. Our basic training ended on this note, and we were told to report to the first sergeant for our regular duty assignments.

My assignment was to the laboratory that manufactured vaccines to protect troops from malaria, which apparently was a problem for troops serving in the Philippines and the Panama Canal Zone. I don’t remember the details of our work other than that the day started early and ended early. I do remember that Private First-Class Ogilvie was now my on-the-job supervisor, though there was a sergeant who was nominally in charge of the laboratory. I noted that one of the rituals that were faithfully followed at the start of the day was the filling of a large glass beaker with water, to which was added a healthy serving of citrate powder. The final additive was a clear liquid that had a distinctive odor, one I didn’t recognize. All during the day there was a steady line of visitors to the beaker, each one filling his glass repeatedly with what appeared to be a simple lemonade drink. The sipping continued throughout the day, with the drinkers becoming more boisterous as time went on. Over the next few days, the pattern continued. Each day, our lab was visited several times a day by a non-commissioned officer who was introduced as the unit supply sergeant. Each time he came, he helped himself to a generous portion of lemonade using a beaker that had his name written on it. He seemed to enjoy his visits and always left with a hearty farewell. During my initial days in the lab, I was not invited to imbibe from the community beaker. Eventually, when I was allowed to have my own beaker and drink from the community beaker, I understood what had been going on. Every morning, the community beaker was filled with water and sweetened with citrate powder, after which another clear liquid was added. That clear liquid was 90 percent pure alcohol which was dispensed by the unit supply room for laboratory purposes. Because alcohol was not required for our lab’s procedures, it was being used for human consumption through the supply sergeant’s generosity and with his enjoyment. Over time, the juice was used to initiate a young recruit who was a member of the Seventh Day Adventist church, which abhorred alcohol. After only one sip, the recruit laughed at being the butt of a joke, but in future he made certain his personal beaker was filled only with tap water.

The barracks were cold and unfriendly after work, so after evening meal I found myself returning to the library where I resumed my reading of “Gray’s Anatomy.” I found that I could read a number of pages in that rather voluminous textbook in the several hours before I returned to the barracks for bed. I don’t know if I retained enough of my nightly reading to pass a medical school examination, but I did feel that I was making progress pursuing my interest in medicine. It was more productive than what I was doing during my daily stint in the laboratory.

My first payday was the next memorable event in my early days in the military. The going rate of pay for a private in the regular army was twenty-one dollars per month. Of course, back then there was no Social Security or Medicare deduction, so it could be assumed that a private would take home the full twenty-one dollars to be used for entertainment, personal care items, and other incidental expenses. Not true! The army required its soldiers to be dressed in clean and pressed uniforms. For approximately two dollars per month, uniforms were washed and returned pressed, but that left only nineteen dollars to cover whatever additional expenses a soldier incurred. And there was another issue to be considered. The regular army was trying to live within a budget that had not provided funds for several National Guard divisions that had been called into active federal service. The solution? Reduce the army private’s pay to nineteen dollars per month. The result? Actual take-home pay was seventeen dollars per month!

Payday took place out of doors under a giant tree, where the payroll clerks set out tables with various stacks of bills and coins from which they dispensed the amount due each soldier after he had signed the payroll sheet. But wait! There was another component to be considered! Each private was allowed to draw a book of canteen chits as an advance against his monthly paycheck. The maximum number of chits allowed for a private was twelve dollars, which left only five dollars for a month of new expenses. Enterprising privates soon learned that they could buy a carton of cigarettes at the post exchange for one dollar in canteen chits each, and take ...