The Story of Q - intro

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This month I have already added the months of Dec 44, Jan, Feb, and April of 45. This evening I compiled May of 45 and am hoping to upload it within the next few days. 

The amount of information is incredible. What a daunting task it must have been to type and submit all those required documents to the Army. And of course, this was before the age of computers! No way to save. Hey, we need that in triplicate. Pass me the carbon sheets. You guys deserve medals for that!!

So, the last files to complete the set are May through November of 1945. The last few will be easy, for there's very little to share after the mid-summer months during the occupation of Germany. 

I don’t remember the first time that well-worn sepia-toned box with the raised gold filigree and the words “Bunte – Chicago – Mi Choice Chocolates” appeared in my life. Still, it seems it was always a part of my world. The objects within held a strange and constant fascination for a young girl trying desperately to hold on to the fleeting war memories relayed by her dad to his loving family and friends. The rectangular box was never far from my side and was kept in a nightstand as I moved from house to house and city to city. Occasionally, I would sit on the floor, carefully remove the tattered lid, and lovingly lay each item before me. Maybe I was hoping a name would mysteriously appear on the back of a photo, giving me some clue as to who these young men were who stood next to my father, smiling back at me. Maybe it was a source of comfort and a way for me to try and hold on to a part of my life, for my father had passed away when I was only twelve. Maybe it was all those things and more. However, the one thing I did not know and could not know was the critical role the fraying box would play later in my life.

The cherished items included things that a million other GIs brought back from their tours of duty: tattered and faded black-and-white photos of foxhole friends, patches and pins proudly worn on Ike jackets, and currency from faraway countries that I could only begin to dream about. But now, there was no longer anyone to tell the story of their experiences, only a daughter’s fading memories of tales told around the dining room table in Detroit.

Hard as I tried, I could only recall brief details from the stories that held me spellbound as a young child, but I do remember a certain sense of awe, fascination, and trepidation as the German Luger came out from its secret hiding place, followed by the sound of steel as the German officer’s sword was deftly removed from its scabbard. Slice! The fascination never left and was renewed each time my dad repeated this scene in our house. I sat wide-eyed and in perfect silence as I eagerly awaited another tale from across the sea. I never forgot that bullets could do a lot of damage and make holes in men THIS BIG! I never forgot the word ANZIO and talk about beachheads and sand and a hail of artillery. I will never forget the mood in the room and its impression on me. Never!

Even though my dad and I only had twelve years together, those years left an indelible impression on that innocent girl. We were close. “I was daddy’s girl!” My father and I did many things together, including watching war movies and the TV show Combat! My mother did not share our enthusiasm. I think she thought we were both a bit nuts, for we would sit riveted on our sofa as the black and white images flowed across the screen. I will never forget that faraway stare that came across his face. He was instantly transformed and transported a few thousand miles away. His body would involuntarily jerk, and maybe a foot would stomp, or an arm would twitch, but he was no longer in the room with me. I never questioned him, but I wondered where he was and what he was thinking. I could not comprehend all the emotions that must have been running through his veins. Still, even at that age, I began to understand, appreciate, and respect all he had been through.

It always took me back to that box and left me wanting to know more. I could no longer remember what Army unit he was with or what many cherished souvenirs represented. It always left me with a longing and a wish that we had written things down. But how could I berate myself because I was only an elementary school child, and when you are that young, you think your parents will live forever.

One winter day at my mother’s house, I sifted through Christmas cards that adorned her room and ran across a name I was unfamiliar with. Mom, I exclaimed, who is Ira Wheately? Oh, that’s an old Army buddy of your dad’s. Well, that’s all I needed to hear, and a few weeks later, my husband and I arranged to meet at Ira’s house. Most people would not understand my excitement, but my husband did, because he shared my interest in World War II history and was delighted to accompany me on this visit.

What an interesting man Ira Wheatley was, and what a fascinating life he had. He graciously filled us in on the 540th’s tour of duty in the ETO (European Theatre of Operations), and many times, the conversation would return to Anzio. Dreaded Anzio! I began to see the same reaction in other men anytime that word was mentioned. It must have been hell. It was. Ira spoke of the intense and constant shelling that forced the men to bury their trucks in the sand to keep the machine shops running. It brought back a flood of memories from my childhood. “I know these stories,” I said to myself.

Ira also relayed a story of how my dad was injured by mortar fire while performing the duty of a motorcycle courier (a fact that I was later able to confirm after perusing thousands of pages of documents from NARA, the National Archives and Records Administration in College Park, Maryland).

After a grand day together, I hugged Ira and told him what a thrill it was to meet him. I could kick myself later because even though we continued exchanging Christmas cards for years, we never again met in person. Many things he imparted to me that day were forever lost because I failed to put pen to paper. When he passed on in the 1990s, my only connection was severed, and I was almost back to square one in my quest to learn more about my dad’s wartime experiences.

While living in Detroit, I contacted the National Archives in St. Louis. Still, it took three successive tries before I finally received a letter at our new home in northern Michigan in the autumn of 2003. Sorry, they informed me, but your father’s records burned in a massive fire in 1973. How could it end this way? I was so distraught it took me almost three weeks to show my husband the letter from St. Louis. I then began to feel angry, leading me to one conclusion; I would not give up, which would not defeat me. I had the Internet, didn’t I?

So, as the winter months bore down on our little town, I put forth an undying effort in front of my computer. I re-opened the box of my dad’s wartime mementos for the umpteenth time. I fed anything and everything into the Google search engine. The first few weeks were frustrating as I tried to figure out where to begin. How does one look for a military unit when you don’t even know what unit a person was with? How do you write a description for a unit designation shoulder patch? Considering how many Army units had fought in the ETO, the quest was daunting. I began narrowing it down with the 5th and 7th Army patches but found that there was a lot of ground to cover. My job was made all the more difficult because he had one shoulder patch with a Seahorse on it and another with a Red Bull. HELP!

With bound determination, I began to feel like I was progressing. I found a site for the 34th Infantry Division, the great Red Bulls, but conflicting info from other sites sent my head into a tizzy. The Seahorse patch belonged to the 36th Combat Engineer Regiment, but the 36th Engineers were NOT part of the 34th Inf Div. So I sent a letter to the 34th, and soon afterward, discovered the name of Captain John Fallon, 36th Combat Engineer.

I began sketching diagrams on paper, trying to develop a divisional chart. Still, something wasn’t adding up. A few weeks later, I received a letter from Jerry Gorden, webmaster of the 34th Infantry, along with a unit history. In the interim, I found another reference to “Seahorses” and the name Rene Rousselle, a 540th Combat Engineer, who was the contact for their unit. I sent a letter in late April 2004 with photographic scans of the pins and patches I had in my wartime collection. I was coming up with answers, but I wasn’t sure which direction it was leading me at this juncture.

Then, I received a handwritten letter from Rene Rousselle in the first week of May. I was overjoyed. Rene informed me that my father was assigned to the 540th Combat Engineer Regiment. A few days later, John Fallon emailed me. He told me about the 36th Combat Engineer’s proud history and invited me to call him. I will never forget the day we first spoke, for it was the 60th Anniversary of the Normandy D-Day landings.

After conferring with John and Rene, we could ascertain that my dad was part of the 540th. Captain Fallon gave me the lowdown on both units, stating that they shared a common history and explained their relationship to the 5th and 7th Armies and 6th Corps. I was starting to grasp all this when John threw a ringer… neither unit belonged to a division. What? I assumed that each unit fell under a division, but I soon discovered that many engineer units were known in army lingo as “bastard” units; they were individualized engineer regiments or battalions and went where and when they were needed. Sometimes under an Army, sometimes under a Corps, and oftentimes attached to other divisional units. The learning curve was steep, but I finally had some “teachers,” and I was very eager.

I’ve had the honor and privilege of meeting hundreds of WWII veterans and their families. Through their encouragement, moral support, friendship, and love, I have taken on the task of producing a documentary, No Bridge Too Far. I also created a website dedicated to my father and the VI Corps engineers (the 36th, 39th, 540th, and 1108th). This site grew from a mere two pages from its inception in 2004 to what you see before you today, including a forum with over 1300 members, numerous veteran’s memoirs, and thousands of historical documents and photographs.

Thus, through dogged determination (I inherited my dad’s engineer genes!), the kindness of countless individuals, and a now unquestioning belief in divine intervention, I find myself at an unbelievable juncture.

That takes us back to that tiny box that once held an array of unanswered questions. Life is like that box of chocolates; you never know what you’ll get!

They are interested in my research on the battle of Monte Cassino.