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Where the Birds Never Sing: The True Story of the 92nd Signal Battalion and the Liberation of Dachau – A First-Hand Military Biography from Normandy to Dachau's Liberation
In this riveting book, Jack Sacco tells the realistic, harrowing, at times horrifying, and ultimately triumphant tale of an American GI in World War II as seen through the eyes of his father, Joe Sacco -- a farm boy from Alabama who was flung into the chaos of Normandy and survived the terrors of the Bulge.
As part of the 92nd Signal Battalion and Patton's famed Third Army, Joe and his buddies found themselves at the forefront of the Allied push through France and Germany. After more than a year of fighting, but still only twenty years old, Joe had become a hardened veteran. Yet nothing could have prepared him and his unit for the horrors behind the walls of Germany's infamous Dachau concentration camp. They were among the first 250 American troops into the camp, and it was there that they finally grasped the significance of the Allied mission. Surrounded by death and destruction, the men not only found the courage and will to fight, but they also discovered the meaning of friendship and came to understand the value and fragility of life.
As part of the 92nd Signal Battalion and Patton's famed Third Army, Joe and his buddies found themselves at the forefront of the Allied push through France and Germany. After more than a year of fighting, but still only twenty years old, Joe had become a hardened veteran. Yet nothing could have prepared him and his unit for the horrors behind the walls of Germany's infamous Dachau concentration camp. They were among the first 250 American troops into the camp, and it was there that they finally grasped the significance of the Allied mission. Surrounded by death and destruction, the men not only found the courage and will to fight, but they also discovered the meaning of friendship and came to understand the value and fragility of life.
336 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2003
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 186 reviews
August 16, 2017
Well written book that follows a second generation boy from an Italian immigrant farming family in Alabama as he is drafted and then sent to Europe with his unit to fight on the front lines starting with training in England, deployment into the combat zone for D-Day, and ending when the war against Germany is finished. It's clear the experience at Dachau was powerful and traumatic but despite the title, it does make up a small portion of the book. The main focus is more on what everyday life/combat was like in the Army and in Europe during this time. The writing has good flow and breaks up the horrible with the humorous. We see descriptions of Patton (and Bob Hope and crew) as he interacted with the troops and with a few individuals known to the main character. The one place I would have liked to see more information would have been after the war on what the main character did moving on.
There are a lot of WWII books out there. If you are looking to read something along these lines this is a good choice.
There are a lot of WWII books out there. If you are looking to read something along these lines this is a good choice.
April 21, 2025
Outstanding, well-done Mr. Sacco! This story of a young man from Birmingham, Alabama and his journey from Army basic training all the way to the notorious Dachau concentration camp is a fabulous read. Reading about his perspective during his interactions with his fellow soldiers as they made their way across the European battlefield, to include encounters with Patton, action in the battle of the Bulge, and a visit to the Eagle’s Nest, kept me glued to each page. Highly recommended
March 21, 2017
I felt like I was reading my grandfathers memoir so many times while reading this and that alone gives it 5 stars from me. I love that this generation referred to their comrades as "buddy" and "buddies" I just find that so endearing, my grandpa did the same thing (complete side note). So many times I felt I was right there with this group during their interactions, some of which I laughed out loud which you wouldn't expect reading a book about war. It's hard to fully comprehend WWI and WWII because of the complexity and difference of times but this book did such a great job of giving us a picture of what it was like day to day on the front lines of WWII. I thought there would be more about the liberation of Dachau but I'm actually glad there wasn't, I was reading with my husband in the room and I had to leave so I could give it the concentration and attention and tears those pages deserved. No matter how many times I hear or read about these atrocities they never stop being incomprehensible. There are parts that are hard to read, lots and lots of swearing (which I loved) but overall this was a book so worth reading in so many different ways. These men are heroes.
May 9, 2014
When I purchased this e-book I thought I was getting a book about the Dachau concentration camp. After reading thru a third of the book, I still had not read the first thing about Dachau. I grew weary of the profanity and "bathroom humor". I hate to abandon books but this one is not worth spending my time on.
September 2, 2018
Many heroes abound
I am reminded again, of this greatest generation, as I read this book and watched the events surrounding the funeral of a hero of a later war, Senator John McCain.
Readers of this book may know a lot of the information written about being drafted, basic training, shipping out and D Day. Sections describing the fight across Europe into Germany and especially Dachau were especially good. Having visited Dachau in 1966 I remember the smells, Sacco describes, are still there, as is the crematorium, barracks etc. actual photographs may be found throughout the book.
Also included is a story of romance.
Highly recommend for those interested in WWII.
I am reminded again, of this greatest generation, as I read this book and watched the events surrounding the funeral of a hero of a later war, Senator John McCain.
Readers of this book may know a lot of the information written about being drafted, basic training, shipping out and D Day. Sections describing the fight across Europe into Germany and especially Dachau were especially good. Having visited Dachau in 1966 I remember the smells, Sacco describes, are still there, as is the crematorium, barracks etc. actual photographs may be found throughout the book.
Also included is a story of romance.
Highly recommend for those interested in WWII.
September 27, 2017
World War II Story
Excellent memoir. This is the story of a soldier's war, from basic training through the end of the war in Salzburg. It is well written, with life of a soldier told well.
Excellent memoir. This is the story of a soldier's war, from basic training through the end of the war in Salzburg. It is well written, with life of a soldier told well.
July 25, 2016
Where the Birds Never Sing is a very good read. Interesting perspective. It is written by a Son told through his father’s eyes as He went through WWII in the European theater. Great story starting with his Dad’s humble beginnings, through basic training.
Though much of his Dad’s experiences had been as a communications specialist(ran wire), He finished alongside the Infantry in the guts of The Battle of the Bulge, and the liberation of Dacau.
Pretty incredible experience including encounters with Patton, the time working through the hedgerows of Normandy, through a walk through the recently evacuated “Eagle’s Nest” itself.
The book really culminates with the experiences of of attrocities at Dachau. Just tough to read.
Well written book which does a solid job of establishing personalities of the fellow soldiers.
A few heart tuggers in there as well. Just a well written book. Kept me engaged throughout.
I give this 4.5 stars.
Though much of his Dad’s experiences had been as a communications specialist(ran wire), He finished alongside the Infantry in the guts of The Battle of the Bulge, and the liberation of Dacau.
Pretty incredible experience including encounters with Patton, the time working through the hedgerows of Normandy, through a walk through the recently evacuated “Eagle’s Nest” itself.
The book really culminates with the experiences of of attrocities at Dachau. Just tough to read.
Well written book which does a solid job of establishing personalities of the fellow soldiers.
A few heart tuggers in there as well. Just a well written book. Kept me engaged throughout.
I give this 4.5 stars.
February 8, 2020
The writing through the first 32% was not engaging. The author is the son of the soldier in the book, so the tone of the writing fits the source and author. The voice of narration feels off, since it is told in first person but being written by someone who is not the first person narrator, and that dissonance between voice and speaker wrecked my interest. Also, the first third of the book is about basic training, following the trend of more modern military memoirs. But basic training is not exciting, especially when the narrator/memoirist comes across as just a good ol' average American boy. Reading about basic training is the literary equivalent of eating plain white bread.
*This review is of the writing, not the liberation of Dachau.
*This review is of the writing, not the liberation of Dachau.
October 7, 2017
Very good book
It felt like being there. I learned things I hadn't known about the war -- and I have read a lot. The Dachau (spelling?) chapter was horribly revealing....Thank God that war is over!
It felt like being there. I learned things I hadn't known about the war -- and I have read a lot. The Dachau (spelling?) chapter was horribly revealing....Thank God that war is over!
December 26, 2017
This was a very interesting book. Great
Storytelling of a soldier’s life in WWII.
Storytelling of a soldier’s life in WWII.
February 23, 2020
Amazing story of one soldiers incredible journey from Normandy to Salzburg
Surprisingly funny, extremely sad and very real. Well written account from call up to homecoming for one US soldier, representative of so many. Unique for the fact that Sacco was there on the day Dachau was liberated.
Surprisingly funny, extremely sad and very real. Well written account from call up to homecoming for one US soldier, representative of so many. Unique for the fact that Sacco was there on the day Dachau was liberated.
April 12, 2020
Quoted from page after dedication:-
"They say that the birds never sing at Dachau. Perhaps they cannot produce their wondrous music in a place that has witnessed such tragedy, such cruelty, such horror. Perhaps God forbids it. Or perhaps, on their own, they are muted by the profound sense of sadness that permeates the very air around Dachau—air that once was filled with the cries of innocents and the lingering smoke of their ashes."
Haven't been to any of those, but when we lived in Germany, there was a blackbird that would be often perched on a roof close by, singing, early at dawn or later in twilight. Else, other than the long park and garden in centre of city, there were only predatory birds, not quite eagles but a tad smaller. In the garden in city centre there were swans, and others.
But then we lived in England, and oh! What variety, what rich pleasure, of birds that alighted in the backyard! Flying from the evergreen tall hedge branches to the grass on earth, chirping, delightful. From entirely lovely robins to magpies, to some so exotic they showed themselves precisely twice during the year, at about equinox.
Then one had to wonder, why was there a dearth of birds around homes in Germany. Did they just eat them all when there was scarcity of food after the wars? But that couldn't be it, birds do fly, they coukd have migrated in, after all!
So the above makes far more sense. Birds too might have this sensitivity to atmosphere beyond physical, and might be unwilling to a light anywhere such horrors were perpetrated, such evil as the extermination camps of the third Reich existed. This was mentioned even in the book one just finished, In Face Of Fear, relating to the landscape for miles around Auschwitz, as observed by the hero in a real story. And not just about birds either.
Which brings tremendous pleasure on yet another level, having noticed what rich variety of birds around where we live, where we often went out for a drive and a meal slightly further, and so on.
............
The writing is good, in that it's as if one is listening to the protagonist speak to one, and he's mostly at ease, but more often than not there's humour where one doesn't expect it; and, too, an unexpected awareness of beauty of land and love of family, which might be shared by most but not expected from an eighteen year old boy, at least not in awareness enough to not only admit it but be erudite about it. Then again, such low expectations might merely be a result of a bully jock culture imposed on males in U.S..
What is even more intriguing is how the writing subtly changes, from a longing last look at the serene family farm to the pushing at training with the team, to the taking the majesty of ocean in awed silence, to horror at death scenes in France after arrival at Normandy.
If there was no ghost writer, it's really very well written.
Somewhere beginning at Normandy and more so from Falaise Gap onwards, one has a sense that the story is a little more familiar than mere acquaintance with the WWII events and general reading, but when it comes to Worms, March 21st, 1944, the street battle involving a panzer and a Sherman, the uncanny, ghostly sense of this being familiar suddenly reminds one of having recently read
The Fighting 30th Division: They Called Them Roosevelt's SS; by Martin King, Michael Collins, David Hilborn.
And of course, that must be it, since both are closely connected with Patton. 92nd Battalion that protagonist of this story tells his personal account of, must have been part of, or associated with, 30th Division, which the other was about, from several accounts by various members thereof; that the recognition is ghostly until Worms is due to the very personal vs an overall view, which is the major difference. It's like a hike with a camera vs a Google map, so to speak.
............
After its over, the author tells about his writing, and the various members of the battalion who helped, by telling their stories and more.
One would wish he could tell about the dead, Chandler and Silverman and Monique - about their reality, for instance. Or were they composites?
............
Since the introduction by the author is about his father, who the story is about, educating him at the age of twelve about Nazi atrocities, one might expect better than the following.
"The soldier looked at me. He was a short fella with a ruddy complexion, high cheekbones, jet-black hair, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He spoke with a slight accent of some sort and didn’t look American, but I couldn’t figure what country he was from. “Hey,” he said, coming in my direction. “Charles Spotted Bear. Midland, Texas.”"
"Averitt looked around. “Son of a bitch! How the hell did you get right up behind me without making a sound?”
"Sam Martin smiled and said, “Our people can always sneak up on the paleface.”"
"“It’s true, Averitt,” Spotted Bear said. “We will educate you in our ways. You’ll see.” Averitt scratched his forehead with his middle finger. Spotted Bear turned back to me. “Sam Martin and I are Indians.”
"“Indians?” I asked.
"“Indians.”
"“As in ‘cowboys and Indians,’” smarted Averitt. “But we like ’em anyway.”
"Spotted Bear was a good-natured kid, and he started laughing. “Yeah,” he said, “as in ‘Indians and cowboys.’ When we used to play, the Indians always won.”"
Indian is the falsely stuck label due to Columbus lying, but it's maintained because of a racist and colonialists disparaging attitude towards India. The natives of continent across the pond from Europe are NOT Indian, have no connection with India, and never did.
They are, according to the latest theory so far, likely Siberian or Mongolian tribes that walked across the Bering strait when frozen, millennia ago. But admitting as much by calling them Siberian might lead to acknowledging that they were the original people of the land, so the fraudulent label is convenient.
Going on calling them Indian has the underlying contempt for an ancient, rich and still flourishing, living culture that has withstood assaults of every invasion for millennia, while others that were ancient on par such as Egypt and Persia, were destroyed quite deliberately and completely by the said invaders. So now, going on calling every subjugated people, whose land is taken away from them by invaders, Indian, is the convenient racist fraud that is perpetrated deliberately and quite consciously.
The name India, given by west to india since antiquity, stems from the geography of the land so named - to enter, the only way for west was to cross the river Sindhu - called indus by west - until a few centuries ago when sailships rounded Africa. India has other names that are ancient and indigenous, which have nothing to do with the river, because it's not of paramount importance to the people who were always in India, unlike those that had to cross it.
But above all, the name Indian has nothing to do with any natives of the continent west of Atlantic that stretche's pole to pole. They have names for themselves, and for their land. It's time to use them, and stop being racist.
The young soldiers were not educated enough, but the author could presumably afford a footnote to the effect that despite the misnomer he's decided to keep it for authenticity of their conversation.
............
He received the letter at eighteen.
"I remember walking the few feet from the oak tree to the fence that bordered the fields. I could hear her reading, but my eyes and heart became fascinated with the scene laid out before me. Colorful ribbons of scarlet and orange were beginning to stretch themselves across the deepening sky, causing the crops below to shimmer as though they were painted with sparkles of silver, gold, and red. These glistening fields and the rolling hills beyond looked exactly as they had on thousands of other evenings. But somehow they looked different. Somehow they looked more beautiful than I had ever remembered."
"I looked back at my family, who were by now in the first stages of being seated at the table. Papa and my uncles were discussing the politics of the war as Mama, Aunt Mae, and Grandma Amari were bringing some platters of food outside from the kitchen. The teenage cousins, having worked with us in the fields all day, were somewhat quiet, while the younger kids were bustling about, as they did every evening when it was time to eat. As I watched, I came to realize that everything I knew, everything I cared about, was in this one scene."
............
"“We need one for proof of birth,” the soldier said.
"“Hey, I’m standing right here,” I replied. “Ain’t that proof that I was born?”"
"I guess they eventually believed that I had been born, because they accepted me into the Army."
............
"I was up next. I took a shot in each arm, passed out, and hit the floor like a rock."
"A nurse came over, gave me a glass of orange juice, and made me sit in a chair until the dizziness went away. I talked to her until all the other boys had completed their shots. It wasn’t that she was all that pretty or anything, or that I was all that dizzy, it’s just that the longer I sat there, the more orange juice she gave me."
There was a written exam.
"I must have scored well on telegraph communications, because they told me that after basic training I would be assigned to the 92nd Signal Battalion. I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I was quickly learning that I wasn’t required to understand everything."
............
"They had served us good food at Fort McClellan and Fort McPherson, but the food here at Camp Crowder was even better: meat, potatoes, gravy, fresh vegetables, hot bread, butter, fruit, and plenty of milk. I suppose that if they expected you to make it through basic training in one piece, they had better feed you some decent food and plenty of it. I didn’t know if I liked being in the Army, but I did enjoy chow time. I must have been especially hungry after all the excitement of arriving at the camp, because I ate like there was no tomorrow. Two helpings of meat loaf. More mashed potatoes and gravy. Another scoop of vegetables. Two more rolls smothered with butter. And more milk. Just keep the milk coming. In fact, I drank so much milk the other boys started to wonder if something was wrong with me. The guy from Kentucky said, “Hey, Bama, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Save some for tomorrow!”"
"Napoleon is quoted as saying that an army marches on its stomach, which conjures up an interestingly comical mental image, but the more I ate, the more I realized what he meant and the more I was willing to give Army life a chance."
"So as long as we were shooting at targets on the shooting range, I was having fun. I didn’t know how I would feel about shooting another man, even if he was considered to be an enemy. Then again, my attitude was that if it’s between him shooting me or me shooting him, then he needs to be ready to meet his Maker, because I’m trained to put a bullet between his eyes now and work it out with a priest later."
"It was amazing how something as simple as a cookie baked in a mother’s oven can comfort a soldier’s soul on an otherwise cold and lonely night."
"Basic training might not have seemed like it was working, because everybody complained so much, but the discipline and effort did transform us over a period of time. We were healthy, fit, organized, alert, and prepared. Now we were ready to go on to the next level."
............
"I had never seen a ship in real life and therefore didn’t have a point of reference, but this thing definitely looked huge. In fact, the first thing I thought was that it looked much too big and heavy to float.
"When I got to the top of the gangplank and set foot on the ship, I was amazed at how steady it was. It felt just like being on the ground. I guess I expected my weight to cause the ship to shift around in the water. Of course, the only boat I’d been on previous to this had been a little two-man canoe at East Lake Park in Birmingham."
"As I leaned against the railing and watched the scene unfold below me, it crossed my mind that some of these men might not return home alive. I tried not to think about it, but then Averitt said, “You know what? Look at all this shit we have to go through and get ourselves killed all because some little asshole Hitler can’t mind his own damn business!”
"None of the boys knew anything about our route or even where we were actually going, other than to Europe—probably England. But First Sergeant Thomas had told us that we didn’t need to know or even speculate on the trip because, as the saying goes, “Loose lips sink ships,” and though it was great to see everyone come out and see us off, it was possible that there could have been least one or two Nazi informants out in the crowd."
"It was dark now and getting cold, but what we saw was beautiful. Lower Manhattan was gleaming in the night, and just in front of it, just to the left, was the Statue of Liberty."
"It was getting colder as the ship moved out to sea, but despite the frigid temperatures and the strengthening wind, we stayed on deck as long as we could see the twinkling of the ever-decreasing New York skyline on the horizon. For all of us, there was an awesome reality to that moment—the feel of the powerful ship plowing through the darkness of an even more powerful ocean, carrying us into the unknown. The one thing we did know was this: Our destinies awaited us on some distant shore, while America, our home, was quickly disappearing into the cold, wet blackness of night."
"It was easy to find a place at chow that morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that the food tasted like crap. As far as I was concerned, that was yet another reason not to be in the Navy."
"On December 30 we reached a designated rendezvous point about fifty miles east of Boston, where we met up with thirty-five other ships, including the battleship USS Texas, three carriers, twenty destroyers, four tankers, and several British troopships. From there the convoy set out on a course somewhere—we really didn’t know where. Cardini said we were going to England, but just because Cardini said it didn’t make it true.
"I had always heard that the ocean was blue, but this one seemed to have no color at all (if you don’t count gray). What with the gray water, the gray skies, and the gray ships surrounding us, it seemed like we had sailed smack into a black-and-white photograph. Perhaps I was expecting sunny skies shining over a sparkling clear blue sea as dolphins jumped out of the water, twirled, and splashed alongside us, like I’d seen in pirate movies. Then again, never having seen the ocean in person, I’m not sure what I was expecting.
"Despite the lack of color—and dolphins—I did find comfort in the fact that the USS Texas was steaming along right beside us. I had thought that the Anne Arundel was big, but the Texas was ....
"They say that the birds never sing at Dachau. Perhaps they cannot produce their wondrous music in a place that has witnessed such tragedy, such cruelty, such horror. Perhaps God forbids it. Or perhaps, on their own, they are muted by the profound sense of sadness that permeates the very air around Dachau—air that once was filled with the cries of innocents and the lingering smoke of their ashes."
Haven't been to any of those, but when we lived in Germany, there was a blackbird that would be often perched on a roof close by, singing, early at dawn or later in twilight. Else, other than the long park and garden in centre of city, there were only predatory birds, not quite eagles but a tad smaller. In the garden in city centre there were swans, and others.
But then we lived in England, and oh! What variety, what rich pleasure, of birds that alighted in the backyard! Flying from the evergreen tall hedge branches to the grass on earth, chirping, delightful. From entirely lovely robins to magpies, to some so exotic they showed themselves precisely twice during the year, at about equinox.
Then one had to wonder, why was there a dearth of birds around homes in Germany. Did they just eat them all when there was scarcity of food after the wars? But that couldn't be it, birds do fly, they coukd have migrated in, after all!
So the above makes far more sense. Birds too might have this sensitivity to atmosphere beyond physical, and might be unwilling to a light anywhere such horrors were perpetrated, such evil as the extermination camps of the third Reich existed. This was mentioned even in the book one just finished, In Face Of Fear, relating to the landscape for miles around Auschwitz, as observed by the hero in a real story. And not just about birds either.
Which brings tremendous pleasure on yet another level, having noticed what rich variety of birds around where we live, where we often went out for a drive and a meal slightly further, and so on.
............
The writing is good, in that it's as if one is listening to the protagonist speak to one, and he's mostly at ease, but more often than not there's humour where one doesn't expect it; and, too, an unexpected awareness of beauty of land and love of family, which might be shared by most but not expected from an eighteen year old boy, at least not in awareness enough to not only admit it but be erudite about it. Then again, such low expectations might merely be a result of a bully jock culture imposed on males in U.S..
What is even more intriguing is how the writing subtly changes, from a longing last look at the serene family farm to the pushing at training with the team, to the taking the majesty of ocean in awed silence, to horror at death scenes in France after arrival at Normandy.
If there was no ghost writer, it's really very well written.
Somewhere beginning at Normandy and more so from Falaise Gap onwards, one has a sense that the story is a little more familiar than mere acquaintance with the WWII events and general reading, but when it comes to Worms, March 21st, 1944, the street battle involving a panzer and a Sherman, the uncanny, ghostly sense of this being familiar suddenly reminds one of having recently read
The Fighting 30th Division: They Called Them Roosevelt's SS; by Martin King, Michael Collins, David Hilborn.
And of course, that must be it, since both are closely connected with Patton. 92nd Battalion that protagonist of this story tells his personal account of, must have been part of, or associated with, 30th Division, which the other was about, from several accounts by various members thereof; that the recognition is ghostly until Worms is due to the very personal vs an overall view, which is the major difference. It's like a hike with a camera vs a Google map, so to speak.
............
After its over, the author tells about his writing, and the various members of the battalion who helped, by telling their stories and more.
One would wish he could tell about the dead, Chandler and Silverman and Monique - about their reality, for instance. Or were they composites?
............
Since the introduction by the author is about his father, who the story is about, educating him at the age of twelve about Nazi atrocities, one might expect better than the following.
"The soldier looked at me. He was a short fella with a ruddy complexion, high cheekbones, jet-black hair, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He spoke with a slight accent of some sort and didn’t look American, but I couldn’t figure what country he was from. “Hey,” he said, coming in my direction. “Charles Spotted Bear. Midland, Texas.”"
"Averitt looked around. “Son of a bitch! How the hell did you get right up behind me without making a sound?”
"Sam Martin smiled and said, “Our people can always sneak up on the paleface.”"
"“It’s true, Averitt,” Spotted Bear said. “We will educate you in our ways. You’ll see.” Averitt scratched his forehead with his middle finger. Spotted Bear turned back to me. “Sam Martin and I are Indians.”
"“Indians?” I asked.
"“Indians.”
"“As in ‘cowboys and Indians,’” smarted Averitt. “But we like ’em anyway.”
"Spotted Bear was a good-natured kid, and he started laughing. “Yeah,” he said, “as in ‘Indians and cowboys.’ When we used to play, the Indians always won.”"
Indian is the falsely stuck label due to Columbus lying, but it's maintained because of a racist and colonialists disparaging attitude towards India. The natives of continent across the pond from Europe are NOT Indian, have no connection with India, and never did.
They are, according to the latest theory so far, likely Siberian or Mongolian tribes that walked across the Bering strait when frozen, millennia ago. But admitting as much by calling them Siberian might lead to acknowledging that they were the original people of the land, so the fraudulent label is convenient.
Going on calling them Indian has the underlying contempt for an ancient, rich and still flourishing, living culture that has withstood assaults of every invasion for millennia, while others that were ancient on par such as Egypt and Persia, were destroyed quite deliberately and completely by the said invaders. So now, going on calling every subjugated people, whose land is taken away from them by invaders, Indian, is the convenient racist fraud that is perpetrated deliberately and quite consciously.
The name India, given by west to india since antiquity, stems from the geography of the land so named - to enter, the only way for west was to cross the river Sindhu - called indus by west - until a few centuries ago when sailships rounded Africa. India has other names that are ancient and indigenous, which have nothing to do with the river, because it's not of paramount importance to the people who were always in India, unlike those that had to cross it.
But above all, the name Indian has nothing to do with any natives of the continent west of Atlantic that stretche's pole to pole. They have names for themselves, and for their land. It's time to use them, and stop being racist.
The young soldiers were not educated enough, but the author could presumably afford a footnote to the effect that despite the misnomer he's decided to keep it for authenticity of their conversation.
............
He received the letter at eighteen.
"I remember walking the few feet from the oak tree to the fence that bordered the fields. I could hear her reading, but my eyes and heart became fascinated with the scene laid out before me. Colorful ribbons of scarlet and orange were beginning to stretch themselves across the deepening sky, causing the crops below to shimmer as though they were painted with sparkles of silver, gold, and red. These glistening fields and the rolling hills beyond looked exactly as they had on thousands of other evenings. But somehow they looked different. Somehow they looked more beautiful than I had ever remembered."
"I looked back at my family, who were by now in the first stages of being seated at the table. Papa and my uncles were discussing the politics of the war as Mama, Aunt Mae, and Grandma Amari were bringing some platters of food outside from the kitchen. The teenage cousins, having worked with us in the fields all day, were somewhat quiet, while the younger kids were bustling about, as they did every evening when it was time to eat. As I watched, I came to realize that everything I knew, everything I cared about, was in this one scene."
............
"“We need one for proof of birth,” the soldier said.
"“Hey, I’m standing right here,” I replied. “Ain’t that proof that I was born?”"
"I guess they eventually believed that I had been born, because they accepted me into the Army."
............
"I was up next. I took a shot in each arm, passed out, and hit the floor like a rock."
"A nurse came over, gave me a glass of orange juice, and made me sit in a chair until the dizziness went away. I talked to her until all the other boys had completed their shots. It wasn’t that she was all that pretty or anything, or that I was all that dizzy, it’s just that the longer I sat there, the more orange juice she gave me."
There was a written exam.
"I must have scored well on telegraph communications, because they told me that after basic training I would be assigned to the 92nd Signal Battalion. I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I was quickly learning that I wasn’t required to understand everything."
............
"They had served us good food at Fort McClellan and Fort McPherson, but the food here at Camp Crowder was even better: meat, potatoes, gravy, fresh vegetables, hot bread, butter, fruit, and plenty of milk. I suppose that if they expected you to make it through basic training in one piece, they had better feed you some decent food and plenty of it. I didn’t know if I liked being in the Army, but I did enjoy chow time. I must have been especially hungry after all the excitement of arriving at the camp, because I ate like there was no tomorrow. Two helpings of meat loaf. More mashed potatoes and gravy. Another scoop of vegetables. Two more rolls smothered with butter. And more milk. Just keep the milk coming. In fact, I drank so much milk the other boys started to wonder if something was wrong with me. The guy from Kentucky said, “Hey, Bama, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Save some for tomorrow!”"
"Napoleon is quoted as saying that an army marches on its stomach, which conjures up an interestingly comical mental image, but the more I ate, the more I realized what he meant and the more I was willing to give Army life a chance."
"So as long as we were shooting at targets on the shooting range, I was having fun. I didn’t know how I would feel about shooting another man, even if he was considered to be an enemy. Then again, my attitude was that if it’s between him shooting me or me shooting him, then he needs to be ready to meet his Maker, because I’m trained to put a bullet between his eyes now and work it out with a priest later."
"It was amazing how something as simple as a cookie baked in a mother’s oven can comfort a soldier’s soul on an otherwise cold and lonely night."
"Basic training might not have seemed like it was working, because everybody complained so much, but the discipline and effort did transform us over a period of time. We were healthy, fit, organized, alert, and prepared. Now we were ready to go on to the next level."
............
"I had never seen a ship in real life and therefore didn’t have a point of reference, but this thing definitely looked huge. In fact, the first thing I thought was that it looked much too big and heavy to float.
"When I got to the top of the gangplank and set foot on the ship, I was amazed at how steady it was. It felt just like being on the ground. I guess I expected my weight to cause the ship to shift around in the water. Of course, the only boat I’d been on previous to this had been a little two-man canoe at East Lake Park in Birmingham."
"As I leaned against the railing and watched the scene unfold below me, it crossed my mind that some of these men might not return home alive. I tried not to think about it, but then Averitt said, “You know what? Look at all this shit we have to go through and get ourselves killed all because some little asshole Hitler can’t mind his own damn business!”
"None of the boys knew anything about our route or even where we were actually going, other than to Europe—probably England. But First Sergeant Thomas had told us that we didn’t need to know or even speculate on the trip because, as the saying goes, “Loose lips sink ships,” and though it was great to see everyone come out and see us off, it was possible that there could have been least one or two Nazi informants out in the crowd."
"It was dark now and getting cold, but what we saw was beautiful. Lower Manhattan was gleaming in the night, and just in front of it, just to the left, was the Statue of Liberty."
"It was getting colder as the ship moved out to sea, but despite the frigid temperatures and the strengthening wind, we stayed on deck as long as we could see the twinkling of the ever-decreasing New York skyline on the horizon. For all of us, there was an awesome reality to that moment—the feel of the powerful ship plowing through the darkness of an even more powerful ocean, carrying us into the unknown. The one thing we did know was this: Our destinies awaited us on some distant shore, while America, our home, was quickly disappearing into the cold, wet blackness of night."
"It was easy to find a place at chow that morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that the food tasted like crap. As far as I was concerned, that was yet another reason not to be in the Navy."
"On December 30 we reached a designated rendezvous point about fifty miles east of Boston, where we met up with thirty-five other ships, including the battleship USS Texas, three carriers, twenty destroyers, four tankers, and several British troopships. From there the convoy set out on a course somewhere—we really didn’t know where. Cardini said we were going to England, but just because Cardini said it didn’t make it true.
"I had always heard that the ocean was blue, but this one seemed to have no color at all (if you don’t count gray). What with the gray water, the gray skies, and the gray ships surrounding us, it seemed like we had sailed smack into a black-and-white photograph. Perhaps I was expecting sunny skies shining over a sparkling clear blue sea as dolphins jumped out of the water, twirled, and splashed alongside us, like I’d seen in pirate movies. Then again, never having seen the ocean in person, I’m not sure what I was expecting.
"Despite the lack of color—and dolphins—I did find comfort in the fact that the USS Texas was steaming along right beside us. I had thought that the Anne Arundel was big, but the Texas was ....
April 12, 2020
Quoted from page after dedication:-
"They say that the birds never sing at Dachau. Perhaps they cannot produce their wondrous music in a place that has witnessed such tragedy, such cruelty, such horror. Perhaps God forbids it. Or perhaps, on their own, they are muted by the profound sense of sadness that permeates the very air around Dachau—air that once was filled with the cries of innocents and the lingering smoke of their ashes."
Haven't been to any of those, but when we lived in Germany, there was a blackbird that would be often perched on a roof close by, singing, early at dawn or later in twilight. Else, other than the long park and garden in centre of city, there were only predatory birds, not quite eagles but a tad smaller. In the garden in city centre there were swans, and others.
But then we lived in England, and oh! What variety, what rich pleasure, of birds that alighted in the backyard! Flying from the evergreen tall hedge branches to the grass on earth, chirping, delightful. From entirely lovely robins to magpies, to some so exotic they showed themselves precisely twice during the year, at about equinox.
Then one had to wonder, why was there a dearth of birds around homes in Germany. Did they just eat them all when there was scarcity of food after the wars? But that couldn't be it, birds do fly, they coukd have migrated in, after all!
So the above makes far more sense. Birds too might have this sensitivity to atmosphere beyond physical, and might be unwilling to a light anywhere such horrors were perpetrated, such evil as the extermination camps of the third Reich existed. This was mentioned even in the book one just finished, In Face Of Fear, relating to the landscape for miles around Auschwitz, as observed by the hero in a real story. And not just about birds either.
Which brings tremendous pleasure on yet another level, having noticed what rich variety of birds around where we live, where we often went out for a drive and a meal slightly further, and so on.
............
The writing is good, in that it's as if one is listening to the protagonist speak to one, and he's mostly at ease, but more often than not there's humour where one doesn't expect it; and, too, an unexpected awareness of beauty of land and love of family, which might be shared by most but not expected from an eighteen year old boy, at least not in awareness enough to not only admit it but be erudite about it. Then again, such low expectations might merely be a result of a bully jock culture imposed on males in U.S..
What is even more intriguing is how the writing subtly changes, from a longing last look at the serene family farm to the pushing at training with the team, to the taking the majesty of ocean in awed silence, to horror at death scenes in France after arrival at Normandy.
If there was no ghost writer, it's really very well written.
Somewhere beginning at Normandy and more so from Falaise Gap onwards, one has a sense that the story is a little more familiar than mere acquaintance with the WWII events and general reading, but when it comes to Worms, March 21st, 1944, the street battle involving a panzer and a Sherman, the uncanny, ghostly sense of this being familiar suddenly reminds one of having recently read
The Fighting 30th Division: They Called Them Roosevelt's SS; by Martin King, Michael Collins, David Hilborn.
And of course, that must be it, since both are closely connected with Patton. 92nd Battalion that protagonist of this story tells his personal account of, must have been part of, or associated with, 30th Division, which the other was about, from several accounts by various members thereof; that the recognition is ghostly until Worms is due to the very personal vs an overall view, which is the major difference. It's like a hike with a camera vs a Google map, so to speak.
............
After its over, the author tells about his writing, and the various members of the battalion who helped, by telling their stories and more.
One would wish he could tell about the dead, Chandler and Silverman and Monique - about their reality, for instance. Or were they composites?
............
Since the introduction by the author is about his father, who the story is about, educating him at the age of twelve about Nazi atrocities, one might expect better than the following.
"The soldier looked at me. He was a short fella with a ruddy complexion, high cheekbones, jet-black hair, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He spoke with a slight accent of some sort and didn’t look American, but I couldn’t figure what country he was from. “Hey,” he said, coming in my direction. “Charles Spotted Bear. Midland, Texas.”"
"Averitt looked around. “Son of a bitch! How the hell did you get right up behind me without making a sound?”
"Sam Martin smiled and said, “Our people can always sneak up on the paleface.”"
"“It’s true, Averitt,” Spotted Bear said. “We will educate you in our ways. You’ll see.” Averitt scratched his forehead with his middle finger. Spotted Bear turned back to me. “Sam Martin and I are Indians.”
"“Indians?” I asked.
"“Indians.”
"“As in ‘cowboys and Indians,’” smarted Averitt. “But we like ’em anyway.”
"Spotted Bear was a good-natured kid, and he started laughing. “Yeah,” he said, “as in ‘Indians and cowboys.’ When we used to play, the Indians always won.”"
Indian is the falsely stuck label due to Columbus lying, but it's maintained because of a racist and colonialists disparaging attitude towards India. The natives of continent across the pond from Europe are NOT Indian, have no connection with India, and never did.
They are, according to the latest theory so far, likely Siberian or Mongolian tribes that walked across the Bering strait when frozen, millennia ago. But admitting as much by calling them Siberian might lead to acknowledging that they were the original people of the land, so the fraudulent label is convenient.
Going on calling them Indian has the underlying contempt for an ancient, rich and still flourishing, living culture that has withstood assaults of every invasion for millennia, while others that were ancient on par such as Egypt and Persia, were destroyed quite deliberately and completely by the said invaders. So now, going on calling every subjugated people, whose land is taken away from them by invaders, Indian, is the convenient racist fraud that is perpetrated deliberately and quite consciously.
The name India, given by west to india since antiquity, stems from the geography of the land so named - to enter, the only way for west was to cross the river Sindhu - called indus by west - until a few centuries ago when sailships rounded Africa. India has other names that are ancient and indigenous, which have nothing to do with the river, because it's not of paramount importance to the people who were always in India, unlike those that had to cross it.
But above all, the name Indian has nothing to do with any natives of the continent west of Atlantic that stretche's pole to pole. They have names for themselves, and for their land. It's time to use them, and stop being racist.
The young soldiers were not educated enough, but the author could presumably afford a footnote to the effect that despite the misnomer he's decided to keep it for authenticity of their conversation.
............
He received the letter at eighteen.
"I remember walking the few feet from the oak tree to the fence that bordered the fields. I could hear her reading, but my eyes and heart became fascinated with the scene laid out before me. Colorful ribbons of scarlet and orange were beginning to stretch themselves across the deepening sky, causing the crops below to shimmer as though they were painted with sparkles of silver, gold, and red. These glistening fields and the rolling hills beyond looked exactly as they had on thousands of other evenings. But somehow they looked different. Somehow they looked more beautiful than I had ever remembered."
"I looked back at my family, who were by now in the first stages of being seated at the table. Papa and my uncles were discussing the politics of the war as Mama, Aunt Mae, and Grandma Amari were bringing some platters of food outside from the kitchen. The teenage cousins, having worked with us in the fields all day, were somewhat quiet, while the younger kids were bustling about, as they did every evening when it was time to eat. As I watched, I came to realize that everything I knew, everything I cared about, was in this one scene."
............
"“We need one for proof of birth,” the soldier said.
"“Hey, I’m standing right here,” I replied. “Ain’t that proof that I was born?”"
"I guess they eventually believed that I had been born, because they accepted me into the Army."
............
"I was up next. I took a shot in each arm, passed out, and hit the floor like a rock."
"A nurse came over, gave me a glass of orange juice, and made me sit in a chair until the dizziness went away. I talked to her until all the other boys had completed their shots. It wasn’t that she was all that pretty or anything, or that I was all that dizzy, it’s just that the longer I sat there, the more orange juice she gave me."
There was a written exam.
"I must have scored well on telegraph communications, because they told me that after basic training I would be assigned to the 92nd Signal Battalion. I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I was quickly learning that I wasn’t required to understand everything."
............
"They had served us good food at Fort McClellan and Fort McPherson, but the food here at Camp Crowder was even better: meat, potatoes, gravy, fresh vegetables, hot bread, butter, fruit, and plenty of milk. I suppose that if they expected you to make it through basic training in one piece, they had better feed you some decent food and plenty of it. I didn’t know if I liked being in the Army, but I did enjoy chow time. I must have been especially hungry after all the excitement of arriving at the camp, because I ate like there was no tomorrow. Two helpings of meat loaf. More mashed potatoes and gravy. Another scoop of vegetables. Two more rolls smothered with butter. And more milk. Just keep the milk coming. In fact, I drank so much milk the other boys started to wonder if something was wrong with me. The guy from Kentucky said, “Hey, Bama, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Save some for tomorrow!”"
"Napoleon is quoted as saying that an army marches on its stomach, which conjures up an interestingly comical mental image, but the more I ate, the more I realized what he meant and the more I was willing to give Army life a chance."
"So as long as we were shooting at targets on the shooting range, I was having fun. I didn’t know how I would feel about shooting another man, even if he was considered to be an enemy. Then again, my attitude was that if it’s between him shooting me or me shooting him, then he needs to be ready to meet his Maker, because I’m trained to put a bullet between his eyes now and work it out with a priest later."
"It was amazing how something as simple as a cookie baked in a mother’s oven can comfort a soldier’s soul on an otherwise cold and lonely night."
"Basic training might not have seemed like it was working, because everybody complained so much, but the discipline and effort did transform us over a period of time. We were healthy, fit, organized, alert, and prepared. Now we were ready to go on to the next level."
............
"I had never seen a ship in real life and therefore didn’t have a point of reference, but this thing definitely looked huge. In fact, the first thing I thought was that it looked much too big and heavy to float.
"When I got to the top of the gangplank and set foot on the ship, I was amazed at how steady it was. It felt just like being on the ground. I guess I expected my weight to cause the ship to shift around in the water. Of course, the only boat I’d been on previous to this had been a little two-man canoe at East Lake Park in Birmingham."
"As I leaned against the railing and watched the scene unfold below me, it crossed my mind that some of these men might not return home alive. I tried not to think about it, but then Averitt said, “You know what? Look at all this shit we have to go through and get ourselves killed all because some little asshole Hitler can’t mind his own damn business!”
"None of the boys knew anything about our route or even where we were actually going, other than to Europe—probably England. But First Sergeant Thomas had told us that we didn’t need to know or even speculate on the trip because, as the saying goes, “Loose lips sink ships,” and though it was great to see everyone come out and see us off, it was possible that there could have been least one or two Nazi informants out in the crowd."
"It was dark now and getting cold, but what we saw was beautiful. Lower Manhattan was gleaming in the night, and just in front of it, just to the left, was the Statue of Liberty."
"It was getting colder as the ship moved out to sea, but despite the frigid temperatures and the strengthening wind, we stayed on deck as long as we could see the twinkling of the ever-decreasing New York skyline on the horizon. For all of us, there was an awesome reality to that moment—the feel of the powerful ship plowing through the darkness of an even more powerful ocean, carrying us into the unknown. The one thing we did know was this: Our destinies awaited us on some distant shore, while America, our home, was quickly disappearing into the cold, wet blackness of night."
"It was easy to find a place at chow that morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that the food tasted like crap. As far as I was concerned, that was yet another reason not to be in the Navy."
"On December 30 we reached a designated rendezvous point about fifty miles east of Boston, where we met up with thirty-five other ships, including the battleship USS Texas, three carriers, twenty destroyers, four tankers, and several British troopships. From there the convoy set out on a course somewhere—we really didn’t know where. Cardini said we were going to England, but just because Cardini said it didn’t make it true.
"I had always heard that the ocean was blue, but this one seemed to have no color at all (if you don’t count gray). What with the gray water, the gray skies, and the gray ships surrounding us, it seemed like we had sailed smack into a black-and-white photograph. Perhaps I was expecting sunny skies shining over a sparkling clear blue sea as dolphins jumped out of the water, twirled, and splashed alongside us, like I’d seen in pirate movies. Then again, never having seen the ocean in person, I’m not sure what I was expecting.
"Despite the lack of color—and dolphins—I did find comfort in the fact that the USS Texas was steaming along right beside us. I had thought that the Anne Arundel was big, but the Texas was ....
"They say that the birds never sing at Dachau. Perhaps they cannot produce their wondrous music in a place that has witnessed such tragedy, such cruelty, such horror. Perhaps God forbids it. Or perhaps, on their own, they are muted by the profound sense of sadness that permeates the very air around Dachau—air that once was filled with the cries of innocents and the lingering smoke of their ashes."
Haven't been to any of those, but when we lived in Germany, there was a blackbird that would be often perched on a roof close by, singing, early at dawn or later in twilight. Else, other than the long park and garden in centre of city, there were only predatory birds, not quite eagles but a tad smaller. In the garden in city centre there were swans, and others.
But then we lived in England, and oh! What variety, what rich pleasure, of birds that alighted in the backyard! Flying from the evergreen tall hedge branches to the grass on earth, chirping, delightful. From entirely lovely robins to magpies, to some so exotic they showed themselves precisely twice during the year, at about equinox.
Then one had to wonder, why was there a dearth of birds around homes in Germany. Did they just eat them all when there was scarcity of food after the wars? But that couldn't be it, birds do fly, they coukd have migrated in, after all!
So the above makes far more sense. Birds too might have this sensitivity to atmosphere beyond physical, and might be unwilling to a light anywhere such horrors were perpetrated, such evil as the extermination camps of the third Reich existed. This was mentioned even in the book one just finished, In Face Of Fear, relating to the landscape for miles around Auschwitz, as observed by the hero in a real story. And not just about birds either.
Which brings tremendous pleasure on yet another level, having noticed what rich variety of birds around where we live, where we often went out for a drive and a meal slightly further, and so on.
............
The writing is good, in that it's as if one is listening to the protagonist speak to one, and he's mostly at ease, but more often than not there's humour where one doesn't expect it; and, too, an unexpected awareness of beauty of land and love of family, which might be shared by most but not expected from an eighteen year old boy, at least not in awareness enough to not only admit it but be erudite about it. Then again, such low expectations might merely be a result of a bully jock culture imposed on males in U.S..
What is even more intriguing is how the writing subtly changes, from a longing last look at the serene family farm to the pushing at training with the team, to the taking the majesty of ocean in awed silence, to horror at death scenes in France after arrival at Normandy.
If there was no ghost writer, it's really very well written.
Somewhere beginning at Normandy and more so from Falaise Gap onwards, one has a sense that the story is a little more familiar than mere acquaintance with the WWII events and general reading, but when it comes to Worms, March 21st, 1944, the street battle involving a panzer and a Sherman, the uncanny, ghostly sense of this being familiar suddenly reminds one of having recently read
The Fighting 30th Division: They Called Them Roosevelt's SS; by Martin King, Michael Collins, David Hilborn.
And of course, that must be it, since both are closely connected with Patton. 92nd Battalion that protagonist of this story tells his personal account of, must have been part of, or associated with, 30th Division, which the other was about, from several accounts by various members thereof; that the recognition is ghostly until Worms is due to the very personal vs an overall view, which is the major difference. It's like a hike with a camera vs a Google map, so to speak.
............
After its over, the author tells about his writing, and the various members of the battalion who helped, by telling their stories and more.
One would wish he could tell about the dead, Chandler and Silverman and Monique - about their reality, for instance. Or were they composites?
............
Since the introduction by the author is about his father, who the story is about, educating him at the age of twelve about Nazi atrocities, one might expect better than the following.
"The soldier looked at me. He was a short fella with a ruddy complexion, high cheekbones, jet-black hair, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He spoke with a slight accent of some sort and didn’t look American, but I couldn’t figure what country he was from. “Hey,” he said, coming in my direction. “Charles Spotted Bear. Midland, Texas.”"
"Averitt looked around. “Son of a bitch! How the hell did you get right up behind me without making a sound?”
"Sam Martin smiled and said, “Our people can always sneak up on the paleface.”"
"“It’s true, Averitt,” Spotted Bear said. “We will educate you in our ways. You’ll see.” Averitt scratched his forehead with his middle finger. Spotted Bear turned back to me. “Sam Martin and I are Indians.”
"“Indians?” I asked.
"“Indians.”
"“As in ‘cowboys and Indians,’” smarted Averitt. “But we like ’em anyway.”
"Spotted Bear was a good-natured kid, and he started laughing. “Yeah,” he said, “as in ‘Indians and cowboys.’ When we used to play, the Indians always won.”"
Indian is the falsely stuck label due to Columbus lying, but it's maintained because of a racist and colonialists disparaging attitude towards India. The natives of continent across the pond from Europe are NOT Indian, have no connection with India, and never did.
They are, according to the latest theory so far, likely Siberian or Mongolian tribes that walked across the Bering strait when frozen, millennia ago. But admitting as much by calling them Siberian might lead to acknowledging that they were the original people of the land, so the fraudulent label is convenient.
Going on calling them Indian has the underlying contempt for an ancient, rich and still flourishing, living culture that has withstood assaults of every invasion for millennia, while others that were ancient on par such as Egypt and Persia, were destroyed quite deliberately and completely by the said invaders. So now, going on calling every subjugated people, whose land is taken away from them by invaders, Indian, is the convenient racist fraud that is perpetrated deliberately and quite consciously.
The name India, given by west to india since antiquity, stems from the geography of the land so named - to enter, the only way for west was to cross the river Sindhu - called indus by west - until a few centuries ago when sailships rounded Africa. India has other names that are ancient and indigenous, which have nothing to do with the river, because it's not of paramount importance to the people who were always in India, unlike those that had to cross it.
But above all, the name Indian has nothing to do with any natives of the continent west of Atlantic that stretche's pole to pole. They have names for themselves, and for their land. It's time to use them, and stop being racist.
The young soldiers were not educated enough, but the author could presumably afford a footnote to the effect that despite the misnomer he's decided to keep it for authenticity of their conversation.
............
He received the letter at eighteen.
"I remember walking the few feet from the oak tree to the fence that bordered the fields. I could hear her reading, but my eyes and heart became fascinated with the scene laid out before me. Colorful ribbons of scarlet and orange were beginning to stretch themselves across the deepening sky, causing the crops below to shimmer as though they were painted with sparkles of silver, gold, and red. These glistening fields and the rolling hills beyond looked exactly as they had on thousands of other evenings. But somehow they looked different. Somehow they looked more beautiful than I had ever remembered."
"I looked back at my family, who were by now in the first stages of being seated at the table. Papa and my uncles were discussing the politics of the war as Mama, Aunt Mae, and Grandma Amari were bringing some platters of food outside from the kitchen. The teenage cousins, having worked with us in the fields all day, were somewhat quiet, while the younger kids were bustling about, as they did every evening when it was time to eat. As I watched, I came to realize that everything I knew, everything I cared about, was in this one scene."
............
"“We need one for proof of birth,” the soldier said.
"“Hey, I’m standing right here,” I replied. “Ain’t that proof that I was born?”"
"I guess they eventually believed that I had been born, because they accepted me into the Army."
............
"I was up next. I took a shot in each arm, passed out, and hit the floor like a rock."
"A nurse came over, gave me a glass of orange juice, and made me sit in a chair until the dizziness went away. I talked to her until all the other boys had completed their shots. It wasn’t that she was all that pretty or anything, or that I was all that dizzy, it’s just that the longer I sat there, the more orange juice she gave me."
There was a written exam.
"I must have scored well on telegraph communications, because they told me that after basic training I would be assigned to the 92nd Signal Battalion. I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I was quickly learning that I wasn’t required to understand everything."
............
"They had served us good food at Fort McClellan and Fort McPherson, but the food here at Camp Crowder was even better: meat, potatoes, gravy, fresh vegetables, hot bread, butter, fruit, and plenty of milk. I suppose that if they expected you to make it through basic training in one piece, they had better feed you some decent food and plenty of it. I didn’t know if I liked being in the Army, but I did enjoy chow time. I must have been especially hungry after all the excitement of arriving at the camp, because I ate like there was no tomorrow. Two helpings of meat loaf. More mashed potatoes and gravy. Another scoop of vegetables. Two more rolls smothered with butter. And more milk. Just keep the milk coming. In fact, I drank so much milk the other boys started to wonder if something was wrong with me. The guy from Kentucky said, “Hey, Bama, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Save some for tomorrow!”"
"Napoleon is quoted as saying that an army marches on its stomach, which conjures up an interestingly comical mental image, but the more I ate, the more I realized what he meant and the more I was willing to give Army life a chance."
"So as long as we were shooting at targets on the shooting range, I was having fun. I didn’t know how I would feel about shooting another man, even if he was considered to be an enemy. Then again, my attitude was that if it’s between him shooting me or me shooting him, then he needs to be ready to meet his Maker, because I’m trained to put a bullet between his eyes now and work it out with a priest later."
"It was amazing how something as simple as a cookie baked in a mother’s oven can comfort a soldier’s soul on an otherwise cold and lonely night."
"Basic training might not have seemed like it was working, because everybody complained so much, but the discipline and effort did transform us over a period of time. We were healthy, fit, organized, alert, and prepared. Now we were ready to go on to the next level."
............
"I had never seen a ship in real life and therefore didn’t have a point of reference, but this thing definitely looked huge. In fact, the first thing I thought was that it looked much too big and heavy to float.
"When I got to the top of the gangplank and set foot on the ship, I was amazed at how steady it was. It felt just like being on the ground. I guess I expected my weight to cause the ship to shift around in the water. Of course, the only boat I’d been on previous to this had been a little two-man canoe at East Lake Park in Birmingham."
"As I leaned against the railing and watched the scene unfold below me, it crossed my mind that some of these men might not return home alive. I tried not to think about it, but then Averitt said, “You know what? Look at all this shit we have to go through and get ourselves killed all because some little asshole Hitler can’t mind his own damn business!”
"None of the boys knew anything about our route or even where we were actually going, other than to Europe—probably England. But First Sergeant Thomas had told us that we didn’t need to know or even speculate on the trip because, as the saying goes, “Loose lips sink ships,” and though it was great to see everyone come out and see us off, it was possible that there could have been least one or two Nazi informants out in the crowd."
"It was dark now and getting cold, but what we saw was beautiful. Lower Manhattan was gleaming in the night, and just in front of it, just to the left, was the Statue of Liberty."
"It was getting colder as the ship moved out to sea, but despite the frigid temperatures and the strengthening wind, we stayed on deck as long as we could see the twinkling of the ever-decreasing New York skyline on the horizon. For all of us, there was an awesome reality to that moment—the feel of the powerful ship plowing through the darkness of an even more powerful ocean, carrying us into the unknown. The one thing we did know was this: Our destinies awaited us on some distant shore, while America, our home, was quickly disappearing into the cold, wet blackness of night."
"It was easy to find a place at chow that morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that the food tasted like crap. As far as I was concerned, that was yet another reason not to be in the Navy."
"On December 30 we reached a designated rendezvous point about fifty miles east of Boston, where we met up with thirty-five other ships, including the battleship USS Texas, three carriers, twenty destroyers, four tankers, and several British troopships. From there the convoy set out on a course somewhere—we really didn’t know where. Cardini said we were going to England, but just because Cardini said it didn’t make it true.
"I had always heard that the ocean was blue, but this one seemed to have no color at all (if you don’t count gray). What with the gray water, the gray skies, and the gray ships surrounding us, it seemed like we had sailed smack into a black-and-white photograph. Perhaps I was expecting sunny skies shining over a sparkling clear blue sea as dolphins jumped out of the water, twirled, and splashed alongside us, like I’d seen in pirate movies. Then again, never having seen the ocean in person, I’m not sure what I was expecting.
"Despite the lack of color—and dolphins—I did find comfort in the fact that the USS Texas was steaming along right beside us. I had thought that the Anne Arundel was big, but the Texas was ....
April 12, 2020
Quoted from page after dedication:-
"They say that the birds never sing at Dachau. Perhaps they cannot produce their wondrous music in a place that has witnessed such tragedy, such cruelty, such horror. Perhaps God forbids it. Or perhaps, on their own, they are muted by the profound sense of sadness that permeates the very air around Dachau—air that once was filled with the cries of innocents and the lingering smoke of their ashes."
Haven't been to any of those, but when we lived in Germany, there was a blackbird that would be often perched on a roof close by, singing, early at dawn or later in twilight. Else, other than the long park and garden in centre of city, there were only predatory birds, not quite eagles but a tad smaller. In the garden in city centre there were swans, and others.
But then we lived in England, and oh! What variety, what rich pleasure, of birds that alighted in the backyard! Flying from the evergreen tall hedge branches to the grass on earth, chirping, delightful. From entirely lovely robins to magpies, to some so exotic they showed themselves precisely twice during the year, at about equinox.
Then one had to wonder, why was there a dearth of birds around homes in Germany. Did they just eat them all when there was scarcity of food after the wars? But that couldn't be it, birds do fly, they coukd have migrated in, after all!
So the above makes far more sense. Birds too might have this sensitivity to atmosphere beyond physical, and might be unwilling to a light anywhere such horrors were perpetrated, such evil as the extermination camps of the third Reich existed. This was mentioned even in the book one just finished, In Face Of Fear, relating to the landscape for miles around Auschwitz, as observed by the hero in a real story. And not just about birds either.
Which brings tremendous pleasure on yet another level, having noticed what rich variety of birds around where we live, where we often went out for a drive and a meal slightly further, and so on.
............
The writing is good, in that it's as if one is listening to the protagonist speak to one, and he's mostly at ease, but more often than not there's humour where one doesn't expect it; and, too, an unexpected awareness of beauty of land and love of family, which might be shared by most but not expected from an eighteen year old boy, at least not in awareness enough to not only admit it but be erudite about it. Then again, such low expectations might merely be a result of a bully jock culture imposed on males in U.S..
What is even more intriguing is how the writing subtly changes, from a longing last look at the serene family farm to the pushing at training with the team, to the taking the majesty of ocean in awed silence, to horror at death scenes in France after arrival at Normandy.
If there was no ghost writer, it's really very well written.
Somewhere beginning at Normandy and more so from Falaise Gap onwards, one has a sense that the story is a little more familiar than mere acquaintance with the WWII events and general reading, but when it comes to Worms, March 21st, 1944, the street battle involving a panzer and a Sherman, the uncanny, ghostly sense of this being familiar suddenly reminds one of having recently read
The Fighting 30th Division: They Called Them Roosevelt's SS; by Martin King, Michael Collins, David Hilborn.
And of course, that must be it, since both are closely connected with Patton. 92nd Battalion that protagonist of this story tells his personal account of, must have been part of, or associated with, 30th Division, which the other was about, from several accounts by various members thereof; that the recognition is ghostly until Worms is due to the very personal vs an overall view, which is the major difference. It's like a hike with a camera vs a Google map, so to speak.
............
After its over, the author tells about his writing, and the various members of the battalion who helped, by telling their stories and more.
One would wish he could tell about the dead, Chandler and Silverman and Monique - about their reality, for instance. Or were they composites?
............
Since the introduction by the author is about his father, who the story is about, educating him at the age of twelve about Nazi atrocities, one might expect better than the following.
"The soldier looked at me. He was a short fella with a ruddy complexion, high cheekbones, jet-black hair, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He spoke with a slight accent of some sort and didn’t look American, but I couldn’t figure what country he was from. “Hey,” he said, coming in my direction. “Charles Spotted Bear. Midland, Texas.”"
"Averitt looked around. “Son of a bitch! How the hell did you get right up behind me without making a sound?”
"Sam Martin smiled and said, “Our people can always sneak up on the paleface.”"
"“It’s true, Averitt,” Spotted Bear said. “We will educate you in our ways. You’ll see.” Averitt scratched his forehead with his middle finger. Spotted Bear turned back to me. “Sam Martin and I are Indians.”
"“Indians?” I asked.
"“Indians.”
"“As in ‘cowboys and Indians,’” smarted Averitt. “But we like ’em anyway.”
"Spotted Bear was a good-natured kid, and he started laughing. “Yeah,” he said, “as in ‘Indians and cowboys.’ When we used to play, the Indians always won.”"
Indian is the falsely stuck label due to Columbus lying, but it's maintained because of a racist and colonialists disparaging attitude towards India. The natives of continent across the pond from Europe are NOT Indian, have no connection with India, and never did.
They are, according to the latest theory so far, likely Siberian or Mongolian tribes that walked across the Bering strait when frozen, millennia ago. But admitting as much by calling them Siberian might lead to acknowledging that they were the original people of the land, so the fraudulent label is convenient.
Going on calling them Indian has the underlying contempt for an ancient, rich and still flourishing, living culture that has withstood assaults of every invasion for millennia, while others that were ancient on par such as Egypt and Persia, were destroyed quite deliberately and completely by the said invaders. So now, going on calling every subjugated people, whose land is taken away from them by invaders, Indian, is the convenient racist fraud that is perpetrated deliberately and quite consciously.
The name India, given by west to india since antiquity, stems from the geography of the land so named - to enter, the only way for west was to cross the river Sindhu - called indus by west - until a few centuries ago when sailships rounded Africa. India has other names that are ancient and indigenous, which have nothing to do with the river, because it's not of paramount importance to the people who were always in India, unlike those that had to cross it.
But above all, the name Indian has nothing to do with any natives of the continent west of Atlantic that stretche's pole to pole. They have names for themselves, and for their land. It's time to use them, and stop being racist.
The young soldiers were not educated enough, but the author could presumably afford a footnote to the effect that despite the misnomer he's decided to keep it for authenticity of their conversation.
............
He received the letter at eighteen.
"I remember walking the few feet from the oak tree to the fence that bordered the fields. I could hear her reading, but my eyes and heart became fascinated with the scene laid out before me. Colorful ribbons of scarlet and orange were beginning to stretch themselves across the deepening sky, causing the crops below to shimmer as though they were painted with sparkles of silver, gold, and red. These glistening fields and the rolling hills beyond looked exactly as they had on thousands of other evenings. But somehow they looked different. Somehow they looked more beautiful than I had ever remembered."
"I looked back at my family, who were by now in the first stages of being seated at the table. Papa and my uncles were discussing the politics of the war as Mama, Aunt Mae, and Grandma Amari were bringing some platters of food outside from the kitchen. The teenage cousins, having worked with us in the fields all day, were somewhat quiet, while the younger kids were bustling about, as they did every evening when it was time to eat. As I watched, I came to realize that everything I knew, everything I cared about, was in this one scene."
............
"“We need one for proof of birth,” the soldier said.
"“Hey, I’m standing right here,” I replied. “Ain’t that proof that I was born?”"
"I guess they eventually believed that I had been born, because they accepted me into the Army."
............
"I was up next. I took a shot in each arm, passed out, and hit the floor like a rock."
"A nurse came over, gave me a glass of orange juice, and made me sit in a chair until the dizziness went away. I talked to her until all the other boys had completed their shots. It wasn’t that she was all that pretty or anything, or that I was all that dizzy, it’s just that the longer I sat there, the more orange juice she gave me."
There was a written exam.
"I must have scored well on telegraph communications, because they told me that after basic training I would be assigned to the 92nd Signal Battalion. I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I was quickly learning that I wasn’t required to understand everything."
............
"They had served us good food at Fort McClellan and Fort McPherson, but the food here at Camp Crowder was even better: meat, potatoes, gravy, fresh vegetables, hot bread, butter, fruit, and plenty of milk. I suppose that if they expected you to make it through basic training in one piece, they had better feed you some decent food and plenty of it. I didn’t know if I liked being in the Army, but I did enjoy chow time. I must have been especially hungry after all the excitement of arriving at the camp, because I ate like there was no tomorrow. Two helpings of meat loaf. More mashed potatoes and gravy. Another scoop of vegetables. Two more rolls smothered with butter. And more milk. Just keep the milk coming. In fact, I drank so much milk the other boys started to wonder if something was wrong with me. The guy from Kentucky said, “Hey, Bama, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Save some for tomorrow!”"
"Napoleon is quoted as saying that an army marches on its stomach, which conjures up an interestingly comical mental image, but the more I ate, the more I realized what he meant and the more I was willing to give Army life a chance."
"So as long as we were shooting at targets on the shooting range, I was having fun. I didn’t know how I would feel about shooting another man, even if he was considered to be an enemy. Then again, my attitude was that if it’s between him shooting me or me shooting him, then he needs to be ready to meet his Maker, because I’m trained to put a bullet between his eyes now and work it out with a priest later."
"It was amazing how something as simple as a cookie baked in a mother’s oven can comfort a soldier’s soul on an otherwise cold and lonely night."
"Basic training might not have seemed like it was working, because everybody complained so much, but the discipline and effort did transform us over a period of time. We were healthy, fit, organized, alert, and prepared. Now we were ready to go on to the next level."
............
"I had never seen a ship in real life and therefore didn’t have a point of reference, but this thing definitely looked huge. In fact, the first thing I thought was that it looked much too big and heavy to float.
"When I got to the top of the gangplank and set foot on the ship, I was amazed at how steady it was. It felt just like being on the ground. I guess I expected my weight to cause the ship to shift around in the water. Of course, the only boat I’d been on previous to this had been a little two-man canoe at East Lake Park in Birmingham."
"As I leaned against the railing and watched the scene unfold below me, it crossed my mind that some of these men might not return home alive. I tried not to think about it, but then Averitt said, “You know what? Look at all this shit we have to go through and get ourselves killed all because some little asshole Hitler can’t mind his own damn business!”
"None of the boys knew anything about our route or even where we were actually going, other than to Europe—probably England. But First Sergeant Thomas had told us that we didn’t need to know or even speculate on the trip because, as the saying goes, “Loose lips sink ships,” and though it was great to see everyone come out and see us off, it was possible that there could have been least one or two Nazi informants out in the crowd."
"It was dark now and getting cold, but what we saw was beautiful. Lower Manhattan was gleaming in the night, and just in front of it, just to the left, was the Statue of Liberty."
"It was getting colder as the ship moved out to sea, but despite the frigid temperatures and the strengthening wind, we stayed on deck as long as we could see the twinkling of the ever-decreasing New York skyline on the horizon. For all of us, there was an awesome reality to that moment—the feel of the powerful ship plowing through the darkness of an even more powerful ocean, carrying us into the unknown. The one thing we did know was this: Our destinies awaited us on some distant shore, while America, our home, was quickly disappearing into the cold, wet blackness of night."
"It was easy to find a place at chow that morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that the food tasted like crap. As far as I was concerned, that was yet another reason not to be in the Navy."
"On December 30 we reached a designated rendezvous point about fifty miles east of Boston, where we met up with thirty-five other ships, including the battleship USS Texas, three carriers, twenty destroyers, four tankers, and several British troopships. From there the convoy set out on a course somewhere—we really didn’t know where. Cardini said we were going to England, but just because Cardini said it didn’t make it true.
"I had always heard that the ocean was blue, but this one seemed to have no color at all (if you don’t count gray). What with the gray water, the gray skies, and the gray ships surrounding us, it seemed like we had sailed smack into a black-and-white photograph. Perhaps I was expecting sunny skies shining over a sparkling clear blue sea as dolphins jumped out of the water, twirled, and splashed alongside us, like I’d seen in pirate movies. Then again, never having seen the ocean in person, I’m not sure what I was expecting.
"Despite the lack of color—and dolphins—I did find comfort in the fact that the USS Texas was steaming along right beside us. I had thought that the Anne Arundel was big, but the Texas was ....
"They say that the birds never sing at Dachau. Perhaps they cannot produce their wondrous music in a place that has witnessed such tragedy, such cruelty, such horror. Perhaps God forbids it. Or perhaps, on their own, they are muted by the profound sense of sadness that permeates the very air around Dachau—air that once was filled with the cries of innocents and the lingering smoke of their ashes."
Haven't been to any of those, but when we lived in Germany, there was a blackbird that would be often perched on a roof close by, singing, early at dawn or later in twilight. Else, other than the long park and garden in centre of city, there were only predatory birds, not quite eagles but a tad smaller. In the garden in city centre there were swans, and others.
But then we lived in England, and oh! What variety, what rich pleasure, of birds that alighted in the backyard! Flying from the evergreen tall hedge branches to the grass on earth, chirping, delightful. From entirely lovely robins to magpies, to some so exotic they showed themselves precisely twice during the year, at about equinox.
Then one had to wonder, why was there a dearth of birds around homes in Germany. Did they just eat them all when there was scarcity of food after the wars? But that couldn't be it, birds do fly, they coukd have migrated in, after all!
So the above makes far more sense. Birds too might have this sensitivity to atmosphere beyond physical, and might be unwilling to a light anywhere such horrors were perpetrated, such evil as the extermination camps of the third Reich existed. This was mentioned even in the book one just finished, In Face Of Fear, relating to the landscape for miles around Auschwitz, as observed by the hero in a real story. And not just about birds either.
Which brings tremendous pleasure on yet another level, having noticed what rich variety of birds around where we live, where we often went out for a drive and a meal slightly further, and so on.
............
The writing is good, in that it's as if one is listening to the protagonist speak to one, and he's mostly at ease, but more often than not there's humour where one doesn't expect it; and, too, an unexpected awareness of beauty of land and love of family, which might be shared by most but not expected from an eighteen year old boy, at least not in awareness enough to not only admit it but be erudite about it. Then again, such low expectations might merely be a result of a bully jock culture imposed on males in U.S..
What is even more intriguing is how the writing subtly changes, from a longing last look at the serene family farm to the pushing at training with the team, to the taking the majesty of ocean in awed silence, to horror at death scenes in France after arrival at Normandy.
If there was no ghost writer, it's really very well written.
Somewhere beginning at Normandy and more so from Falaise Gap onwards, one has a sense that the story is a little more familiar than mere acquaintance with the WWII events and general reading, but when it comes to Worms, March 21st, 1944, the street battle involving a panzer and a Sherman, the uncanny, ghostly sense of this being familiar suddenly reminds one of having recently read
The Fighting 30th Division: They Called Them Roosevelt's SS; by Martin King, Michael Collins, David Hilborn.
And of course, that must be it, since both are closely connected with Patton. 92nd Battalion that protagonist of this story tells his personal account of, must have been part of, or associated with, 30th Division, which the other was about, from several accounts by various members thereof; that the recognition is ghostly until Worms is due to the very personal vs an overall view, which is the major difference. It's like a hike with a camera vs a Google map, so to speak.
............
After its over, the author tells about his writing, and the various members of the battalion who helped, by telling their stories and more.
One would wish he could tell about the dead, Chandler and Silverman and Monique - about their reality, for instance. Or were they composites?
............
Since the introduction by the author is about his father, who the story is about, educating him at the age of twelve about Nazi atrocities, one might expect better than the following.
"The soldier looked at me. He was a short fella with a ruddy complexion, high cheekbones, jet-black hair, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He spoke with a slight accent of some sort and didn’t look American, but I couldn’t figure what country he was from. “Hey,” he said, coming in my direction. “Charles Spotted Bear. Midland, Texas.”"
"Averitt looked around. “Son of a bitch! How the hell did you get right up behind me without making a sound?”
"Sam Martin smiled and said, “Our people can always sneak up on the paleface.”"
"“It’s true, Averitt,” Spotted Bear said. “We will educate you in our ways. You’ll see.” Averitt scratched his forehead with his middle finger. Spotted Bear turned back to me. “Sam Martin and I are Indians.”
"“Indians?” I asked.
"“Indians.”
"“As in ‘cowboys and Indians,’” smarted Averitt. “But we like ’em anyway.”
"Spotted Bear was a good-natured kid, and he started laughing. “Yeah,” he said, “as in ‘Indians and cowboys.’ When we used to play, the Indians always won.”"
Indian is the falsely stuck label due to Columbus lying, but it's maintained because of a racist and colonialists disparaging attitude towards India. The natives of continent across the pond from Europe are NOT Indian, have no connection with India, and never did.
They are, according to the latest theory so far, likely Siberian or Mongolian tribes that walked across the Bering strait when frozen, millennia ago. But admitting as much by calling them Siberian might lead to acknowledging that they were the original people of the land, so the fraudulent label is convenient.
Going on calling them Indian has the underlying contempt for an ancient, rich and still flourishing, living culture that has withstood assaults of every invasion for millennia, while others that were ancient on par such as Egypt and Persia, were destroyed quite deliberately and completely by the said invaders. So now, going on calling every subjugated people, whose land is taken away from them by invaders, Indian, is the convenient racist fraud that is perpetrated deliberately and quite consciously.
The name India, given by west to india since antiquity, stems from the geography of the land so named - to enter, the only way for west was to cross the river Sindhu - called indus by west - until a few centuries ago when sailships rounded Africa. India has other names that are ancient and indigenous, which have nothing to do with the river, because it's not of paramount importance to the people who were always in India, unlike those that had to cross it.
But above all, the name Indian has nothing to do with any natives of the continent west of Atlantic that stretche's pole to pole. They have names for themselves, and for their land. It's time to use them, and stop being racist.
The young soldiers were not educated enough, but the author could presumably afford a footnote to the effect that despite the misnomer he's decided to keep it for authenticity of their conversation.
............
He received the letter at eighteen.
"I remember walking the few feet from the oak tree to the fence that bordered the fields. I could hear her reading, but my eyes and heart became fascinated with the scene laid out before me. Colorful ribbons of scarlet and orange were beginning to stretch themselves across the deepening sky, causing the crops below to shimmer as though they were painted with sparkles of silver, gold, and red. These glistening fields and the rolling hills beyond looked exactly as they had on thousands of other evenings. But somehow they looked different. Somehow they looked more beautiful than I had ever remembered."
"I looked back at my family, who were by now in the first stages of being seated at the table. Papa and my uncles were discussing the politics of the war as Mama, Aunt Mae, and Grandma Amari were bringing some platters of food outside from the kitchen. The teenage cousins, having worked with us in the fields all day, were somewhat quiet, while the younger kids were bustling about, as they did every evening when it was time to eat. As I watched, I came to realize that everything I knew, everything I cared about, was in this one scene."
............
"“We need one for proof of birth,” the soldier said.
"“Hey, I’m standing right here,” I replied. “Ain’t that proof that I was born?”"
"I guess they eventually believed that I had been born, because they accepted me into the Army."
............
"I was up next. I took a shot in each arm, passed out, and hit the floor like a rock."
"A nurse came over, gave me a glass of orange juice, and made me sit in a chair until the dizziness went away. I talked to her until all the other boys had completed their shots. It wasn’t that she was all that pretty or anything, or that I was all that dizzy, it’s just that the longer I sat there, the more orange juice she gave me."
There was a written exam.
"I must have scored well on telegraph communications, because they told me that after basic training I would be assigned to the 92nd Signal Battalion. I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I was quickly learning that I wasn’t required to understand everything."
............
"They had served us good food at Fort McClellan and Fort McPherson, but the food here at Camp Crowder was even better: meat, potatoes, gravy, fresh vegetables, hot bread, butter, fruit, and plenty of milk. I suppose that if they expected you to make it through basic training in one piece, they had better feed you some decent food and plenty of it. I didn’t know if I liked being in the Army, but I did enjoy chow time. I must have been especially hungry after all the excitement of arriving at the camp, because I ate like there was no tomorrow. Two helpings of meat loaf. More mashed potatoes and gravy. Another scoop of vegetables. Two more rolls smothered with butter. And more milk. Just keep the milk coming. In fact, I drank so much milk the other boys started to wonder if something was wrong with me. The guy from Kentucky said, “Hey, Bama, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Save some for tomorrow!”"
"Napoleon is quoted as saying that an army marches on its stomach, which conjures up an interestingly comical mental image, but the more I ate, the more I realized what he meant and the more I was willing to give Army life a chance."
"So as long as we were shooting at targets on the shooting range, I was having fun. I didn’t know how I would feel about shooting another man, even if he was considered to be an enemy. Then again, my attitude was that if it’s between him shooting me or me shooting him, then he needs to be ready to meet his Maker, because I’m trained to put a bullet between his eyes now and work it out with a priest later."
"It was amazing how something as simple as a cookie baked in a mother’s oven can comfort a soldier’s soul on an otherwise cold and lonely night."
"Basic training might not have seemed like it was working, because everybody complained so much, but the discipline and effort did transform us over a period of time. We were healthy, fit, organized, alert, and prepared. Now we were ready to go on to the next level."
............
"I had never seen a ship in real life and therefore didn’t have a point of reference, but this thing definitely looked huge. In fact, the first thing I thought was that it looked much too big and heavy to float.
"When I got to the top of the gangplank and set foot on the ship, I was amazed at how steady it was. It felt just like being on the ground. I guess I expected my weight to cause the ship to shift around in the water. Of course, the only boat I’d been on previous to this had been a little two-man canoe at East Lake Park in Birmingham."
"As I leaned against the railing and watched the scene unfold below me, it crossed my mind that some of these men might not return home alive. I tried not to think about it, but then Averitt said, “You know what? Look at all this shit we have to go through and get ourselves killed all because some little asshole Hitler can’t mind his own damn business!”
"None of the boys knew anything about our route or even where we were actually going, other than to Europe—probably England. But First Sergeant Thomas had told us that we didn’t need to know or even speculate on the trip because, as the saying goes, “Loose lips sink ships,” and though it was great to see everyone come out and see us off, it was possible that there could have been least one or two Nazi informants out in the crowd."
"It was dark now and getting cold, but what we saw was beautiful. Lower Manhattan was gleaming in the night, and just in front of it, just to the left, was the Statue of Liberty."
"It was getting colder as the ship moved out to sea, but despite the frigid temperatures and the strengthening wind, we stayed on deck as long as we could see the twinkling of the ever-decreasing New York skyline on the horizon. For all of us, there was an awesome reality to that moment—the feel of the powerful ship plowing through the darkness of an even more powerful ocean, carrying us into the unknown. The one thing we did know was this: Our destinies awaited us on some distant shore, while America, our home, was quickly disappearing into the cold, wet blackness of night."
"It was easy to find a place at chow that morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that the food tasted like crap. As far as I was concerned, that was yet another reason not to be in the Navy."
"On December 30 we reached a designated rendezvous point about fifty miles east of Boston, where we met up with thirty-five other ships, including the battleship USS Texas, three carriers, twenty destroyers, four tankers, and several British troopships. From there the convoy set out on a course somewhere—we really didn’t know where. Cardini said we were going to England, but just because Cardini said it didn’t make it true.
"I had always heard that the ocean was blue, but this one seemed to have no color at all (if you don’t count gray). What with the gray water, the gray skies, and the gray ships surrounding us, it seemed like we had sailed smack into a black-and-white photograph. Perhaps I was expecting sunny skies shining over a sparkling clear blue sea as dolphins jumped out of the water, twirled, and splashed alongside us, like I’d seen in pirate movies. Then again, never having seen the ocean in person, I’m not sure what I was expecting.
"Despite the lack of color—and dolphins—I did find comfort in the fact that the USS Texas was steaming along right beside us. I had thought that the Anne Arundel was big, but the Texas was ....
April 12, 2020
Quoted from page after dedication:-
"They say that the birds never sing at Dachau. Perhaps they cannot produce their wondrous music in a place that has witnessed such tragedy, such cruelty, such horror. Perhaps God forbids it. Or perhaps, on their own, they are muted by the profound sense of sadness that permeates the very air around Dachau—air that once was filled with the cries of innocents and the lingering smoke of their ashes."
Haven't been to any of those, but when we lived in Germany, there was a blackbird that would be often perched on a roof close by, singing, early at dawn or later in twilight. Else, other than the long park and garden in centre of city, there were only predatory birds, not quite eagles but a tad smaller. In the garden in city centre there were swans, and others.
But then we lived in England, and oh! What variety, what rich pleasure, of birds that alighted in the backyard! Flying from the evergreen tall hedge branches to the grass on earth, chirping, delightful. From entirely lovely robins to magpies, to some so exotic they showed themselves precisely twice during the year, at about equinox.
Then one had to wonder, why was there a dearth of birds around homes in Germany. Did they just eat them all when there was scarcity of food after the wars? But that couldn't be it, birds do fly, they coukd have migrated in, after all!
So the above makes far more sense. Birds too might have this sensitivity to atmosphere beyond physical, and might be unwilling to a light anywhere such horrors were perpetrated, such evil as the extermination camps of the third Reich existed. This was mentioned even in the book one just finished, In Face Of Fear, relating to the landscape for miles around Auschwitz, as observed by the hero in a real story. And not just about birds either.
Which brings tremendous pleasure on yet another level, having noticed what rich variety of birds around where we live, where we often went out for a drive and a meal slightly further, and so on.
............
The writing is good, in that it's as if one is listening to the protagonist speak to one, and he's mostly at ease, but more often than not there's humour where one doesn't expect it; and, too, an unexpected awareness of beauty of land and love of family, which might be shared by most but not expected from an eighteen year old boy, at least not in awareness enough to not only admit it but be erudite about it. Then again, such low expectations might merely be a result of a bully jock culture imposed on males in U.S..
What is even more intriguing is how the writing subtly changes, from a longing last look at the serene family farm to the pushing at training with the team, to the taking the majesty of ocean in awed silence, to horror at death scenes in France after arrival at Normandy.
If there was no ghost writer, it's really very well written.
Somewhere beginning at Normandy and more so from Falaise Gap onwards, one has a sense that the story is a little more familiar than mere acquaintance with the WWII events and general reading, but when it comes to Worms, March 21st, 1944, the street battle involving a panzer and a Sherman, the uncanny, ghostly sense of this being familiar suddenly reminds one of having recently read
The Fighting 30th Division: They Called Them Roosevelt's SS; by Martin King, Michael Collins, David Hilborn.
And of course, that must be it, since both are closely connected with Patton. 92nd Battalion that protagonist of this story tells his personal account of, must have been part of, or associated with, 30th Division, which the other was about, from several accounts by various members thereof; that the recognition is ghostly until Worms is due to the very personal vs an overall view, which is the major difference. It's like a hike with a camera vs a Google map, so to speak.
............
After its over, the author tells about his writing, and the various members of the battalion who helped, by telling their stories and more.
One would wish he could tell about the dead, Chandler and Silverman and Monique - about their reality, for instance. Or were they composites?
............
Since the introduction by the author is about his father, who the story is about, educating him at the age of twelve about Nazi atrocities, one might expect better than the following.
"The soldier looked at me. He was a short fella with a ruddy complexion, high cheekbones, jet-black hair, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He spoke with a slight accent of some sort and didn’t look American, but I couldn’t figure what country he was from. “Hey,” he said, coming in my direction. “Charles Spotted Bear. Midland, Texas.”"
"Averitt looked around. “Son of a bitch! How the hell did you get right up behind me without making a sound?”
"Sam Martin smiled and said, “Our people can always sneak up on the paleface.”"
"“It’s true, Averitt,” Spotted Bear said. “We will educate you in our ways. You’ll see.” Averitt scratched his forehead with his middle finger. Spotted Bear turned back to me. “Sam Martin and I are Indians.”
"“Indians?” I asked.
"“Indians.”
"“As in ‘cowboys and Indians,’” smarted Averitt. “But we like ’em anyway.”
"Spotted Bear was a good-natured kid, and he started laughing. “Yeah,” he said, “as in ‘Indians and cowboys.’ When we used to play, the Indians always won.”"
Indian is the falsely stuck label due to Columbus lying, but it's maintained because of a racist and colonialists disparaging attitude towards India. The natives of continent across the pond from Europe are NOT Indian, have no connection with India, and never did.
They are, according to the latest theory so far, likely Siberian or Mongolian tribes that walked across the Bering strait when frozen, millennia ago. But admitting as much by calling them Siberian might lead to acknowledging that they were the original people of the land, so the fraudulent label is convenient.
Going on calling them Indian has the underlying contempt for an ancient, rich and still flourishing, living culture that has withstood assaults of every invasion for millennia, while others that were ancient on par such as Egypt and Persia, were destroyed quite deliberately and completely by the said invaders. So now, going on calling every subjugated people, whose land is taken away from them by invaders, Indian, is the convenient racist fraud that is perpetrated deliberately and quite consciously.
The name India, given by west to india since antiquity, stems from the geography of the land so named - to enter, the only way for west was to cross the river Sindhu - called indus by west - until a few centuries ago when sailships rounded Africa. India has other names that are ancient and indigenous, which have nothing to do with the river, because it's not of paramount importance to the people who were always in India, unlike those that had to cross it.
But above all, the name Indian has nothing to do with any natives of the continent west of Atlantic that stretche's pole to pole. They have names for themselves, and for their land. It's time to use them, and stop being racist.
The young soldiers were not educated enough, but the author could presumably afford a footnote to the effect that despite the misnomer he's decided to keep it for authenticity of their conversation.
............
He received the letter at eighteen.
"I remember walking the few feet from the oak tree to the fence that bordered the fields. I could hear her reading, but my eyes and heart became fascinated with the scene laid out before me. Colorful ribbons of scarlet and orange were beginning to stretch themselves across the deepening sky, causing the crops below to shimmer as though they were painted with sparkles of silver, gold, and red. These glistening fields and the rolling hills beyond looked exactly as they had on thousands of other evenings. But somehow they looked different. Somehow they looked more beautiful than I had ever remembered."
"I looked back at my family, who were by now in the first stages of being seated at the table. Papa and my uncles were discussing the politics of the war as Mama, Aunt Mae, and Grandma Amari were bringing some platters of food outside from the kitchen. The teenage cousins, having worked with us in the fields all day, were somewhat quiet, while the younger kids were bustling about, as they did every evening when it was time to eat. As I watched, I came to realize that everything I knew, everything I cared about, was in this one scene."
............
"“We need one for proof of birth,” the soldier said.
"“Hey, I’m standing right here,” I replied. “Ain’t that proof that I was born?”"
"I guess they eventually believed that I had been born, because they accepted me into the Army."
............
"I was up next. I took a shot in each arm, passed out, and hit the floor like a rock."
"A nurse came over, gave me a glass of orange juice, and made me sit in a chair until the dizziness went away. I talked to her until all the other boys had completed their shots. It wasn’t that she was all that pretty or anything, or that I was all that dizzy, it’s just that the longer I sat there, the more orange juice she gave me."
There was a written exam.
"I must have scored well on telegraph communications, because they told me that after basic training I would be assigned to the 92nd Signal Battalion. I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I was quickly learning that I wasn’t required to understand everything."
............
"They had served us good food at Fort McClellan and Fort McPherson, but the food here at Camp Crowder was even better: meat, potatoes, gravy, fresh vegetables, hot bread, butter, fruit, and plenty of milk. I suppose that if they expected you to make it through basic training in one piece, they had better feed you some decent food and plenty of it. I didn’t know if I liked being in the Army, but I did enjoy chow time. I must have been especially hungry after all the excitement of arriving at the camp, because I ate like there was no tomorrow. Two helpings of meat loaf. More mashed potatoes and gravy. Another scoop of vegetables. Two more rolls smothered with butter. And more milk. Just keep the milk coming. In fact, I drank so much milk the other boys started to wonder if something was wrong with me. The guy from Kentucky said, “Hey, Bama, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Save some for tomorrow!”"
"Napoleon is quoted as saying that an army marches on its stomach, which conjures up an interestingly comical mental image, but the more I ate, the more I realized what he meant and the more I was willing to give Army life a chance."
"So as long as we were shooting at targets on the shooting range, I was having fun. I didn’t know how I would feel about shooting another man, even if he was considered to be an enemy. Then again, my attitude was that if it’s between him shooting me or me shooting him, then he needs to be ready to meet his Maker, because I’m trained to put a bullet between his eyes now and work it out with a priest later."
"It was amazing how something as simple as a cookie baked in a mother’s oven can comfort a soldier’s soul on an otherwise cold and lonely night."
"Basic training might not have seemed like it was working, because everybody complained so much, but the discipline and effort did transform us over a period of time. We were healthy, fit, organized, alert, and prepared. Now we were ready to go on to the next level."
............
"I had never seen a ship in real life and therefore didn’t have a point of reference, but this thing definitely looked huge. In fact, the first thing I thought was that it looked much too big and heavy to float.
"When I got to the top of the gangplank and set foot on the ship, I was amazed at how steady it was. It felt just like being on the ground. I guess I expected my weight to cause the ship to shift around in the water. Of course, the only boat I’d been on previous to this had been a little two-man canoe at East Lake Park in Birmingham."
"As I leaned against the railing and watched the scene unfold below me, it crossed my mind that some of these men might not return home alive. I tried not to think about it, but then Averitt said, “You know what? Look at all this shit we have to go through and get ourselves killed all because some little asshole Hitler can’t mind his own damn business!”
"None of the boys knew anything about our route or even where we were actually going, other than to Europe—probably England. But First Sergeant Thomas had told us that we didn’t need to know or even speculate on the trip because, as the saying goes, “Loose lips sink ships,” and though it was great to see everyone come out and see us off, it was possible that there could have been least one or two Nazi informants out in the crowd."
"It was dark now and getting cold, but what we saw was beautiful. Lower Manhattan was gleaming in the night, and just in front of it, just to the left, was the Statue of Liberty."
"It was getting colder as the ship moved out to sea, but despite the frigid temperatures and the strengthening wind, we stayed on deck as long as we could see the twinkling of the ever-decreasing New York skyline on the horizon. For all of us, there was an awesome reality to that moment—the feel of the powerful ship plowing through the darkness of an even more powerful ocean, carrying us into the unknown. The one thing we did know was this: Our destinies awaited us on some distant shore, while America, our home, was quickly disappearing into the cold, wet blackness of night."
"It was easy to find a place at chow that morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that the food tasted like crap. As far as I was concerned, that was yet another reason not to be in the Navy."
"On December 30 we reached a designated rendezvous point about fifty miles east of Boston, where we met up with thirty-five other ships, including the battleship USS Texas, three carriers, twenty destroyers, four tankers, and several British troopships. From there the convoy set out on a course somewhere—we really didn’t know where. Cardini said we were going to England, but just because Cardini said it didn’t make it true.
"I had always heard that the ocean was blue, but this one seemed to have no color at all (if you don’t count gray). What with the gray water, the gray skies, and the gray ships surrounding us, it seemed like we had sailed smack into a black-and-white photograph. Perhaps I was expecting sunny skies shining over a sparkling clear blue sea as dolphins jumped out of the water, twirled, and splashed alongside us, like I’d seen in pirate movies. Then again, never having seen the ocean in person, I’m not sure what I was expecting.
"Despite the lack of color—and dolphins—I did find comfort in the fact that the USS Texas was steaming along right beside us. I had thought that the Anne Arundel was big, but the Texas was ....
"They say that the birds never sing at Dachau. Perhaps they cannot produce their wondrous music in a place that has witnessed such tragedy, such cruelty, such horror. Perhaps God forbids it. Or perhaps, on their own, they are muted by the profound sense of sadness that permeates the very air around Dachau—air that once was filled with the cries of innocents and the lingering smoke of their ashes."
Haven't been to any of those, but when we lived in Germany, there was a blackbird that would be often perched on a roof close by, singing, early at dawn or later in twilight. Else, other than the long park and garden in centre of city, there were only predatory birds, not quite eagles but a tad smaller. In the garden in city centre there were swans, and others.
But then we lived in England, and oh! What variety, what rich pleasure, of birds that alighted in the backyard! Flying from the evergreen tall hedge branches to the grass on earth, chirping, delightful. From entirely lovely robins to magpies, to some so exotic they showed themselves precisely twice during the year, at about equinox.
Then one had to wonder, why was there a dearth of birds around homes in Germany. Did they just eat them all when there was scarcity of food after the wars? But that couldn't be it, birds do fly, they coukd have migrated in, after all!
So the above makes far more sense. Birds too might have this sensitivity to atmosphere beyond physical, and might be unwilling to a light anywhere such horrors were perpetrated, such evil as the extermination camps of the third Reich existed. This was mentioned even in the book one just finished, In Face Of Fear, relating to the landscape for miles around Auschwitz, as observed by the hero in a real story. And not just about birds either.
Which brings tremendous pleasure on yet another level, having noticed what rich variety of birds around where we live, where we often went out for a drive and a meal slightly further, and so on.
............
The writing is good, in that it's as if one is listening to the protagonist speak to one, and he's mostly at ease, but more often than not there's humour where one doesn't expect it; and, too, an unexpected awareness of beauty of land and love of family, which might be shared by most but not expected from an eighteen year old boy, at least not in awareness enough to not only admit it but be erudite about it. Then again, such low expectations might merely be a result of a bully jock culture imposed on males in U.S..
What is even more intriguing is how the writing subtly changes, from a longing last look at the serene family farm to the pushing at training with the team, to the taking the majesty of ocean in awed silence, to horror at death scenes in France after arrival at Normandy.
If there was no ghost writer, it's really very well written.
Somewhere beginning at Normandy and more so from Falaise Gap onwards, one has a sense that the story is a little more familiar than mere acquaintance with the WWII events and general reading, but when it comes to Worms, March 21st, 1944, the street battle involving a panzer and a Sherman, the uncanny, ghostly sense of this being familiar suddenly reminds one of having recently read
The Fighting 30th Division: They Called Them Roosevelt's SS; by Martin King, Michael Collins, David Hilborn.
And of course, that must be it, since both are closely connected with Patton. 92nd Battalion that protagonist of this story tells his personal account of, must have been part of, or associated with, 30th Division, which the other was about, from several accounts by various members thereof; that the recognition is ghostly until Worms is due to the very personal vs an overall view, which is the major difference. It's like a hike with a camera vs a Google map, so to speak.
............
After its over, the author tells about his writing, and the various members of the battalion who helped, by telling their stories and more.
One would wish he could tell about the dead, Chandler and Silverman and Monique - about their reality, for instance. Or were they composites?
............
Since the introduction by the author is about his father, who the story is about, educating him at the age of twelve about Nazi atrocities, one might expect better than the following.
"The soldier looked at me. He was a short fella with a ruddy complexion, high cheekbones, jet-black hair, and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He spoke with a slight accent of some sort and didn’t look American, but I couldn’t figure what country he was from. “Hey,” he said, coming in my direction. “Charles Spotted Bear. Midland, Texas.”"
"Averitt looked around. “Son of a bitch! How the hell did you get right up behind me without making a sound?”
"Sam Martin smiled and said, “Our people can always sneak up on the paleface.”"
"“It’s true, Averitt,” Spotted Bear said. “We will educate you in our ways. You’ll see.” Averitt scratched his forehead with his middle finger. Spotted Bear turned back to me. “Sam Martin and I are Indians.”
"“Indians?” I asked.
"“Indians.”
"“As in ‘cowboys and Indians,’” smarted Averitt. “But we like ’em anyway.”
"Spotted Bear was a good-natured kid, and he started laughing. “Yeah,” he said, “as in ‘Indians and cowboys.’ When we used to play, the Indians always won.”"
Indian is the falsely stuck label due to Columbus lying, but it's maintained because of a racist and colonialists disparaging attitude towards India. The natives of continent across the pond from Europe are NOT Indian, have no connection with India, and never did.
They are, according to the latest theory so far, likely Siberian or Mongolian tribes that walked across the Bering strait when frozen, millennia ago. But admitting as much by calling them Siberian might lead to acknowledging that they were the original people of the land, so the fraudulent label is convenient.
Going on calling them Indian has the underlying contempt for an ancient, rich and still flourishing, living culture that has withstood assaults of every invasion for millennia, while others that were ancient on par such as Egypt and Persia, were destroyed quite deliberately and completely by the said invaders. So now, going on calling every subjugated people, whose land is taken away from them by invaders, Indian, is the convenient racist fraud that is perpetrated deliberately and quite consciously.
The name India, given by west to india since antiquity, stems from the geography of the land so named - to enter, the only way for west was to cross the river Sindhu - called indus by west - until a few centuries ago when sailships rounded Africa. India has other names that are ancient and indigenous, which have nothing to do with the river, because it's not of paramount importance to the people who were always in India, unlike those that had to cross it.
But above all, the name Indian has nothing to do with any natives of the continent west of Atlantic that stretche's pole to pole. They have names for themselves, and for their land. It's time to use them, and stop being racist.
The young soldiers were not educated enough, but the author could presumably afford a footnote to the effect that despite the misnomer he's decided to keep it for authenticity of their conversation.
............
He received the letter at eighteen.
"I remember walking the few feet from the oak tree to the fence that bordered the fields. I could hear her reading, but my eyes and heart became fascinated with the scene laid out before me. Colorful ribbons of scarlet and orange were beginning to stretch themselves across the deepening sky, causing the crops below to shimmer as though they were painted with sparkles of silver, gold, and red. These glistening fields and the rolling hills beyond looked exactly as they had on thousands of other evenings. But somehow they looked different. Somehow they looked more beautiful than I had ever remembered."
"I looked back at my family, who were by now in the first stages of being seated at the table. Papa and my uncles were discussing the politics of the war as Mama, Aunt Mae, and Grandma Amari were bringing some platters of food outside from the kitchen. The teenage cousins, having worked with us in the fields all day, were somewhat quiet, while the younger kids were bustling about, as they did every evening when it was time to eat. As I watched, I came to realize that everything I knew, everything I cared about, was in this one scene."
............
"“We need one for proof of birth,” the soldier said.
"“Hey, I’m standing right here,” I replied. “Ain’t that proof that I was born?”"
"I guess they eventually believed that I had been born, because they accepted me into the Army."
............
"I was up next. I took a shot in each arm, passed out, and hit the floor like a rock."
"A nurse came over, gave me a glass of orange juice, and made me sit in a chair until the dizziness went away. I talked to her until all the other boys had completed their shots. It wasn’t that she was all that pretty or anything, or that I was all that dizzy, it’s just that the longer I sat there, the more orange juice she gave me."
There was a written exam.
"I must have scored well on telegraph communications, because they told me that after basic training I would be assigned to the 92nd Signal Battalion. I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I was quickly learning that I wasn’t required to understand everything."
............
"They had served us good food at Fort McClellan and Fort McPherson, but the food here at Camp Crowder was even better: meat, potatoes, gravy, fresh vegetables, hot bread, butter, fruit, and plenty of milk. I suppose that if they expected you to make it through basic training in one piece, they had better feed you some decent food and plenty of it. I didn’t know if I liked being in the Army, but I did enjoy chow time. I must have been especially hungry after all the excitement of arriving at the camp, because I ate like there was no tomorrow. Two helpings of meat loaf. More mashed potatoes and gravy. Another scoop of vegetables. Two more rolls smothered with butter. And more milk. Just keep the milk coming. In fact, I drank so much milk the other boys started to wonder if something was wrong with me. The guy from Kentucky said, “Hey, Bama, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Save some for tomorrow!”"
"Napoleon is quoted as saying that an army marches on its stomach, which conjures up an interestingly comical mental image, but the more I ate, the more I realized what he meant and the more I was willing to give Army life a chance."
"So as long as we were shooting at targets on the shooting range, I was having fun. I didn’t know how I would feel about shooting another man, even if he was considered to be an enemy. Then again, my attitude was that if it’s between him shooting me or me shooting him, then he needs to be ready to meet his Maker, because I’m trained to put a bullet between his eyes now and work it out with a priest later."
"It was amazing how something as simple as a cookie baked in a mother’s oven can comfort a soldier’s soul on an otherwise cold and lonely night."
"Basic training might not have seemed like it was working, because everybody complained so much, but the discipline and effort did transform us over a period of time. We were healthy, fit, organized, alert, and prepared. Now we were ready to go on to the next level."
............
"I had never seen a ship in real life and therefore didn’t have a point of reference, but this thing definitely looked huge. In fact, the first thing I thought was that it looked much too big and heavy to float.
"When I got to the top of the gangplank and set foot on the ship, I was amazed at how steady it was. It felt just like being on the ground. I guess I expected my weight to cause the ship to shift around in the water. Of course, the only boat I’d been on previous to this had been a little two-man canoe at East Lake Park in Birmingham."
"As I leaned against the railing and watched the scene unfold below me, it crossed my mind that some of these men might not return home alive. I tried not to think about it, but then Averitt said, “You know what? Look at all this shit we have to go through and get ourselves killed all because some little asshole Hitler can’t mind his own damn business!”
"None of the boys knew anything about our route or even where we were actually going, other than to Europe—probably England. But First Sergeant Thomas had told us that we didn’t need to know or even speculate on the trip because, as the saying goes, “Loose lips sink ships,” and though it was great to see everyone come out and see us off, it was possible that there could have been least one or two Nazi informants out in the crowd."
"It was dark now and getting cold, but what we saw was beautiful. Lower Manhattan was gleaming in the night, and just in front of it, just to the left, was the Statue of Liberty."
"It was getting colder as the ship moved out to sea, but despite the frigid temperatures and the strengthening wind, we stayed on deck as long as we could see the twinkling of the ever-decreasing New York skyline on the horizon. For all of us, there was an awesome reality to that moment—the feel of the powerful ship plowing through the darkness of an even more powerful ocean, carrying us into the unknown. The one thing we did know was this: Our destinies awaited us on some distant shore, while America, our home, was quickly disappearing into the cold, wet blackness of night."
"It was easy to find a place at chow that morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that the food tasted like crap. As far as I was concerned, that was yet another reason not to be in the Navy."
"On December 30 we reached a designated rendezvous point about fifty miles east of Boston, where we met up with thirty-five other ships, including the battleship USS Texas, three carriers, twenty destroyers, four tankers, and several British troopships. From there the convoy set out on a course somewhere—we really didn’t know where. Cardini said we were going to England, but just because Cardini said it didn’t make it true.
"I had always heard that the ocean was blue, but this one seemed to have no color at all (if you don’t count gray). What with the gray water, the gray skies, and the gray ships surrounding us, it seemed like we had sailed smack into a black-and-white photograph. Perhaps I was expecting sunny skies shining over a sparkling clear blue sea as dolphins jumped out of the water, twirled, and splashed alongside us, like I’d seen in pirate movies. Then again, never having seen the ocean in person, I’m not sure what I was expecting.
"Despite the lack of color—and dolphins—I did find comfort in the fact that the USS Texas was steaming along right beside us. I had thought that the Anne Arundel was big, but the Texas was ....
January 15, 2015
Excellent memoir about the author's father, Joe Sacco, and his service in WWII. Well-formatted story: the first person narrative helps you know Joe personally, yet the individual voices of each of his buddies comes through in the dialogue. Excellent way of presenting Joe's war experiences and the emotions accompanying each. Jack starts the book on the day his father receives his draft notice at 18 years-old, then takes you through basic training, his shipment overseas, landing at Normandy, battling through France and Germany, entering the town of Dachau where Joe discovers the real reason he and his fellow allies left their homes to come fight this war, and finally his return home to Alabama. Smart choice of format—you come to know Joe his fellow servicemen as real people, sharing their experiences and understanding their emotions. As the reader, you get a very human side (and reaction) to the huge battles and names of WWII—Normandy, Battle of the Bulge, Dachau. Even the larger-than-life Patton makes many appearances throughout the story, with his cursing, enthusiasm, and unquestionable love for the men he leads. Hearing Patton speak, as Joe and his buddies heard him, you understand why he is portrayed as such a huge icon and how his men were truly motivated by his leadership.
Also, very interesting insight about how Joe shared his experiences with his children. Not all veterans do, yet he knew this was important. He obviously carefully considered each experience and how—and when—to share it with each of his children.
Great story told well, and a fine tribute to Jack Sacco's dad and those he served with.
Also, very interesting insight about how Joe shared his experiences with his children. Not all veterans do, yet he knew this was important. He obviously carefully considered each experience and how—and when—to share it with each of his children.
Great story told well, and a fine tribute to Jack Sacco's dad and those he served with.
February 5, 2015
I have read several books of accounts of WWI and WWII by soldiers about their experience. This book was written by the son of the soldier Joe Sacco by his son Jack.
My father also served and was never able to tell his story to the family. I know few bits and pieces of his service and have a hand of papers of awards and his metals. Like Joe my father was just a very young man that found himself on the other side of the World away from his Mother, Father and brother.
Reading the account of this book really brought the experience my father would have had with his Company L to life. The parts of the book of the combat and the last months of the War where more vivid than any other account I have ever found down to the GI's level. My father lost close friends in the War at the end as Joe did I can still see the look in my fathers eyes not being able to express what he had seen.
This book told every soldiers story even for the ones that could never find words but also never could forgot and those that didn't come back.
I think only a son could have written this for a father.I felt I not only walked along side Joe Sacco but my own father.
My father also served and was never able to tell his story to the family. I know few bits and pieces of his service and have a hand of papers of awards and his metals. Like Joe my father was just a very young man that found himself on the other side of the World away from his Mother, Father and brother.
Reading the account of this book really brought the experience my father would have had with his Company L to life. The parts of the book of the combat and the last months of the War where more vivid than any other account I have ever found down to the GI's level. My father lost close friends in the War at the end as Joe did I can still see the look in my fathers eyes not being able to express what he had seen.
This book told every soldiers story even for the ones that could never find words but also never could forgot and those that didn't come back.
I think only a son could have written this for a father.I felt I not only walked along side Joe Sacco but my own father.
January 27, 2018
Great Read on the war in Europe
His description of liberating Dachau was beyond heartwrenching. It was great to read the perspective of a combat soldier. Overwhelming gratitude to the soldiers who served. Great read!
His description of liberating Dachau was beyond heartwrenching. It was great to read the perspective of a combat soldier. Overwhelming gratitude to the soldiers who served. Great read!
November 12, 2018
There are so many well-written books about World War II, that it is hard to get excited about another one. That being said, "Where the Birds Never Sing" is an amazing journey through the reality of WWII as seen through the eyes of Jack Sacco's father, who was deep in the trenchs of the European engagement. You will gain an intimacy with the brotherhood that exists in the army, have compassion and hatred for the enemy, and feel the yearnings of young men who long to be back home on American soil. It is an amazing book and the story pulls you along even when you are afraid to turn the page in fear that something bad is going to happen. Though you may have read lots of books on WWII, this one will bring new insights and details you probably never knew. I thoroughly enjoyed it. However, like most reality based war books it is not a "clean" read. There is a lot of real life (vs gratuitous) swearing and violence. It in no way takes away from a great story.
February 3, 2017
This was my souvenir from the WWII museum in New Orleans, and I'm so glad I picked it up.
I knew I had to read it because Joe is from Birmingham, Alabama. Jack Sacco's retelling of his father's journey through Europe is raw, heartbreaking, and sometimes, hilarious.
The first-person, memoir-style writing made me like Joe immediately. The photographs added an even more personal touch to the story, and though they were sometimes difficult to look at, I'm so glad they were included.
This book takes you with Joe from basic training, through Europe and all the way back to Birmingham. Only a small portion covers the liberation of Dachau, but that didn't bother me since I enjoyed the journey so much.
I knew I had to read it because Joe is from Birmingham, Alabama. Jack Sacco's retelling of his father's journey through Europe is raw, heartbreaking, and sometimes, hilarious.
The first-person, memoir-style writing made me like Joe immediately. The photographs added an even more personal touch to the story, and though they were sometimes difficult to look at, I'm so glad they were included.
This book takes you with Joe from basic training, through Europe and all the way back to Birmingham. Only a small portion covers the liberation of Dachau, but that didn't bother me since I enjoyed the journey so much.
August 25, 2016
Although the subtitle indicates that this is about the liberation of Dachau, actually it is the story of the author's father's experiences throughout World War II and is very interesting and well written.
March 29, 2014
One of the most incredible books I have ever read. I will never be without a copy... or two. Everyone should read this!
November 12, 2017
I finished this on the way home from Boston. Good story. Of course it made me cry but will need a light read after this one.
September 12, 2021
Kind of strange. It is written as a first person memoir of a WWII soldier. Yet it clearly isn't that. It says it was written by the son of that soldier, based on conversations with his dad and photos his dad took (many of which are printed in the book). But it clearly isn't that either. I don't know if the soldier was a real person and if the author was his son. But the story is told in excruciating detail, complete with episodes of diarrhea, what the soldiers were eating when, what uniforms they were wearing, how often they got to bathe... There is no way dad told his son all that. This soldier seems to have been at every major battle of the war in Europe and been a hero in most of them (and yet no one ever heard of him). There is a sappy romance where a beautiful French girl falls in love with our dirty, stinky, uneducated Alabama grunt at first sight and continues to love him despite hardly any contact.
I take it as historical fiction told in the first person. As such, it is not terrible. It does bring alive the sufferings and tribulations of these soldiers- teenage boys away for home for the first time, in foreign countries, in peril, going for days and days with very little food or sleep and none of either very comfortable or satisfying. Except for the (one) Dachau chapter and some of the other near the end of the war chapters, much of it is less about the horrors of war and more about the miseries of it. But our hero is so determinedly cheerful and optimistic through all of it, it sort of blunts the emotional impact. And he never seems to suffer the slightest pangs of conscience for the killing he did ( perhaps not too much as a signal corp guy) nor to be very changed by all these experiences.
I take it as historical fiction told in the first person. As such, it is not terrible. It does bring alive the sufferings and tribulations of these soldiers- teenage boys away for home for the first time, in foreign countries, in peril, going for days and days with very little food or sleep and none of either very comfortable or satisfying. Except for the (one) Dachau chapter and some of the other near the end of the war chapters, much of it is less about the horrors of war and more about the miseries of it. But our hero is so determinedly cheerful and optimistic through all of it, it sort of blunts the emotional impact. And he never seems to suffer the slightest pangs of conscience for the killing he did ( perhaps not too much as a signal corp guy) nor to be very changed by all these experiences.
February 2, 2019
The Greatest Generation - A Soldier’s Story
In a straight forward story of duty and sacrifice, Joe Sacco gives us one more reason to appreciate the contributions of the greatest generation who fought with honor, devotion, and sacrifice during the Second World War.
So many of these men volunteered early in the war. They came from all over the U.S., many from rural America. From such simple backgrounds, we assembled a formidable war-fighting machine that, after a long struggle, brought forth a new era of peace and prosperity to the continent of Europe.
The story of Joe Sacco, as told by his son, is just as compelling. From his simple immigrant family background in rural Alabama to newborn G.I. Joe, we get a humble soldier with a devotion to honor and duty. His story of struggle and loss is, I am sure, typical of the soldier’s who fought against the Nazi war machine. At the end of the book, we get an account of the liberation of the Dachau concentration camp. This is a very important part of the story as these men were able to bear witness to the tragedy of the Holocaust.
As so many of these men are at an age where they are dying off in greater numbers, it’s important that we remember them for their devotion to duty, and, the great gift of freedom that they gave us, the Baby Boomer generation. So, let’s remember Joe Sacco.
In a straight forward story of duty and sacrifice, Joe Sacco gives us one more reason to appreciate the contributions of the greatest generation who fought with honor, devotion, and sacrifice during the Second World War.
So many of these men volunteered early in the war. They came from all over the U.S., many from rural America. From such simple backgrounds, we assembled a formidable war-fighting machine that, after a long struggle, brought forth a new era of peace and prosperity to the continent of Europe.
The story of Joe Sacco, as told by his son, is just as compelling. From his simple immigrant family background in rural Alabama to newborn G.I. Joe, we get a humble soldier with a devotion to honor and duty. His story of struggle and loss is, I am sure, typical of the soldier’s who fought against the Nazi war machine. At the end of the book, we get an account of the liberation of the Dachau concentration camp. This is a very important part of the story as these men were able to bear witness to the tragedy of the Holocaust.
As so many of these men are at an age where they are dying off in greater numbers, it’s important that we remember them for their devotion to duty, and, the great gift of freedom that they gave us, the Baby Boomer generation. So, let’s remember Joe Sacco.
November 18, 2017
I enjoyed this book. It had a real you-are-there quality. The story, written in first person, follows the author's father as he leaves his large Italian family on their farm in northern Alabama and reports to boot camp during World War II. He then goes on to Texas and Louisiana for training, and then on to Scotland and thence on to the Battle of Normandy, occupied France as they routed the Germans, and finally into Germany itself. John was a part of Patton's forces, and he encountered the famed general on several occasions. John was a great fan of the general and found him very inspiring. John was a part of the signalman corps and thus responsible for installing phone lines to connect the front lines to command headquarters. I wince to think of being exposed on a telephone line with enemy soldiers in the vicinity. Two of the most vivid parts of the book for me were heartbreaking (in the end) romance with beautiful girl he met in France and his participation in the liberation of Dachau.
I did take off a point for the dialogue. Although it felt authentic, the back and forth ribbing between the members of his squad was repeated a little too often for my taste and began to grow wearisome. All in all, though, a very good book.
I did take off a point for the dialogue. Although it felt authentic, the back and forth ribbing between the members of his squad was repeated a little too often for my taste and began to grow wearisome. All in all, though, a very good book.
July 31, 2023
"Everywhere I looked, in every direction, I saw the dead-women, children, old men, babies-beaten, starved, stabbed, shot, butchered, and left to rot on the ground. Most were wearing the tattered striped uniform of a prisoner. Others were completely naked. Some were so emaciated that I couldn't tell if they were male or female."(p.278)- Joe Sacco describing what he saw on the liberation of the Concentration Camp Dachau April 29, 1945.
Jack Sacco tells his father's story of an Italian American son farming in Alabama, as he signs up for war in 1942. From boot camp through the European Theater - through razed towns, behind enemy lines, into the worst winter in memory, until they finally reach Dachau where, amid the walking skeletons, the bodies stacked like cord wood, the stench from the crematorium chimneys & the left-over guards, Joe realizes what his mission really was.
Excellent story skillfully told especially the liberation of Dachau. His description of liberating Dachau was beyond heart wrenching. It was great to read the perspective of a combat soldier. It flows easily and expresses emotions in a manner that makes it perhaps the finest war journal I’ve ever read. Hard to put this book down. Overwhelming gratitude to the soldiers who served. Great read!
Jack Sacco tells his father's story of an Italian American son farming in Alabama, as he signs up for war in 1942. From boot camp through the European Theater - through razed towns, behind enemy lines, into the worst winter in memory, until they finally reach Dachau where, amid the walking skeletons, the bodies stacked like cord wood, the stench from the crematorium chimneys & the left-over guards, Joe realizes what his mission really was.
Excellent story skillfully told especially the liberation of Dachau. His description of liberating Dachau was beyond heart wrenching. It was great to read the perspective of a combat soldier. It flows easily and expresses emotions in a manner that makes it perhaps the finest war journal I’ve ever read. Hard to put this book down. Overwhelming gratitude to the soldiers who served. Great read!
September 2, 2018
I bought this book over ten years ago at a reading conference; the author and his father both signed it. Now, after finally getting around to reading it, I am deeply regretful that I didn't read it immediately. The book reads as a memoir of Joe Sacco, but the author used many other soldiers as references. The book covers the everyday life, ground-level life of a young Italian teenager drafted during WWII. In the almost three years of his army service, he goes from a naive farm boy from Birmingham, Alabama, to a seasoned, weary old man of almost 21. The book covers his experiences through basic and advanced training, then town by town as his group is shipped to Ireland, then England, and the Omaha beaches of the Normandy invasion. He records their journey "through hell" as they fight their way through France and Germany, finally to Dachau and Hitler's lair. There are no facts or figures in his memory, just deeply personal losses of friends and even strangers. This is definitely worth reading and often hard to put down.
July 21, 2020
Where the Birds Never Sing by Joe Sacco 6/26/2020 Kindle
I’m not saying this book was misrepresented, but it certainly wasn’t what I expected. I found the first third at times was dragged out filler, far different than the tense and far more interesting latter portion of the tale. While details of boot camp might have been informative, the potty humor and dialog seemed juvenile. The time spent on that segment of the story was so long I nearly gave up on continuing. I’m glad I did as the final half was not only enlightening, but presented much better.
While the book was written in the first person, we knew the story wasn’t being told by the man who lived it. I feel it would have read more true if had been written in the third person.
While we were introduced to many different buddies, I never felt I got to know them as real people. Overall, I found the story enlightening. Yes, I was disappointed in that I felt it could have been told much better. I’ll let my comments stand and neither recommend nor discourage the book.
I’m not saying this book was misrepresented, but it certainly wasn’t what I expected. I found the first third at times was dragged out filler, far different than the tense and far more interesting latter portion of the tale. While details of boot camp might have been informative, the potty humor and dialog seemed juvenile. The time spent on that segment of the story was so long I nearly gave up on continuing. I’m glad I did as the final half was not only enlightening, but presented much better.
While the book was written in the first person, we knew the story wasn’t being told by the man who lived it. I feel it would have read more true if had been written in the third person.
While we were introduced to many different buddies, I never felt I got to know them as real people. Overall, I found the story enlightening. Yes, I was disappointed in that I felt it could have been told much better. I’ll let my comments stand and neither recommend nor discourage the book.
March 12, 2018
A greater understanding of WWII in Europe
I've read several books on the war. I spent two years in Germany during the 1970s, with help from the U.S. Army. And this is one of the few books that truly brought out the sights, the feelings, the smells of what the 92nd dealt with. For me, the hardest part was the arrival at Dachau. I could visualize every bit of it, as I had been there almost 35 years to the day that Sacco and his troops arrived. I could see the wall around the camp, the river that ran through it, I remembered walking across the bridge, and seeing the ovens. I cried like a child that day and after reading the descriptions here, the tears returned again.
I am thankful that Jack Sacco did such an amazing account of his father's tour into hell, and I pray we may never again relive such horror on this earth.
Blessings to Joe Sacco and the rest of the 92 Sig. And to every other hero who was part of WWII. This peacetime soldier honors each and every one.
I've read several books on the war. I spent two years in Germany during the 1970s, with help from the U.S. Army. And this is one of the few books that truly brought out the sights, the feelings, the smells of what the 92nd dealt with. For me, the hardest part was the arrival at Dachau. I could visualize every bit of it, as I had been there almost 35 years to the day that Sacco and his troops arrived. I could see the wall around the camp, the river that ran through it, I remembered walking across the bridge, and seeing the ovens. I cried like a child that day and after reading the descriptions here, the tears returned again.
I am thankful that Jack Sacco did such an amazing account of his father's tour into hell, and I pray we may never again relive such horror on this earth.
Blessings to Joe Sacco and the rest of the 92 Sig. And to every other hero who was part of WWII. This peacetime soldier honors each and every one.
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