Russ Cloer

WWII Infantry OCS, (Officer Candidate School), at Ft. Benning, Georgia, was a 13 week training program turning out Infantry 2nd Lieutenants at the rate of 140/day. Those graduates who did not measure up to expectations when later assigned to units, were disparagingly referred to by their men as "90 Day Wonders", due in part to the limited duration of their training.

I reported to OCS Class #298 on June 15, 1943, along with thirty of my classmates who had volunteered for Infantry OCS after four years of ROTC at a land grant college. I was in civilian clothes and it was my first day in the army. Ninety-seven days later, twenty-one of us from my college ROTC class were commissioned 2nd Lieutenants, Infantry. By War's end, eleven of the twenty-one had been killed in action. I have no way of knowing how many of the rest of class #298 were lost in the War, but I have no reason to believe that the same 52% loss rate did not prevail.

I remember OCS as being one of the most intense episodes of my life, aside from infantry combat, which of course was what it prepared us for. Our determination to successfully complete the program was the primary goal of our young lives. Our TO (Tactical Officer) jotted down notes about our performance in his little black book, but we were never told how we were doing. Those of us that he decided couldn't hack it were ordered to report to the orderly room, without explanation, at the end of the next daily morning formation. When we returned to the barracks at the end of the day, the space on the floor where their cot and foot locker had been was bare. It was quite motivational!

I remember running the uphill bayonet course under the hot Georgia sun in mid-July. Bayoneting straw dummies or breaking their heads with a "horizontal butt stroke." I remember following a compass heading in the middle of the night through three miles of pitch black woods, while falling into ravines and avoiding simulated enemy lurking in the dark. And qualifying with every infantry weapon on its respective range.

I remember believing that the 37mm anti-tank gun would penetrate the armor of a German tank. And I remember my first 60 mm mortar round overshooting the target by 150 yards. Then correcting range and direction to see the 4x6 foot orange canvas target disappear in the smoke of the second round's impact. I crawled under double apron barbed wire carrying an LMG on my forearms, with live machine gun fire four feet overhead. While hidden school cadre threw OD pineapple grenades at us with their safety spoons gone and 4 second fuses hissing. We didn't know that the bursting charge had been removed, but exploding 1/4 lb. blocks of buried TNT added sufficient realism. I remember running the obstacle course against a stop watch with the TO yelling FASTER, FASTER! And swinging hand over hand across the Chattahoochee River on a rope stretched between the banks. Running the village fighting course, firing our rifles at pop up targets in doors and windows. Being ambushed in a ravine by live overhead machine gun fire which tore up the opposite bank and seeing the student leader of our patrol sit on the ground and cry. (He was gone next morning!) Marching back into the company area at the end of each day, exhausted in our sweat soaked green coveralls, but maintaining perfect formation at quick step march, with heads held high while loudly singing, "I've Got Sixpence."

And how well I remember my college ROTC and OCS buddies, Cox, Dupuis, Everett, Hutcheon, Lipphardt, Pangburn, Potzer, Schweiker, Stavros, Thompson, and Young. They too earned their gold bars, but they never came back from Italy, France, Germany and Okinawa.

I think the Army did a good job with Infantry OCS. The program was carefully planned, well implemented by a trained school cadre and managed by a capable staff of officers. The emphasis was always on leadership skills, consistent with the OCS motto, "Follow Me." It instilled in the officer candidates an intense need to destroy the enemy and to care for their men. The result was not perfection, but it provided the best possible leadership training in the short time available, while weeding out the unfit and developing good leadership qualities in those who showed promise. My class started with 200 men and 140 infantry second lieutenants were commissioned 97 days later. And as best I can remember, a new class started every day. (Overlapping).

Three months after graduating from OCS, I shipped out as an overseas replacement and was assigned to the Division that saw the most combat of any Division in the U. S. Army (3rd Infantry Division, 7th Infantry Regiment) on the Anzio Beachhead in Italy. And to the best of my knowledge, I was never referred to as a "90 Day Wonder."

And yet the term "90 Day Wonder", disparaging though it was intended to be by some, is really quite accurate when taken literally. When our country was suddenly attacked on two fronts by massive forces of tyranny, we were far from ready to defend ourselves and other free people of the world against this treachery. But the American people reacted swiftly and Infantry OCS was but one of many such programs of selection and training which made it possible for us to defeat the best armed, best trained and most experienced armed forces in the world at that time. We could have done even better with more time, but there was no more time. Schoolboys whose experience was limited to the Boy Scouts and high school sports rose to the challenge and became leaders of men in a life or death struggle. And the results of that effort and sacrifice, which was truly a "Wonder," is now a matter of recorded history. I was a "90 Day Wonder" and I say that with pride!

I met lots of people and made many friends during my army years in WWII. But they weren't friends in the way that we think of friends in civilian life. These were fleeting rather than lasting relationships. Perhaps a more fitting term would be buddies. Some might even use the word comrades, but that seems too stilted, like something out of a WWI novel. These friends were a port in a violent storm, an oasis on an endless desert of boredom, an island on a sea of loneliness and apprehension. They were someone to lean on, with whom to share the misery and uncertainty, or just kindred souls who briefly filled the lonesome void.

"Hey, soldier, where ya from?" These are among the saddest words I know, the words of a lonely, homesick soldier. He reaches out for a buddy who will ease the terrible loneliness with talk of home. These friendships might last for only a minute or two, for a day, or at most a few weeks, before the soldiers are sent their separate ways. The one thing they had in common was that once they parted, they rarely saw each other again.

I met John Rahill when we dumped our gear on adjacent cots at Ft. Meade, Maryland. I'd been in the Army for just six months. We were on the second floor of a barracks at the overseas replacement center. We shared the dubious distinction of being infantry replacement 2nd Lieutenants, headed we knew not where. Rahill had been plucked from the 10th Mountain Division in Colorado. I had been sent from the 13th Airborne Division in North Carolina. In neither case did we know why we were chosen, where we were headed, nor what the future held.

"Hey Lieutenant, where ya from?" We discovered that our homes were both in New Jersey, in towns only 20 miles apart. Rahill was tall and rangy and had played football at Caldwell High School. I had been captain of the track team at Roselle Park High School. We got along well and a tentative bond began to develop. As we went through our overseas processing, we joked with each other, with forced bravado, as we reaffirmed the beneficiaries of our G.I. life insurance and made out our last will and testament. All at the age of 22.

On a January night in 1944, we boarded a troop transport carrying a cargo of 5,000 replacement infantrymen out of Newport News, Virginia. Each of us felt alone. Rahill and I made a point of finding bunks in the same compartment in the hold. As we zig-zagged our way across the Atlantic to Casablanca, we gave a lot of private thought to what probably lay ahead. Foremost in our thinking was our determination to override our fears and carry out our responsibilities honorably, as we had been trained to do. "Follow me" was the motto of Infantry Officer Candidate School and we both knew what that meant. Between these periods of dire introspection, we swapped paperback books and forced ourselves to make cheerful conversation. Upon arrival in Casablanca, we were trucked to a tent studded replacement depot outside the city where we found bunks in the same eight man pyramidal tent. Rahill and I ignored the restriction to camp and went through a well worn hole in the fence after dark. Having seen the hit movie Casablanca, we hitchhiked into the city to see the real thing. We felt an urgent need to make the most of the time left us.

Next morning, about 1,000 of us boarded a long freight train composed of ancient 40 and 8's. (Freight cars with a capacity of 40 men or 8 horses). Rahill and I disregarded our car assignments and boarded the same box car for the three day trip across the Sahara Desert to Oran. Then, after a few days in yet another tent city, we boarded a small British steamer headed for Naples. We were part of a priority shipment of replacement infantry lieutenants urgently needed in Italy. Once again we were restricted, this time to the replacement depot at a race track north of Naples. Ignoring the order, we took off next morning and hitchhiked to Pompeii where we toured the ruins of that historic civilization. (What could the Army do to us? Send us overseas?)

A few days later, I was ordered to report to the 7th Infantry on the Anzio Beachhead and I boarded my LST for the overnight trip. I vividly remember trudging up the ramp and seeing large white letters over the gaping entry maw which read, "GATEWAY TO GLORY." (A patriotic gesture? Or a swabby's gallows humor?) I was alone now. My buddy Rahill did not yet have an assignment. We parted at the "repple depple" and I never saw him again.

That might well have been the end of this story, but in early 1946, now a civilian, I went to work as an engineer for the Curtiss-Wright Corporation in their Caldwell, N. J., plant. I was in an office separated from the next room by a six foot high, wood and frosted glass partition. The next room was occupied by 6 or 8 Engineering Assistants, young college women hired during the War to perform some of the more routine engineering work. One of my co-workers, who had been a draft deferred engineer at Curtiss-Wright throughout the War, entered my office and I said, "Hey George, what's all the laughter about next door? Sounds like they're having a party."

"Yeah," he grinned, "One of the girls who worked here during the War came back for a visit and they're reminiscing about old times. Her name is Clarissa Rahill.

I was suddenly very attentive. Hey soldier, where ya from? I remembered that John Rahill was from Caldwell. Wouldn't it be great to see him again, to compare the experiences which followed our separation in Naples two years ago? We had some reminiscing to do too. My spirits rose in anticipation.

"Does she have a brother named John Rahill?"

There was a pause, then George said, "She did, but he was killed in action in Italy." Then another pause as George read my reaction. "Did you know him?" he asked somberly? I was stunned! I should not have been surprised that he had been KIA knowing the horrendous casualty rates suffered by Infantry Lieutenants in Italy, but the War was over, the killing had stopped and this was now. Rahill was my buddy! The coincidence of all this information coming together so suddenly at this place, at this time, with Rahill's sister in the next room was mind boggling. I said nothing, but George was perceptive and he knew the answer. After a further pause he said softly, "Would you like me to introduce you?"

My mind raced. What can I tell her? I wasn't with him when he died. I don't know where or how he died. Those are the things she would want to know. She's enjoying this moment of happiness. Why dredge up those painful memories of his death, which time has healed at least in part? What good could it possibly do? And I said, "No George. Let it rest." He understood and never mentioned it again. But I wonder to this day if I did the right thing. Hey soldier, where ya from?"

I had just turned 23 when I arrived on the Anzio Beachhead, 30 miles south of Rome, and was assigned to the 7th Infantry, 3rd Division. It was February 1944 and I was a replacement Infantry Lieutenant. Vivid memories of the combat which followed were etched in my memory forever. At night, the constant rumble and flutter of artillery overhead, theirs and ours. The rattle of machine gun fire, ours slow, theirs rapid. The ricochet of brilliant tracers skyward; ours red, theirs green or white. The wavering light of a parachute flare, lighting the flat and desolate landscape. The solid mass of white searchlight beams and red antiaircraft tracers over the harbor during air attack.

Outnumbered by the enemy two to one, with our backs to the sea. The sheer terror of incoming 88 mm fire from a German Tiger tank. The haunting cry of "Medic!" echoing through the night. And on a rare quiet night, the sound of the Krauts singing Lili Marlene. Bloated corpses and black flies. The sickening odor of death. Cold C or K rations. No sleep. Rain. Mud. Trench Foot. Malaria. The incredible loneliness. The joy of a letter from home! Sixty-seven days without a change of clothes. Horrendous casualties! More than 100% in the 7th Infantry Regiment plus an equal number lost to malaria and trench foot. Thousands of good men died there, three thousand in the 3rd Division alone.

And finally, reinforcements and the "breakout" at dawn on May 23, 1944. My Division lost three thousand men killed or wounded in the first three days. We fought our way through the battered town of Cisterna at night. Fires were everywhere from artillery and white phosphorous mortar fire. We choked on smoke, cordite, and cement dust from the shattered concrete buildings. A Sherman tank supported us, obliterating enemy strong points with its 75mm cannon at point blank range. The streets were littered with corpses lying where they fell, abandoned weapons, destroyed vehicles and collapsed buildings. This was what Hell must be like.

We fought our way north through the mountain villages of Cori, Giulianello, Artena, Valmontone, to Pallestrina. The fighting was savage. We left a scene of desolation behind us, burning tanks and vehicles, dead men and horses bloated in the Italian sun, their eyes and wounds covered with swarms of huge black flies, the odor indescribable. Fire, smoke and collapsed buildings destroyed by tanks, artillery and fire. Abandoned weapons, helmets, ammo and equipment of every description littered the landscape. Columns of Kraut POWs trudged to our rear in shock, helmets and weapons gone, hands clasped above heads bowed in submission. The residue of war.

Twelve days of bitter fighting and on the night of June 4, 1944, I reported to Colonel Wiley O'Muhundro's dugout, as ordered. "Lieutenant, there's a rumor that the Krauts have declared Rome an open city and are pulling out. I want you to take a patrol into the city and find out if it's true. And get back here fast. I'll have the 2nd and 3rd Battalions on trucks. I want my Regiment to be the first to enter Rome." I took four jeeps with 50 caliber machine guns and headed toward Rome with 15 men. It was pitch dark. Smoke made visibility worse. We passed burning American tanks and recon vehicles, and dead soldiers along the Appian Way. We met no resistance. We saw nothing alive.

After five miles, we entered the city which was ominously silent. No trace of light anywhere. We saw no Krauts, no Americans, no civilians. In the total darkness, we expected to be ambushed at every corner. It was deathly quiet. Spooky. I had a street map, but I dared show no light to read it. We pressed on but were soon lost amid the narrow winding tunnel-like streets. Until we rounded a bend, entered a huge cobblestone piazza and there before us stood the Coliseum, silhouetted against the first blush of pink light in the eastern sky! It was a sight I'll never forget! The thrill of a lifetime! I stood in the midst of 2,000 years of history and I felt a strong sense of having added to it.

My driver found the way back and I reported to the CO. "How far into the city did you go," he accused? "As far as the Coliseum," I told him. He grinned and ordered the 2nd and 3rd Battalions in on trucks. Two days later the Allies invaded Normandy. We were no longer fighting alone.

Our decimated Division garrisoned Rome for one week. I visited St. Peters, the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, the Catacombs, the Aqueducts, the Coliseum, the Forum, a wealth of history. Only one other Lieutenant from my group of twenty-one junior officer replacements, who joined the Regiment on the same day, made it to Rome. -- It was good to be alive!

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