50 YEARS LATER, A LOCAL VETERAN LOOKS BACK ON WAR
By Norman A. DesCoteaux
It was November 1943 when the 82nd Combat Engineer Battalion boarded the liberty ship Patrick Henry at Newport News, VA, headed for Oran, North Africa. From that moment on, the men of the First Platoon of Company C became a fraternal brotherhood.
We knew we'd be risking our lives together. No longer could any man go it alone. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day we would rely heavily on the actions of the next man.
Petty jealousies (who got the first P.F.C. stripe), petty differences (who bucked the chow lines), personal dislikes, were all forgotten. Without discussion the platoon banded together with a determination that never waned.
The battalion's initial loss occurred during our North Atlantic crossing when rough seas swept a man from another company overboard. He was never seen again and the brotherhood inched closer together. The Patrick Henry dropped us off in North Africa and later scuttlebutt reported that it had sunk off of Gibraltar. the brotherhood inched still closer.
From Omaha Beach to the Elbe River the battalion forged ahead losing men along the way. The brotherhood fared no better, nor worse, than any other platoon. A kid from Maine named Caterette was our first fatality. He died in a blazing jeep that was gunned down by enemy machine gun fire. the thinning of the brotherhood ranks had begun in earnest.
The battalion slogged across France paying the price at every turn of the road. there was no immunity, no guarantee that another K-ration would be consumed. As the familiar faces dropped from sight it was no longer, "if I get it," but "when I get it." Later that was, the "lucky million dollar wound".
By early September the Stars and Stripes military newspaper editorialized on the battalion's tremendous combat record of more than 2,600 prisoners taken during a two-month period. It praised "The Bridge Builders" who fought as infantry. It lauded a job well done-but did not mention the dead, the dying and wounded that had been left behind. President Franklin D. Roosevelt conferred his citation upon the battalion and the business of death and destruction went on as usual.
Before the weather had turned cold-and the mad dash across France ended-the brotherhood's losses were mounting dramatically. Lisky, our platoon sergeant had given his life in a no-name patch of woods, with the picture of the baby son that he had never seen in his wallet. Heath had taken a bullet through the palm of his left hand-as though he had tried to ward it off-that traveled up through his arm and exited at his elbow. Vrocher, with half of his backside gouged out by shrapnel joined the fast growing casualty list.
The brotherhood moved closer as its numbers shrank. The bond challenges the understanding of those who haven't experienced it. It was a clique that held together closer than most marriages can boast!
Winter set in and the battalion surged into Germany. The brotherhood continued taking its lumps, losing members by dribs and drabs. It was never a wipeout, but one here and one there. One morning someone might say, "Berry got it last night" or "Preston didn't make it back." there were no comments, no mourning. tonight or tomorrow the law of averages would catch up with someone else.
The brotherhood's decimation continued unabated until the battalion reach the Elbe River in Germany. After 11 straight months of continuous combat, the 82nd Combat Engineer Battalion had fought its last battle. among the remaining members of the brotherhood there were no cheers, no celebrations, no smiles. the haggard, hollow-eyed old men in their early 20s just stared into space-too tired to comprehend and rejoice that they had somehow survived.
The brotherhood, a handful of men in their early 20s, mentally and physically exhausted, returned to LeHarve, France, and embarked for home. The prospect was overwhelming.
At LeHarve the final hurt was delivered. the battalion was deactivated, disbanded to become a statistic in the Army archives. The 82nd Combat Engineer Battalion was no more.
The United States Army had accomplished what the combined efforts of the enemy and nearly a year of constant combat could not. It had broken our spirits. Each man was assigned to a different unit for transportation home.
The small knot of ill-at-ease men, looking awkward in clean uniforms with fresh shaves, made their last farewells with silent handshakes. They turned away quickly before the other saw tears in their eyes. No one spoke or asked for addresses. They just went their separate ways.
What I remember most vividly about the war is not the stench, the mud, the cold, the fear, or the hunger. What I remember most clearly is the voyage back to the US surrounded by 5,000 men aboard a ship, but so utterly lonely I found myself wishing that I'd been killed. I felt that I had no reasonable right to survive.
Alone, among thousands of soldiers, sailors, marines, I wept.
Someday my little grandson may want to know what I did in the big war. I'll probably say, "suffered Mike, suffered."
But, inwardly I'll continue to wonder what ever happened to the men of the brotherhood.