It was August of 1943 and my father was a bit shy of his 20th birthday. By this time he had been in the Army for three years, was promoted to Sergeant, and busted back down to Private (That’s another story). His unit had participated in the invasion of North Africa and they were one of the units that fought and beat Rommel and the Afrika Korps.

Dad in 1942, before he shipped out

 In Sicily, Patton was racing Montgomery for Messina, but the Germans controlled the high ground and Patton couldn’t move his tanks on the roads. The Ninth Infantry Division (my father’s unit) landed at Palermo and moved inland to try and clear the Germans. Rather than an all out assault, the 9th  moved in the mountainous terrain only at night, under the cover of darkness. They were so quiet, It became known as “The Ghost March” in military history books. When they attacked several days later, they totally surprised the Germans.

According to Dad, the attack went well and they scattered the Germans everywhere. In fact, the 9th had penetrated well to the rear of the German forward positions. The Germans were then trying to infiltrate their units back through the 9th so they could retreat. As one of the German units was trying to retreat that night, a German soldier saw Dad and fired a burst from his “Burp Gun” ( a small German machine gun). Dad saw the movement and tried to dive into a dry stream bed, but was caught in midair by three rounds, two of which lodged in his lung. A firefight then erupted between the two sides and it lasted quite some time before the Germans finally retreated.

 Dad couldn’t move or be moved that night because of the ongoing firefight. The next morning, he was loaded onto a stretcher and carried by hand to the nearest aid station, which was seven miles away. Before going, he was given a shot of morphine to ease the pain (Dad said it’s the best he ever felt – it was like he was floating three feet off the stretcher). Because they were in the mountains with no roads, probably few trails, and a major battle was still going on, it took them four days to carry Dad the seven miles to the aid station. He was given one more shot of morphine by a passing medic during the four days.

 Once he arrived at the aid station, they didn’t have the doctors to treat him there, so they loaded him in an ambulance and drove to the nearest “Mash” unit. There, they finally operated on him and removed the three bullets. They then evacuated him to a recovery station in Palermo. As he started to recover, he continually ached all over his body. The doctors checked on him and determined that in addition to the wounds, he also had an acute case of malaria. They started him on drugs immediately. 

 Between the wounds, and the malaria, it took him about 5 months to recover. Because of residual weakness, he did not rejoin the 9th Infantry Division, or the fighting. He was sent back to North Africa, where the Army, in it’s infinite wisdom, made him an MP and he was suppose to keep soldiers from doing the kinds of things he use to do.

The stories dad told about WWII were always funny ones. This one?  Years ago, a few days after dad had his stroke, I was sitting with him and asked what he was thinking. At the time he was laying on the couch and was pretty well exhausted from physical therapy that day. He didn’t say anything at first, but then after I prompted him again, he related the story of when he got wounded. It’s the first and only time I ever heard him tell it. I always knew that he had been wounded while in Sicily, but I’d never heard the complete story, nor do I think anyone else had. As he related the story to me he said that if the Germans didn’t beat him, he’d be damned before he’d let the stroke beat him. He was a strong man. I miss him, and his strength, every day.