A Bayonet Attack and Life Lessons

A Bayonet Attack and Life Lessons

80 years ago on May 6th, 1943, Dad and the other men of 1st Battalion, 60th Regimental Combat Team were given the order to fix bayonets. They were about to attack Djebel Cheniti in Tunisia by direct assault with a bayonet charge. I’ve thought quite a bit about how that attack may have affected Dad and his outlook on life.

A year ago, I was doing research for another blog about dad and the closing days of the North African Campaign in 1943. I was shocked to learn about a battle that dad never mentioned. At the time, his unit had been in continuous combat for two months.

From the history books: “One last ring of rugged hills now remained between the Ninth Infantry Division and Bizerte. The German troops on Djebel Cheniti, the highest point on the 8 mile wide area of the Bizerte Isthmus, halted the advance. To break this bottleneck, General Manton S. Eddy (Commander of the 9th Infantry Division), devised a plan with two parts. The division would mount a flanking maneuver around the hills, while the 1st Battalion of the 60th Regimental Combat Team (dad’s unit – about 500 men) would attack Djebel Cheniti by direct assault with fixed bayonets. They would follow artillery fire that pounded the slopes at 100-yard intervals.”

The 9th Infantry Division Plan of Attack as it Unfolded.

Let’s take a pause in the story for a second. Fix Bayonets is a command that probably goes back as far as the introduction of muskets. What the command literally means is you are attaching your bayonet to the end of your rifle. What it actually means is one of two things – 1) you are preparing to charge the enemy in close-quarters or 2) getting ready to defend yourself from an imminent enemy assault. Either way, it is close-in fighting. With a rifle and a bayonet, you are perhaps three feet away from your enemy. There is no hiding. There is no ducking away. Army Field Manual 23-25 captures it succinctly: “The will to meet and destroy the enemy in hand-to-hand combat is the spirit of the bayonet. It springs from the fighter’s confidence, courage, and grim determination.” In my own bayonet training nearly 50 years ago at West Point, they were even more to the point: “What is the spirit of the bayonet?” “To Kill!”

At that distance, it is kill or be killed. There is no middle ground.

… … …

May 6th 1943 was a slippery, muddy and rainy day. The order was given to fix bayonets around 1PM and behind rolling artillery, the battalion attacked. They moved forward quickly and only 100 yards behind the falling artillery barrage. On the map, it looks like the total distance they needed to cover was a little over a mile. After three hours they took Hill 168. Moving on to Hill 207 they met stronger resistance. An artillery concentration disorganized the enemy and the battalion attacked again before the German troops could recover. By nightfall, they had taken the summit of Hill 207, although there were still Germans on the southeastern slopes. In a war that lasted years, there were only brief mentions of the battle in the history books, but all of them mentioned the fixed bayonets.

Only a Brief Mention in the History Books

The next morning, May 7th, German machine gun crews began taking off for Bizerte as the division advanced. The 60th moved to cut off the Bizerte road and On May 8th, Bizerte fell. The war in North Africa was over and their immediate mission accomplished.

Men of the 60th Outside Bizerte on May 7th, 1943.

In the words of the 9th Infantry Division Record, “Djebel Cheniti was a brilliant demonstration of Infantry “leaning up against” artillery preparation. One of the strongest positions in the final Axis defense was assaulted by one battalion of Infantry with fixed bayonets, with artillery blasting a shell-strewn pathway for its advance. Another story in the annals of foot soldiers, who do the dirty tasks of warfare”.

Why am I blogging about this now? The story has haunted me since first learning about it. I’ve thought about it quite a bit over the past year. I never heard dad say anything about Djebel Cheniti. I never heard dad say anything about a bayonet charge. Not one damned word. The more I thought about it, the more I thought about how it must have influenced his life.

I have to figure after you’ve been in a bayonet charge, everything else in your life, maybe for the rest of your life, must seem easier. When you are that close to death, and you survive, what else in your life is really going to be a threat to you? Money issues? Work Issues? Mortgage issues? Sickness? Wouldn’t just about everything pale in comparison?

It would explain a lot about dad. His lust for life. His enjoyment of life. His ability to keep everything in perspective, even when things were going badly. His gentleness and tolerance. His quiet firmness in facing down jerks and bullies. Perhaps he already had all of those traits and would have developed into the same man, but I’m not so sure. I think a bayonet charge at the age of 19 might make everything else in life just a wee bit easier to contemplate and to handle. Maybe every day after May 6th, 1943 was a gift not to be squandered. Dad’s gone now. How I wish we had time for one more conversation.

Dad at the WWII Memorial, Two or Three Years Before he Passed Away.

Addendum:

  • The last major American bayonet charge occurred during the Korean War in 1951. You can read a bit about it here: https://www.army.mil/article/30673/hero_who_led_last_major_u_s_bayonet_charge_dies
  • Dad was in almost continual combat from November of ‘42 to August of ‘43 when he was wounded in Sicily. I’m sure all of that combat, and his wounding affected him and changed him, but the bayonet attack is what has stuck in my mind as a singular event, maybe even more than his wounding. He told bits and pieces of different battles over those months, and mostly they involved funny incidents. He even eventually told me the story of how he was wounded, when he was recovering from the stroke he suffered in the ‘90s. The bayonet attack? Not a single word.
  • The blog I was working on when I found out about the bayonet charge was a funny story about dad and “Al Capone” – “My Dad, then Twenty year old Sergeant Willie I. Hall, looked at the German soldier and said “Chicago”. The German answered “Chicago?” Dad stared back. “Chicago … Al Capone”. Now the German’s eyes’ widened. Everyone knew who” […] continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/05/08/dad-and-al-capone/
  • Historical parts of this blog were derived from these sources: The 9th Division History; Center of Military History: TO BIZERTE WITH THE II CORPS 23 April – 13 May 1943; The US Army in WWII by George Howe; and The Development of Combat Effective Divisions in the United States Army During WWII, a thesis by Peter R. Mansoor.
  • Thanks to my sister, Roberta, and niece, Tami, for their thoughts and inputs. And of course thanks as always to Colleen for her editing support.

Breakfast and Doctors

Breakfast and Doctors

As I sat there eating, I was a bit unsettled. I’d left the doctor’s office and as is my tradition after a physical, was having a breakfast of biscuits and gravy at a local diner. The physical went fine, but the news that my doctor was departing was something else. We’ve been together for nearly 20 years.

When I left the Army in ‘92, one of my goals was to find a doctor’s office that was small, local and where I would consistently see the same doctor. In the military, that was never the case. Between large clinics and moving every couple of years, there was never any consistency in the doctors I saw.

Remember this was all pre-internet, pre-Facebook, pre- any way of really checking out a practice other than talking with friends. I started with a one-man doctor’s office that lasted about a year. He was old and didn’t seem quite interested in me. Someone then recommended a small practice with three or four doctors, and I gave them a try. They were good, and I generally saw the same doctor each time I visited. I liked them so much that even when we moved from Fairfax to Marshall, I stayed with them.

Sometime in the early 2000s, DR H___ joined the practice and I was “assigned” to her. I wasn’t sure what to think at first, as I’d never had a female doctor before. Silly me. Of course, it worked out fine. In fact, it was more than fine and we got along great.

Doctor H____

A few years later, I was at the doctor’s and DR H___ informed me she would soon leave the practice and start her own office. This would be my last checkup with her. What!? She couldn’t do this to me! Although of course, she could. I asked where her new office was, and could I move with her. She was prohibited from taking any clients with her, but she informed me if I kept an eye online, I might see a new doctor’s office opening in the Gainesville area with her name attached.

Soon enough, I saw the posting and became a “new” patient of hers. I’ve been with her for 14 years at this location.

Why do I like her so much? DR H___ takes a more holistic approach to healing. She doesn’t rush during the appointment. Prescribing a pill isn’t her first choice. Education of me, the patient, is a part of her approach. Looking for root causes is a part of her approach. Discussions together instead of her talking at me is a part of her approach. And … she is the only doctor at the practice. I feel like we know each other.

In her own words, “A healthy lifestyle is key to wellness. If you are in need of a doctor who listens and genuinely wants to help you feel better and stay healthy, then I would be humbled to have you call me your doctor.”

It’s been a great partnership. While I’ve always eaten reasonably well, I eat more healthily now due to her influence. When diet along wouldn’t solve my cholesterol issues, she eventually prescribed a statin. She was there for my copperhead bite and for the subsequent AFIB. Our discussions on vitamin D results, prostate results, blood test results were always exactly that. Discussions. Not lectures. We worked our way through COVID together. She knows I drink, smoke a cigar once in a while, drink a cup or two of coffee every day and enjoy an occasional steak. I feel comfortable enough to generally be open with her about my “vices”. Maybe all doctors are this way, but in listening to some of my friends, it doesn’t appear to be the case.

So what has happened? DR H___, while staying local, is moving on from her practice and opening a “Functional Medicine Practice” which “shifts the traditional disease-centered focus of medical practice to a more patient-centered approach. Functional Medicine addresses the whole person, not just an isolated set of symptoms.” There was more, as you can see from this screen shot from her website:

Changes on the Way

While at my physical, DR H___ explained all of this to me. She talked about an increased focus on a better, healthier lifestyle so you would better enjoy your senior years. I asked if better senior years included the occasional manhattan or martini and she just smiled at me.

She also informed me that if I were to come with her to the new practice, I would still need a new GP doctor. She would not be addressing typical “family practice” issues. We shook hands as I departed her office that morning. I’m not sure why, but our handshake had a feeling of finality in it. That handshake, and the look in her eyes, have stayed with me.

I mulled all of this over while eating my biscuits and gravy. It was a lot to digest, and to be honest, I didn’t enjoy my breakfast as much as I usually do. It took a bit of the typical joy I felt while eating “something bad for me” as a celebration after my physical. I may have even left a couple of bites of biscuit on my plate, which is something I never do.

My Biscuits and Gravy Weren’t as Tasty as Usual.

Since then, I’ve continued to think about it. I don’t yet know whether I will go with her and her new practice, but I know in the meantime, I need to identify a new doctor. It’s not something I’m looking forward to. I know there are many good doctors, but it feels like starting over from scratch. Who in your life, outside of family and close friends, is more important than your doctor, and your relationship with her? Your dentist? Eye Doctor? Lawyer? Financial Advisor? A Teacher? Mentor? Life will go on, but it won’t be the same.

Life will Go on, but it Won’t be the Same.

Offal Cookery

Offal Cookery

It’s not like we were Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves, eating the raw liver from a freshly killed buffalo with our hands. No, we used forks and knives to sample the beef heart tartar we’d just made in the Offal Cookery class at The Whole Ox Butcher Shop. It was delicious and opened me to new ideas.

The Whole Ox here in Marshall is one of our local treasures. It’s a wonderful butcher shop with a great selection. Their offerings are ethically sourced, organic, and generally local. One of their mantras is “Eat better. Eat less”. When they offered a series of cooking classes this spring, I was immediately interested. The one that particularly caught my eye was “Offal Cookery”.

Expand Your Knowledge…

Offal is “the inside organs of, and parts trimmed from, an animal killed and prepared for food”. Innards is another good descriptor, though perhaps less delicate. Most of us are familiar with beef liver and chicken liver, but there’s quite a bit more. Around the world, there are multiple dishes that use offal. As examples, English Steak and Kidney Pie, Scottish Haagis (offal and vegetables stuffed in a sheep or cow’s stomach) and Mexican Menudo (made with tripe [stomach]) are three dishes many of us have tried or heard of. Intestines are of course often used for sausage casings. Liver pâté is something most have tried. Sautéed sweetbreads (thymus gland or pancreas) make an occasional appearance on a restaurant menu, and if I see them, I almost always order the dish.

While I’ve eaten offal in restaurants, I’d never cooked anything other than liver, chicken liver or beef tongue at home. For this particular class, beef liver, tongue, heart and sweetbreads were all on the menu. I was excited.

Eight of us arrived at The Whole Ox on a Wednesday evening. Amanda and Derek, the owners, greeted us and poured glasses of wine as we gathered at the prep station. Derek, who was previously a vegetarian for ten years, talked with us about what was planned for the night, and gave us background on offal in general. We learned that historically, offal was usually eaten first by our ancestors – it is the most nutrient dense part of the animal and was prized above other cuts of meat. Organ meat is high in vitamins, and has shown the ability to help with some diseases such as MS. We also learned that like wine, terroir effects beef and how it tastes.

Derek at the Start of Class

After the brief introduction, we were divided into pairs and assigned the courses we would assist on: a classic liver and onions dish, tongue tacos, beef heart tartar and deep fried sweetbreads.

Clockwise from Upper Left: Liver, Tongue, Heart and Sweetbreads.

My partner and I were assigned the sweetbreads, and we started peeling the thin membrane from the outside. As with many deep-fried foods, the pieces went into seasoned flour, then buttermilk, then more flour. We turned them over to Derek for the actual deep frying. As the evening progressed, we were all watching each other. A few things stood out: cutting the liver a bit thicker than you normally think of, so it stays more tender and doesn’t dry out; splitting open the cooked tongue and removing the external casing to get to the tender meat; and with the heart, doing a fine dice for the tartar – if not fine, it would be too chewy, and if ground, the consistency would be too soft (not unlike Goldilocks and the three bears – the first bed was too hard, and the second bed was too soft, while the third bed was just right).

The recipes were coming together and as our wine glasses were refilled, we started receiving samples of each dish. There were a few nice surprises along the way, including bacon added to the liver, and salsa verde and finely sliced radishes added to the tongue tacos. The deep-fried sweetbreads were simple and excellent, with a consistency similar to fried oysters. And the heart tartar? I enjoy beef tartar, so I was looking forward to it. Simply prepared, there was salt and pepper, a little seasoning, parsley and a little lemon juice. It was delicious.

Liver and Onions with Bacon, Deep Fried Sweetbreads and a Tongue Taco, and Beef Heart Tartar – All were Excellent.

The evening wasn’t over, as Derek started cooking a surprise fifth dish. “Big Macs” that were fifty percent ground heart and fifty percent ground beef. We had eaten a fair amount by then, but smelling the burgers on the grill got the juices flowing again. After adding cheese to the grilling burgers, he placed them on the buns, then added lettuce, a bit of onion, pickles and their own Whole Ox “special sauce”. Watching him assemble the Big Mac sliders just about drove me mad with anticipation. I’m not sure, but I may have started drooling. Finally they arrived on our plates. WOW! Among the best burgers I’ve ever eaten. I practically inhaled mine.

Derek adding Special Sauce to our 50/50 “Big Macs”

The class wound down and folks started leaving. A few of us stayed a bit longer talking – about the shop and cooking, about Marshall, about innards. Derek revealed that one of his secrets to get people to try food out of their comfort zone is to mix it in with a familiar dish, hence the 50/50 Big Macs. It’s a brilliant idea. Eventually we finished our drinks and I drove home, already planning future meals.

As a final note, the next time you are at the farm and we are serving burgers, you may, or may not want to ask what’s in them. 😉

Addendum:

If you live in the area, or even the near-in Virginia ‘burbs, I highly recommend their classes. Out of the eight people there for our class, four were local and four were from DC suburbs about half an hour or forty minutes away.

Marshall is a great little village with several good stores, diners and coffee shops. There are three local gems among the offerings. In addition to The Whole Ox, we also have the nationally renowned Red Truck Bakery, and the excellent Field and Main Restaurant. If you are in the area, all three are worth a visit.

Versatile Velveeta

Versatile Velveeta

I see that look you are giving me. A slight sneer? A touch of disappointment? Or maybe from a few of you, with a knowing smile, “Ah yes, you too.” OK. I admit it. There is almost always a block of Velveeta Cheese in our fridge and it’s the secret ingredient for a couple of Cathy’s key recipes.

Yes, There is Almost Always a Block of Velveeta in our Fridge.

I love cheese. And there are so many good ones available. As a kid, we were a bit limited, but I remember eating Swiss, cheddar and of course American. My sisters and I agreed a block of Velveeta was kept around the house – possibly for mac ‘n cheese, or the occasional grilled cheese sandwich. Memories are a bit fuzzy on the subject.

When Cath and I moved to Germany, my cheese world expanded. Brie. Camembert. Quark. Limburger. Obazda. Roquefort. Stilton. Gorgonzola. Pecorino Romano. Asiago. Gruyère and Raclette. Mascarpone and Tiramisu. And many, many more. It was seventh heaven for me. I literally didn’t know such a world existed.

Eventually we moved back to the States, and I learned that across the US, not just in the state of Wisconsin, wonderful cheeses were being made. Maytag Blue from Iowa. Humboldt Fog from Cypress Grove in California. Grayson from Meadow Creek Dairy here in Virginia. And maybe my favorite, Mount Tam from Cowgirl Creamery in Point Reyes, California. Oh. My. God. It doesn’t get any better.

But … Sometimes, you crave comfort. Sometimes, you want a gooey, melty cheese that makes everything around it better. Sometimes, a cheese that isn’t technically a cheese, is exactly what you need. Enter Velveeta.

Velveeta actually started in the 1920s. You may be surprised to learn in the 1930s, Velveeta became the first cheese product to gain the American Medical Association’s seal of approval. Since then, Velveeta continued to evolve and at various times was called a cheese, a cheese spread, a pasturized processed cheese spread, and since 2002, a “pasteurized prepared cheese product”, a term for which the FDA does not maintain a standard of identity. It is currently sold only in the United States, Canada, Panama, Hong Kong, the Philippines and South Korea.

If it’s not really cheese, why use it at all? The answer is simple – it’s ability to melt and almost become “velvety” (hence the name). It’s consistency when melted is better than most real cheeses. The reason? It contains the emulsifiers, sodium citrate and sodium alginate, which allow the cheese to melt without becoming greasy by stopping the fats from separating. Those emulsifiers provide the magic that is Velveeta.

I doubt there is anyone in America who hasn’t eaten chili con queso, or queso dip made with Velveeta. It’s been a staple at Super Bowl (and other) parties and gatherings for decades. At its most basic, you combine a slab of Velveeta and a can of Rotel tomatoes in a crock pot. You can jazz it up with other tomatoes, real hot peppers, ground sausage and any number of other items, but the base remains Velveeta. And of course, Mac ‘n cheese with Velveeta has made an appearance in many a household here in the US. It became so popular, they started selling it as a combined product – “Velveeta Shells and Cheese” so you didn’t have to buy the macaroni and cheese separate.

Is There Anyone who HASN’T Eaten Chili con Queso with Velveeta at a Super Bowl Party!?!

We don’t have children, so never went down the Velveeta Mac n’ cheese route. We also haven’t made chili con queso in years, so why is the box of Velveeta in our fridge? Two dishes. First, there’s Cathy’s meatloaf. She dots the inside of the entire meatloaf with little pieces of Velveeta. It is delicious.

The second dish? The best scalloped potatoes in the world. Yep, Cathy’s “secret ingredient” is Velveeta. Over the years, she, and we, have made several versions of au gratin potatoes, hasselback potatoes, scalloped potatoes and cheesy potatoes. The one that’s the best? The one people always ask for the recipe? Her scalloped potatoes with Velveeta. When she tells people what’s in it, or perhaps it’s just people not from the midwest, they are always a bit shocked. Some then decide they don’t really want the recipe. Go figure.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve needed to reduce the amount of dairy in my diet. That means cheese is not around the house as much as it was previously. We still buy some, and if having guests over for dinner, will often offer cheese as an appetizer, or as a separate cheese course later in the meal. I think my life would be pretty meager with no cheese at all. I also know my life would be poor indeed if I could never have Cath’s scalloped potatoes with Velveeta again.

Addendum:

– There will be no scalloped potatoes recipe published with the blog. It is secreted away in Cathy’s head, and as with her Lasagna recipe, will not be publicly published. ;-).

The Wind

The Wind

My weather apps warned me about the coming high wind – The wind that would blow for the next twenty hours. What it didn’t do was warn me about how that wind would affect me, how it would play with my mind, how it would invade my sleep and my dreams.

The first of three warnings came in the morning and called for sustained winds of 25-30 miles/hour with gusts up to 50 miles/hour. We had certainly seen much worse at the farm, and I wasn’t concerned.

The Wind Stayed with us for Over Twenty Hours

When the wind arrived in the late afternoon, it started slow enough and mild enough, but as daylight faded, it picked up speed and didn’t let up. It was constant and the sound, while not loud, seemingly surrounded the house, whirling, gusting and then returning to a constant blow. It stayed with us for the evening while we ate dinner and later when we were watching TV. A low and plaintive howl, it was the backdrop for the entire evening.

Eventually it was bedtime and I took Carmen outside one last time. Usually, she runs around, checks out the barn, does her last potty, and then ambles back to the house, in no hurry. This night? She took off like a bat out of hell running for the barn, barking with her big girl voice the whole way. She stood near the fence by the barn with her hackles up, barking madly into the dark and against the wind. I could hear our neighbors’ dogs barking in return from a quarter mile away. The wind had all of us on edge and a little uneasy I guess. Eventually I grabbed Carmen and we returned to the house.

My sleep, such as it was, was unsettled. We always keep at least one window open in our bedroom and that night as I lay in bed, I felt the wind mockingly caress my face, while infiltrating my mind. In the distance, I heard a tree crash to the ground. There were voices in the night air – groans, moans, creaks, cries and mutterings. Human or animal, real or imagined I cannot say. The hours passed with my mind in a fog between wakefulness and shallow sleep. Throughout, the wind was there with me. It inhabited my dreams, and made them restless. Not quite nightmares, they were nonetheless uneasy and agitated. I remembered them distinctly during the night, but by dawn they were gone, as if the wind itself blew them away.

It was a bad night’s sleep. When dawn was just breaking, I got up. Although I’d slept horribly, there was no reason to stay in bed. The wind was still blowing and I knew no better sleep was coming my way. Carmen and I fed the horses, then I fed Carmen. Finally, I turned on the coffee pot.

I sat at our kitchen island drinking my coffee. Looking out the window, I could see the wind rippling across the pond in the early light. I sighed, and knew It would continue to blow for several more hours. Taking another sip, I tried to clear the cobwebs that occupied my mind.

Opening Day

Opening Day

“Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” – Yogi Berra.

I’ve loved baseball since I was a kid. Unfortunately, it’s probably going to be a long season for our No Name Gnats this year. Still, I love live baseball and I’m happy Opening Day is finally here this week. A beer and a brat will be a fine way to start the year, and we’ll see what develops.

2019 and the Nats World Series win was eons ago now. Since then, it’s been three straight last place finishes. Many of the heroes of ‘19 are scattered around the league – Scherzer, Turner, Soto and Rendon to name a few. Zim, Baby Shark, Eaton, and Kendrick are all retired. Robles is still here in the outfield, but hasn’t put up great (or even good) numbers. And of course, we still have Strasburg and Corbin here in DC. Those two sure helped us win in ‘19, but have been a disaster ever since. Stras has pitched a total of just over 30 innings since ‘19 and Corbin was the worst pitcher in all of baseball last year.

Posing with the Nats’ 2019 World Series Trophy. Great, but Old Memories Now.

Ownership is up in the air – will they or won’t they sell the team? Or will they bring in another partner? Or do nothing? Nobody knows.

Fans are, well, fans. You can tell the ones that jumped on the bandwagon in 2019 – most of those are long gone … after whining incessantly and displaying their lack of knowledge. Among the real fans, the long term fans, there is grumbling as well. But it’s a different type of grumbling. It comes with an understanding of the ups and downs and the fickleness of baseball. Everyone is unhappy about the ownership situation (will they or won’t they). People understood trading Scherzer two years ago, and even Turner, who had a year left on his contract. Soto? That one hurt.

I remind folk that we’ve been through nothing. You want long term suffering? Be a Cubs or Red Sox fan – they went 80 to 100 years between World Series wins. Cleveland is currently sitting on a 75 year streak with no World Series. Three last place finishes after winning the World Series? No, I’m not happy about it, but please, get some perspective people.

And so we come to the ‘23 season. A probable opening day lineup of players most people outside of DC have never heard of – Thomas, Smith, Menenes, Garcia, Ruiz, Abrams, Robles, Dickerson and Candelario. Pitchers will include the previously mentioned Corbin, along with Gray, Gore and a couple of others TBD. Seriously, how many of those names do you know? Hell, most fans in DC don’t know several of those names either.

It’s generally a young line up, and I’m particularly excited to see what Garcia, Ruiz and Abrams can do in the field, and Gray and Gore on the mound. With luck, we will see a couple of bright spots.

For this year, the team will be what it will be and I’ve made my peace with that. I’m just happy to get back to the park, as sure a sign of spring as anything I know. As the great Hall of Famer and Saint Louis Cardinal 2nd basemen Rogers Hornsby once said – “People ask me what I do in the winter when there is no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.”

See you at Nats Park. I’ll be in section 219.

Five Years in One Page

Five Years in One Page

When discharged from the Army on August 24th, 1945, dad was 21 years old and had been in for nearly five years. His WWII service included time in Algeria, Tunisia, French Morocco and lastly, Sicily, where he was wounded. His discharge papers tell the intriguing story of those five years in one page.

This is the second of a two-part blog. Last week, I told the story of how I received dad’s enlistment and discharge paperwork from the National Archives. I then explored several interesting observations from his enlistment form, including the fact that he lied about his age in order to enlist. He claimed he was almost 19 years old, when in fact he was still two months shy of his 17th birthday. You will find a link to the first blog in the Addendum to this one.

Today’s blog explores his discharge paperwork, and briefly tells the story of his five years in the service. Dad was with B Company 1/60th Regimental Combat Team of the 9th Infantry Division from September 1940 until he was wounded and almost died in Sicily in August of 1943. Although his original enlistment in 1940 was for three years, when the war started all enlistments were extended for the duration.

As with his enlistment papers, dad’s discharge paperwork was discolored, creased and yellow, perhaps from the fire at the National Personnel Records Center (NPRC). A few parts were unreadable, but most of it was legible.

Dad’s Honorable Discharge Paperwork – it Suffered in the Fire at the Archives.

I’ll magnify and expand a couple sections to talk about some of the details.

At the top of the form, there are a couple of interesting items.

The Top of the Discharge Form – Magnified
  • Block 3 confirms his last duty station as Camp Butner, NC. This is where dad returned to the States in 1944 after recovering from his wounds. Camp Butner was both a troop training center, and a Prisoner of War camp. Dad told us stories later about helping train troops there (and about performing KP).
  • We see in block 4 his actual discharge date is August 24th, 1945. This was two weeks after the atom bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, Japan, and one week before the official surrender of the Japanese on September 2nd. The army was already discharging soldiers as the war was winding down, based on how many “points” they had (more on “points” later).
  • Block 7 still shows the birth date he lied about to enlist – Oct 12, 1921, as opposed to his real birth date of Oct 22, 1923. And amazingly, dad’s height, 5’ 6” and weight, 128 pounds haven’t changed at all from when he enlisted. Me thinks, someone was probably just copying from other forms to put this info in.
  • Block 21 shows his civilian employment as “Usher”, so maybe not everything was copied over. His enlistment paperwork showed him as a “Laborer”.

Now we move on to the Middle section of his discharge paper, dad’s “Military History”. This is the meat of the discharge, and paints the real story of his time in the service. I’ve again magnified the view so you can better read the form. In order to tell dad’s history in a linear fashion, I will sometimes go out of order in discussing what is in the blocks in this section.

Dad’s “Military History” in His Discharge Paperwork.
  • Block 31 shows dad qualified as an expert both on the Machine Gun, and the M1 Garand rifle. It also notes he was awarded the Combat Infantryman Badge. You could only earn the CIB if you were in the Infantry (not in Field Artillery, or Armor, or Signal Corps etc), AND you were in actual active combat with the enemy.
  • I’m going to skip to block 36 – “Service Outside the Continental United State” for just a minute . Note here that he arrived overseas on November 8th, 1942. What it doesn’t say is he arrived with the 60th Regimental Combat Team of the 9th Infantry Division at around 5AM under gunfire on the beach near Port-Lyautey, French Morocco. This was as a part of Operation Torch, the invasion of North Africa. Torch was (next to D-Day) the second largest amphibious assault ever attempted.
  • Now back to block 32, where we see in addition to French Morocco, dad also took part in battles in Algeria and Tunisia in North Africa where they defeated Rommel and the Africa Korps. Those battles took place between November 8th of 1942 and May 10th of 1943. Then in July of 1943, dad participated in the invasion of Sicily.
  • Skipping back down to block 34, we learn dad was wounded on August 8th, 1943. What it doesn’t mention is he was shot three times by the Germans in the mountains of Sicily and it took over a day to evacuate him by hand to an aid station. It also doesn’t say he almost died due to the combination of his wounds and the Malaria he contracted. His time with the 9th Infantry Division ended here.
  • Returning to block 36, we see dad arrived back in the States on May 15th, 1944, three weeks before D-Day. This was after he recovered from his wounds (he was evacuated to North Africa to fully recover). Due to the severity of those wounds, he didn’t return to combat – the war was over for him, although he remained in the service for another 15 months.
  • Block 37 “Foreign Service”, shows that of dad’s almost five years in the service, one year, six months and twenty-one days were spent overseas. Approximately eight of those months were in near continuous combat.
  • Finally, we return to block 33, “Decorations and Citations”. In addition to his Good Conduct Medal and Purple Heart (for being wounded), he was awarded: the American Defense Service Ribbon (awarded to troops on active duty prior to Pearl Harbor); the European African Middle Eastern Theatre Ribbon with three bronze stars (this was for participating in the campaign in French Morocco, and the subsequent campaigns in Algeria, Tunisia and Sicily); three Overseas Service Bars (one for each six month period in a theater of war) and finally a Service Stripe (one for each three year period of service). It’s worth noting dad also earned a Bronze Star (for exemplary conduct in ground combat against an armed enemy), which didn’t catch up with him until after he was already discharged, and is not reflected in this paperwork.

Finally we come to the bottom of the discharge paperwork and block 55. There are three items noted here, although not all are readable.

Block 55 – Points and Other Things
  • First, dad, along with all other honorably discharged service members, was issued a lapel button to be worn on civilian clothing. At the end of the war, it was particularly useful for those traveling home so they were quickly identified as service members and received priority for buses and trains.
  • Next we see dad’s ASR score was 95. ASR stood for Adjusted Service Rating and is what was used to determine the priority for discharging soldiers at the end of the war. The rules were simple in principle: “Those who had fought longest and hardest should be returned home and discharged first.” Points were given for length of time in the service, length of time overseas, combat campaigns, combat awards, being wounded and so on. At the time, “the points” required for discharge were 85. Dad, with his nearly five years of service, his 1 1/2 years overseas, his Purple Heart, and his four campaigns was at, or near the top of the heap. His 95 points reflect that, and was why he was discharged so quickly as the war was winding down. If you have ever watched the show “Band of Brothers” there is a great section in the last show focusing on this. Points were on everyone’s mind.
  • Finally, there’s the cryptic last line “xx days lost under AW 107”. What the hell is that? AW 107 stood for Articles of War (the forerunner of today’s Uniform Code of Military Justice). Article 107 refers to docking the soldier credit for days of active duty that they didn’t earn. Typical examples were for going AWOL, being too drunk to report for duty, or getting in trouble for other minor offenses and confined to the barracks. Since the service member was not performing his or her duties during those periods, they didn’t receive time in grade or retirement credit for those periods. It turns out many/most enlisted soldiers during WWII had AW107 scores higher than zero. During my research, I’ve found cases with numbers from 1 to over 200. I’ve tried like hell to read the smudged number here but can’t quite make it out. It might be a 5? It might be a 3? I don’t think we’ll ever know. What I do know is dad was busted from Sergeant to Private in June of 1943 for getting caught in, and subsequently kicked out of, a walled city twice in one night after missing the last truck back to his unit. Perhaps he was confined for some period of time in conjunction with this “incident”.

After his discharge, dad returned to Ottawa, Illinois in September and lived there for the next 65 years. In Ottawa he met mom, and had us three kids, six grandchildren and 13 great grandchildren. He retired from the railroad in 1985, and passed away in 2010.

For those of you who know me, or who have followed this blog for any length of time, I’m pretty sure you are aware of how much I admired my father. An embodiment of “The Greatest Generation”, dad was always one of my heroes. This was true certainly for his actions during WWII, but also for how he lived his life, and how he took care of our family.

A Banner Honoring Dad in Ottawa, Illinois on Veteran’s Day Last Year.

I’ve probably written more blogs about him than any other subject. The blog last week about his enlistment and this one about his discharge file are special to me. It’s somehow reassuring that his enlistment and discharge paperwork confirm the outline of the oral histories we heard from dad growing up. I wish I had discovered this paperwork while he was still alive, just so we could have one more conversation about it over a coffee or a beer. “Dad, tell me again about the time …”, or “Dad, about those lost AW 107 days…”.

I love him and miss him.

Addendum:

  • I apologize for the length of this and last week’s blogs, but I was trying to give some context to the cold and straightforward words in the paperwork.

– Here are a selection of other WWII blogs that I’ve alluded to in this blog. There may be some minor discrepancies in them, based on the availability of the new information in his paperwork:

Lying to Enlist in 1940

Lying to Enlist in 1940

On the 11th day of September, 1940, just over 14 months before Pearl Harbor, my dad, William Iber Hall, enlisted in the United States Army for a 3 year stint. His enlistment paperwork showed him to be 18 years and 11 months of age. In reality, he was 16 years and 11 months old.

Our family history always said dad lied about his age when he joined the Army. Still, it was pretty cool to receive some official corroboration.

A couple of years ago in the middle of COVID, I was doing some research and learned I could access dad’s military records. The only catch? On July 12th of 1973, a fire occurred at the National Personnel Records Center (NPRC) and destroyed between 16 and 18 million Official Military Personnel Files, including 80% of those who were discharged between 1912 and 1960. I said a prayer, held my breath, and sent a letter to the National Archives, and more specifically, the NPRC, asking for dad’s service and medical records.

Months passed. A year passed. A second year passed, and then I finally received an email from the NPRC. Dad’s records existed, but were located in the area where the worst part of the fire was. They were damaged and incomplete. They did have his enlistment and separation paperwork, but nothing else. Nothing from his medical records, and nothing else about his time in the service. They did forward copies of the enlistment and separation papers.

The NPRC’s Response to My Request for Information About Dad.

I looked at both documents. They are discolored, scarred and blurry in places. There are brown marks, including outlines of paper clips – perhaps from the heat of the fire. Here’s a photo of the enlistment documents – note there are actually three pages.

Dad’s Enlistment Papers – Apparently Damaged some by the Fire.

There is some fascinating information, particularly in the top half of the first page of the enlistment form. I’ve blown it up here so you can better read the form.

A Magnified View of the Top of Page One of Dad’s Enlistment, With Some Key Items Circled in Red.

Here are a few items of interest:

  • Dad enlisted in Peoria, Illinois – I’d always assumed in Ottawa, but there probably wasn’t a recruiting station there yet. His enlistment was for three years, and was directly to the 60th Infantry Regiment of the 9th Infantry Division. Three years later in September of 1943 when his enlistment was originally to end, dad was in a hospital in Sicily, recovering from being shot three times by the Germans. He was still serving with the 60th. By then, all enlistments were for the duration.
  • We see in his answer to question 1, that yes, dad did lie about his birth date – by over two years. His actual birthday was Oct 22, 1923, which means on the date of his enlistment, Sept 10, 1940, he was actually 16 years and 11 months old. You were required to be 18 years old to join and Dad lied big time, claiming a birth date of Oct 12, 1921, making himself 18 years and 11 months old.
  • His answer to question 3 shows he completed 7th Grade, and nothing more. This was interesting as well – dad always told us he graduated from 8th grade. (In a side note, Dad did graduate from high school in 2002, when he and other veterans who didn’t graduate were made honorary members and graduates of the OHS class of 2002.)
  • For question 4, he lists his work as Laborer for the past year, at $10/week. This was at least a partial lie. Dad joined the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) for two six month enlistments in 1939 when he was 15 years old (the legal age for the CCCs was 17). He may have worked as a laborer when he returned from the CCCs, but it certainly wasn’t for a year, as he joined the Army not long after his return. My guess is he was probably out of work at the time and didn’t want to admit it.
  • I’m betting dad didn’t know the “s” in Illinois is silent, as he spelled it Illinoise in his answer to question no. 1. ;-).
Dad in ‘39 or Early ‘40 in the CCCs, and Then Later in Early ‘41 with the 60th Infantry

On the second page of his enlistment, there are a couple of additional parts of his life we can confirm from the information provided. First, dad is listed at 5’ 6” and 128 lbs. That corresponds pretty well with the above CCC photo of him. It’s hard to see how the recruiter actually thought he was 18.

Also of interest is that my Grandma, Alberta Hall, is listed as his nearest relative, and the person to be notified in case of emergency. This aligns with other parts of our family history that aren’t always talked about as much. My Grandpa Hall was something of a ne’r-do-well for much of his life, and probably an alcoholic. He sometimes disappeared for days or weeks at a time. Evidently Dad wasn’t taking any chances on him as his emergency point of contact and named Grandma instead. It makes sense to me now that when the telegram came to the family in 1943 informing them of dad’s wounding, it was sent to Grandma, not Grandpa.

A Magnified View of Page 2 of Dad’s Enlistment.

Receiving his enlistment papers was an amazing find to me. I never doubted dad, or any of his stories, but finding actual documents confirming his history is incredible. Knowing how lucky we are they didn’t burn along with the 18 million other military personnel records, only makes the story more fascinating. Luck is sometimes a wonderful thing.

We’d always been told that dad enlisted in 1940, and knew he had to have lied about his age. My Aunt Ellen, his older sister by several years, went to the recruiting station with him to verify his age to the recruiter. Life at that point in time, at the tail end of the depression was tough, or at least tough for the Hall family. Grandma was supporting the family with her work, and Grandpa was only a part time presence at home. There was no money, and probably not many jobs, at least not for a 16 year old. The pay in the Army was $21/month at the time, plus food and housing. I think it looked pretty good to someone who had a fairly rough life to that point.

Today, I’m thinking about 16 year old William Iber Hall going to the recruiting station in Peoria Illinois and signing up to an unknown fate. Unbeknownst to him, Pearl Harbor would happen 14 months later. Thank God for dad, and others like him, who did the right thing and stood by our country in it’s time of need.

— This is the first of two blogs about the documents I received from the NPRC. Next week’s blog will cover dad’s discharge paperwork. It tells the story about his time in the service from 1940 – 1945 in just one page, and is an equally amazing document.

Addendum:

  • You can read more about dad’s and the CCCs here: It was 1939 and dad and Uncle George were on a train, bound for the CCCs in Wyoming. Growing up in Illinois during the Great Depression was tough. Their family was poor before the Depression, and things got worse […] continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/12/13/dad-uncle-george-and-the-cccs-in-1939%EF%BB%BF
  • Here’s more on the fire at the NPRC from the Archives themselves: “Shortly after midnight on July 12, 1973, a fire was reported at the NPRC’s military personnel records building in St. Louis, MO. Firefighters arrived on the scene only 4 minutes and 20 seconds after the first alarm sounded and entered the building. While they were able to reach the burning sixth floor, the heat and the smoke forced the firefighters to withdraw at 3:15am. In order to combat and contain the flames, firefighters were forced to pour great quantities of water onto the exterior of the building and inside through broken windows. The fire burned out of control for 22 hours; it took two days before firefighters were able to re-enter the building. The blaze was so intense that local Overland residents had to remain indoors, due to the heavy acrid smoke. It was not until July 16, nearly four and a half days after the first reports, that the local fire department called the fire officially out. The fire destroyed approximately 16-18 million Official Military Personnel Files (OMPF). No duplicate copies of these records were ever maintained, nor were microfilm copies produced. Neither were any indexes created prior to the fire. In addition, millions of documents had been lent to the Department of Veterans Affairs before the fire occurred. Therefore, a complete listing of the records that were lost is not available. In terms of loss to the cultural heritage of our nation, the 1973 NPRC Fire was an unparalleled disaster.”

The Indoor Mile

The Indoor Mile

“5:25 … 5:26 … 5:27 … Hall – 5:28 … 5:29 … 5:30 …” I did it! I finished the Plebe indoor mile run in under 5:30! As I slowed, my stomach suddenly double clutched and I ran to a nearby trash can, where I promptly threw up.

During my time at West Point, the Academy frequently talked about developing the “whole man” (with the admission of women in 1976, this changed to the “whole person”). We cadets were always being tested and evaluated. It was true about leadership, about academics, and was certainly true about physical fitness. For most of us, somewhere in all that testing was an Achilles Heel. With some it was a particular academic course, for others, some physical education test or class.

Plebe Year at West Point.

As Plebes, there were four required gym classes: Swimming, Wrestling, Boxing, and Gymnastics. For me, I’d been a swimmer all my life and a lifeguard for a few years, so the swimming class was easy, and I earned the equivalent of an A. Wrestling? I made West Point’s intercollegiate wrestling team as a freshman walk on, so I validated wrestling and took handball as an elective instead. Boxing was a challenge at first, but once I learned the basics, AND learned getting punched in the nose wasn’t a showstopper, I did OK. Gymnastics was a different beast.

The pommel horse, the rings, the vault, parallel bars, the trampoline, mats for tumbling … I forget what other torture devices were there, but it was like I was in a cursed land. My two sisters would tell you I wasn’t particularly coordinated as a kid. As a matter of fact, they would say I was a bit of a klutz. It all came home to roost in Gymnastics class. I was passing, but just barely.

At some point during the class, I learned we would do a timed mile run as a part of the course. Running of course has nothing to do with gymnastics, but those things happened at West Point. Just another chance to excel. Now, I had never been a runner, but since it was wrestling season, I was in great shape. Probably the best shape of my brief life up to that point. I started thinking I might be able to earn a good score on the mile run and improve my overall Gymnastics grade.

Hayes Gym* is where we practiced Gymnastics. It was “a large open gym with a vaulted ceiling and hardwood floors.” Above the gym floor, an elevated track rings the room. It takes 11.7 laps to run a mile on that track and that’s where we would complete the mile run.

Hayes Gym in 1910, the Year it was Built, and Again in 2009. Note the Elevated Track.

My personal view at the time (and that of at least a few of my classmates) was that many of the instructors in the Department of Physical Education (DPE) had a bit of a sadistic streak in them. One of our instructors was Army’s gymnastic coach, Ned Crossley and some classmates recall his scoring as particularly brutal. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t true. Having said that, all of the DPE instructors had ways of questioning you, challenging you, or prodding you that often seemed to taunt you a bit as well.

The instructor who spoke with us about the mile run was a little like that. To receive a max score, you needed to run under 5:30. The instructor explained what we needed to do to run a 5:30 mile. At 11.7 laps per mile, “all” you needed was to run each lap at a 28 seconds per lap pace, and then run like hell for the last half lap. Simple. Easy Peasy. Any cadet could do it. And so on. Of course the vast majority of us could run no where near that fast.

At the time, I don’t believe I’d ever run a mile (or any other distance) for time. I’d certainly run laps in High School sports, run in formation at West Point for Company morning runs during Beast, and we ran our asses off in wrestling practice. But none of this was ever done for time. That was about to change.

My pea brain went to work. 28 seconds was two seconds less than 30 seconds for each lap. 28 seconds for the first lap… 56 seconds for two laps … 1:24 for three laps … 1:52 for four laps and so on. I’d do the math in my head on the run. As long as I could keep the pace going, I had a shot.

A couple days later, it was my turn to do the run. As I recall, there were a few of us running it at the same time, although I don’t recall exactly how many. What I do remember was taking off when “go” was called. The first lap – 27 seconds! The next couple of laps I was under the pace. After that, I was a bit erratic, with some over and some under, but the average was OK and at the half mile mark, I was on pace. The final few laps? I’m not sure I was really paying attention any longer. The air was stale. The air was acrid. 3/4 of a mile and still on pace. My lungs were burning. I was sucking in as much oxygen as I could. 11 laps done. My legs were lead. It was down to just over half a lap left. I didn’t see anything other than the track in front of me. I don’t know if the other Plebes were in front of me, or behind me. All I know is I ran as hard as could. I rounded the final curve.

“5:25 … 5:26 … 5:27 … Hall – 5:28 … 5:29 … 5:30 …” I did it! I beat 5:30. I slowed down and suddenly my stomach double clutched and I ran to a nearby trash can, where I promptly threw up.

Recovery took me a while. I may have heaved a second time, and certainly had the dry heaves. Eventually I made my way to the shower, and then to whatever my next class was that day.

A couple weeks later, I passed gymnastics with some room to spare.

In my remaining years at West Point, I never ran that fast again. Not even close. We had PT tests on an annual basis with a two mile run next to the Hudson River. I never approached anything close to that time, even when adjusted for a slower time due to the extra distance. The two miler was always a challenge for me and I was always nervous about failing it. The thought of maxing out my run score never entered my head.

Years later, I took up running on my own for fun and to stay in shape. I became a decent runner, and clocked several personal bests – an 11:44 two mile ( a sub six minute/mile pace); a 39:58 10K (a sub 6:30/mile pace) and a 68 minute and change 10 mile race (a sub 7 min/mile pace). I remember all of those. The one I still marvel at? The 5:28 mile on the indoor track at West Point. I had no business running that fast. How the hell did I ever do it?

Addendum:

  • * Some info on Hayes Gym from the Academy itself: Hayes Gym was built in 1910. The second level of Hayes is what most cadets and USMA graduates think of as “Hayes Gym”. It is a large open gym with a vaulted ceiling, hardwood floor, and elevated track (11.7 laps to a mile) that rings the room. The Department of Physical Education (DPE), teaches applied gymnastics (now called “Military Movement”) in Hayes, taking advantage of its historical and unusual support structures. The gym has eighteen 21′ vertical ropes and two 60′ horizontal ropes (suspended 12′ from the floor). There are also 10 pull-up bars that are each 5′ wide and are suspended from the ceiling with vertical supports in such a manner that they can be “run across” (with proper technique), as is done during the Indoor Obstacle Course. The gym’s floor space is filled with gymnastic’s apparatus and pads, such as vaults, bars, and rings as well as 1″ and 4″ tumbling mats. Nowadays, the military movement equipment remains in place year-round.
  • The Indoor Obstacle Course is another “fond” memory of Hayes Gym for most West Point Grads, as it was also known to induce retching at it’s completion. I may do a blog on it in the future, but it’s hard to describe to those who haven’t experienced it. To get a flavor for it, here’s a YouTube video of Cadet Elizabeth Bradley completing it just a couple of years ago and breaking the female record while doing so. For all my macho buddies out there, I would love to see you try to beat her time. Good luck on that unlikely event. GO ARMY! https://youtu.be/Dw5rR1yqyp8 .
  • Thanks to classmates Gus Hellzen and Jerome Butler for their contributions to this blog.

Guests at the Pond

Guests at the Pond

This February, we had visitors on the farm. While it took a bit of time to confirm their identity, we eventually did. Two river otters took up residence at our pond and provided great entertainment, along with both joy and sadness.

Cathy was the first to see them. She saw something moving across the pond and then disappear below the surface for a period of time. At first she thought it was a turtle, as we do have snappers in the pond, but this was moving too fast. Then she saw a second fast moving object. It came towards her, and suddenly “stood up”* in the water and looked at her! What?!

She told me about it later that evening and we discussed the possibilities. Beavers are what first came to mind, although it seemed strange they would establish a home in a pond – I’d presumed they needed more moving water than our small streams. We did some research online and three other options popped up – muskrats, mink and river otters.

Cath saw them again the next day, and then I did too. They were definitely not beavers – their tails were wrong. And then due to size, we eliminated mink and muskrats. They were probably somewhere between 15-25 pounds, much larger than mink or muskrat. Plus they were definitely staying in the water for long periods, which eliminated the mink, and were eating fish, which pretty much eliminated the muskrat. River otters had taken up residence in the pond.

One of the River Otters at Our Pond.

We started watching for them on a daily basis. Cathy would see them while crossing the berm at one end of the pond to go horse riding. I’d see them in the morning while putting the horses out. Swimming, diving, eating fish, appearing, disappearing and reappearing. Ripples on the pond when there was no wind. They were quite entertaining.

Ripples With No Wind.

It looked as if they set up a dwelling under a fallen tree on the pond’s edge. It was one of several large trees we lost last June during a major wind storm that passed through the area.** I marveled at Mother Nature taking away several large trees and an unknown number of bird nests last summer, only to give the otters a home with one of those trees this winter.

The Fallen Tree that is Probably Their Home.

Cathy talks about our pond acting as the center of life on the farm and she’s right. There are of course fish, turtles, frogs and snakes in the pond but it attracts so much more. We’ve seen deer and raccoon on the banks, and a bear stopping in for a drink, before meandering on it’s way. There is amazing bird life – in addition to small birds, we have observed a couple types of duck, geese, owls, hawks and even an eagle. Often, there are blue heron standing silently in the water while fishing. If you watch for even a few quiet minutes you are likely to see some gift from Mother Nature. The pond is certainly what brought the gift of the otters to us.

After they arrived, I was blessed early one morning with a memory I won’t forget. I had already fed the horses, and was back in the kitchen drinking my coffee. Using a pair of binoculars, I tracked the otters moving around the pond, diving and resurfacing. As I watched, a pair of geese were swimming in the shallows closest to me. Two heron were flying back and forth overhead, possibly irritated by the presence of the otters. I sat mesmerized for five or ten minutes, taking in all of the activity on our pond. It wasn’t yet 8AM.

Cath and I developed a daily habit of asking each other if we’d seen the otters and what they were doing. It was fun and also renewing. These two small creatures brought wonder and marvel to Rohan Farm.

Perhaps seven or ten days after they first arrived, the otters disappeared. We didn’t think too much about it the first day. Then a second day passed with no sightings. After a week with no viewings, we assumed they were gone.

We didn’t know what happened, but had so many questions. Where did they come from to begin with? Were they just passing through and stopping to eat for a few days? Did they start to make a home, and then with us, the horses and the dog in the area, decide there was too much activity here? Did they fish the pond for a while and decide there wasn’t enough food to support them long term? Did something kill them? We didn’t know.

Eight or nine days after their departure, I happened to look out the bedroom window in the morning, as I was preparing to start the day. There was no wind and there were no geese in sight, but there were ripples on the pond. I hurriedly finished dressing and went to feed the horses. I didn’t want to break my routine, rush straight to the pond and scare any potential visitors.

I fed the cats and then walked from the barn to the feed room to get the horse’s grain. I could see part of the pond, but trees blocked a total view. Finally, as I was carrying hay from the barn to the paddock, I saw a head above the water moving quickly, and creating ripples in it’s wake. I watched for a couple of seconds, and then it must have seen me as well – it “stood up” in the water, looked at me, and then continued about it’s business. The otters were back.

Now of course there were a whole new set of questions. Were they here the whole time, but becoming more nocturnal? Were they moving between the several ponds in our area? How long would they stay? How do we not waste this wonderful opportunity to watch them?

We’ve lived here for almost twenty-five years and have never before seen an otter. It never even occurred to me to look for a river otter. And then this small miracle occurred. I know this is how that strange and wonderful thing we call life works some times, but it still amazes me.

I will remember this winter and the pure joy the otters have brought us. I will also remember the sadness I felt when I thought they departed. We don’t now know their future plans and their time with us may still be fleeting. I feel lucky to have had the experience with them at all – and I am grateful for both the delight, and the sadness I have felt. I promise myself I will continue to enjoy them, and marvel at them, for as long as they allow it.

The Otters Weren’t Just a Dream.

Addendum:

  • * I later learned that what we called “standing up” in the water is referred to as periscoping. Otters “periscope,” meaning raise their necks far out of the water, to see farther. They also do this to identify each other.
  • ** I mentioned the storm from last June knocking down the tree that apparently has become the home for the otters. Here’s a blog about the storm event. Eight months later, I can still hear the sound of the crying birds in my head – “When I went outside to assess the damage after the storm passed, the first thing I thought of was the musician Prince. There were probably no doves, but as I stood on the porch, I could hear hundreds (thousands?) of birds plaintively crying out, over and over and over. This wasn’t good” […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/06/23/when-birds-cry/