Post by Sgt. Howard Jefferson on Dec 27, 2009 5:17:32 GMT
“It’s a Long Way to Tipperary!“
Sgt. Howard Jefferson, U.S. Army
Unidentified Allied Base - England
Winter, 1944 - 21:30 GMT
”Destination a head! Thirty seconds! Prepare for disembarking!” a voice loudly shout from the cab of the troop transport. Loud enough to be heard over the repetitive roar of the U.S. Two-ton “Deuce and a half” troop carrier. The driver, an African American, as was the norm in 1940s Army culture, drove the truck with caution as it rounded an icy bend through the open countryside of England in the Winter time. Snowfall, or better described as hazardous sleet, pelted the exterior of the truck and made the sounds of flak and small arms fire within the interior.
Inside the rear section of the truck sat several men. On the right rear side, nearest the exit, sat Sergeant Howard Jefferson. A recently deployed “green” fresh from the states. He acquired his chevrons through leadership displayed during training, and his knowledge of small team combat tactics and operations. However, he was no more experienced than a submarine skipper was and piloting a B-17. This thought had crossed his mind several times throughout his trip to England. He had realized that while being at such a rank meant prestige and respect, it also meant responsibility and accountability. He was never exposed to either of the latter.
Throughout his life, Howard had everything handled by his parents, or other staff within the family’s franchise. Benefit, or curse, of a rich upcoming. But when common sense knocked at Howard’s door, he answered, and to the Army he went. He broke away from the bore of daily racket ball games, tedious lecturing within the halls of Harvard University, and the cynicism of his father who hadn’t a clue of the world around him. Knowing he was most certain to die in combat, Howard readily accepted it over a lifetime of upscale ignorance.
The heavy truck continued on, the driver showing no regard for the safety of those in the back. Why should he care anyway? Back home he was beaten and threatened by this men and now here he was helping them put an end to another nation who felt the same way of African Americans. But at this time there wasn’t much that could be done, and there was no use in arguing, so he did his job.
Howard, never a smoker, took a drag from a Lucky Strike from a private who was sitting next to him. Not wanting to come off as a snob, he had accepted the cigarette. He pulled back on the rear flap that was on his side and rolled it into the wooden panel of the backrest so it wouldn’t fall back and close the rear up. With it in this position, he was able to get both fresh air while removing the breath taking smoke that consumed the bed of the truck.
There wasn’t much to see outside, as it was late in the evening and the Sun had set some time ago. The truck behind them had its lights out. They were in a war zone, and should Gerry pay a visit with an air raid, the high beams would surely make for a juicy story back in Berlin for the arrogant Luftwaffe pilots. So with nothing to see but the pellets of icy rain fall and dissolve, Howard took stock in his equipment.
He didn’t have much. He had his freshly pressed combat uniform that had the 82nd Airborne Division patch sewn onto his left shoulder sleeve. However, he was rumored to be transferred to the 3rd Infantry Division, as they were low in troop numbers and needed replacements greatly for a Southern France campaign. And for the fact that the 82nd was already deployed near the Ardennes, it would be criminal to transfer a single man for duty in a combat zone.
Aside from his standard paratrooper style uniform and other clothing in his bag, Howard had his canteen, his ammunition belt, fully loaded, his M1 Garand, an entrenching tool, and his combat knife. He was assured by the supply officers aboard the troop transport ship that more equipment and weapons were to be distributed once he had arrived at his deployment area. He was soon to see just how truthful the Army really was. And he wasn’t holding his breath. Otherwise he’d be on a white sandy beach in Hawaii with the local girls drinking to the tunes of the tropics.
Howard put all his thoughts away when the truck came to a sliding halt. He was jolted to the side directly into the private that sat next to him. The cigarette he had hesitated accepting dropped and rolled across the floor, putting itself out. When the truck finally stopped and the men cursing and laughing, Howard picked himself up and collected his things. He didn’t have much time before an officer approached the rear of the truck.
A lieutenant came to the back and opened the tailgate and shouted out orders. ”Do not salute! Drop and move men! Let’s go! Collection’s waiting for you! If you have your orders, head through the gate on the right, if you are unassigned, remain in the vehicle, this isn’t your stop. Move!” This was Howard’s stop, as he had written orders to deploy to the 3rd Infantry Division’s primary base in England as a temporary replacement NCO. That didn’t mean he had any special duties. He was just another uniform for Eisenhower.
He gathered his belongings, helmet on head, and leaped from the back of the truck. He looked up and to the left of the truck and saw several defensive barriers around a hokey looking military encampment. He looked over to the lieutenant. ”So is all that barbed wire and all those guard towards to keep Gerry from getting in? Or us from getting out?” Howard grinned and chuckled with a sense of humor as the Lieutenant shook his head in annoyance, turning from Howard to ignore the conversation.
Howard shrugged and began to walk towards his gate. At the entrance were two military policemen with machine guns. A small line ran from the entrance down a snow filled path where Howard found himself standing for almost ten minutes while the guards checked the papers of the men before him. While waiting, Howard decided to hum a tune he had heard on the radio while on the truck earlier in the day. He hummed to the tune of “It’s a long way to Tipperary.”[/I] It wasn’t a hit, but it kept his spirits up in this frosty weather. Something he had shut from his thoughts until he was standing still long enough for the cold to take affect.
He didn’t have to wait too much longer. It was his turn to enter the gate. A guard approached him and motioned for him to present his papers. Howard gave him his Army identification and deployment orders. The guard read over it for several seconds. His eyes bouncing around it made Howard wonder if he had actually read the paperwork or did it all just to look important. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get inside some place warm and begin his career as a soldier.
Howard was given back his papers and he put them in the left breast pocket of his coat. With his rifle in his hands and his bag slung around his back, he headed in, chin up and eyes wide. He looked around and saw a sign directly in front of him that read “3rd Armored BDE - 3rd Infantry Division ‘Rock of the Marne!’” Next to the quote unquote “welcome sign” stood a wooden post with directional arrows. Each arrow directed to either company barracks, the mess hall, officers’ quarters, motor pool, and other buildings and sections of the base. Howard was assigned to Charlie Company, a support company. Not exactly the prime pump of a battalion, but work was work.
Howard found the directional arrow to Charlie Company’s barracks and followed the path in which it pointed towards. All around Howard, fellow servicemen and all types of uniforms moved from area to area as if the base were a large ant colony. The chitter chatter of individual conversations could be heard as he passed up groups of men. But he didn’t care to eavesdrop. He was ready to check in with his company commander, and then rack in for the night.
Several minutes later, Howard found himself outside a row of several barracks, with a smaller office in front that had a sign posted in front of it. It read Charlie Company HQ. Howard put all his chips in on this being the place to check in. He approached the entrance of the office and pulled the door open. He walked inside and closed the door with his boot. The sound went from windy loud chatter, to quiet furnace humming. It was nice and warm inside. Not stifling hot, but enough to make you appreciate that you weren’t out on guard duty. In front of him was a small clerical desk, unoccupied. To his right was a working restroom, and to his left a door that was labeled Captain Patterson - Charlie Company C.O..
Not wanting to be a pest and bother his C.O. he felt it was best to check in with someone less in rank. He left the HQ building and headed to the left, next door, to one of the platoon’s barracks. Once inside, the sounds once again went from the loud chitter chatter of business, to a more calm sound. This time, however, there was music. To Howard’s immediate right was a record player quietly emitting the sounds of Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug.” Howard smiled, he had enjoyed this song countless times, and it was a welcoming sound to his ears.
After listening to the tune for several seconds, Howard looked back up and saw that the barracks were typical Army fashion. Bunk bed style wooden boxes that were on either side of the barracks with just enough space in the middle to walk to the back, where a latrine was established. Howard could hear men talking towards the back, but couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. He didn’t worry much about it. All in time he’d meet the men.
Instead, he looked around and tried to find a fellow NCO or even an officer in the barracks who could assist him in settling into the company…
Sgt. Howard Jefferson, U.S. Army
Unidentified Allied Base - England
Winter, 1944 - 21:30 GMT
”Destination a head! Thirty seconds! Prepare for disembarking!” a voice loudly shout from the cab of the troop transport. Loud enough to be heard over the repetitive roar of the U.S. Two-ton “Deuce and a half” troop carrier. The driver, an African American, as was the norm in 1940s Army culture, drove the truck with caution as it rounded an icy bend through the open countryside of England in the Winter time. Snowfall, or better described as hazardous sleet, pelted the exterior of the truck and made the sounds of flak and small arms fire within the interior.
Inside the rear section of the truck sat several men. On the right rear side, nearest the exit, sat Sergeant Howard Jefferson. A recently deployed “green” fresh from the states. He acquired his chevrons through leadership displayed during training, and his knowledge of small team combat tactics and operations. However, he was no more experienced than a submarine skipper was and piloting a B-17. This thought had crossed his mind several times throughout his trip to England. He had realized that while being at such a rank meant prestige and respect, it also meant responsibility and accountability. He was never exposed to either of the latter.
Throughout his life, Howard had everything handled by his parents, or other staff within the family’s franchise. Benefit, or curse, of a rich upcoming. But when common sense knocked at Howard’s door, he answered, and to the Army he went. He broke away from the bore of daily racket ball games, tedious lecturing within the halls of Harvard University, and the cynicism of his father who hadn’t a clue of the world around him. Knowing he was most certain to die in combat, Howard readily accepted it over a lifetime of upscale ignorance.
The heavy truck continued on, the driver showing no regard for the safety of those in the back. Why should he care anyway? Back home he was beaten and threatened by this men and now here he was helping them put an end to another nation who felt the same way of African Americans. But at this time there wasn’t much that could be done, and there was no use in arguing, so he did his job.
Howard, never a smoker, took a drag from a Lucky Strike from a private who was sitting next to him. Not wanting to come off as a snob, he had accepted the cigarette. He pulled back on the rear flap that was on his side and rolled it into the wooden panel of the backrest so it wouldn’t fall back and close the rear up. With it in this position, he was able to get both fresh air while removing the breath taking smoke that consumed the bed of the truck.
There wasn’t much to see outside, as it was late in the evening and the Sun had set some time ago. The truck behind them had its lights out. They were in a war zone, and should Gerry pay a visit with an air raid, the high beams would surely make for a juicy story back in Berlin for the arrogant Luftwaffe pilots. So with nothing to see but the pellets of icy rain fall and dissolve, Howard took stock in his equipment.
He didn’t have much. He had his freshly pressed combat uniform that had the 82nd Airborne Division patch sewn onto his left shoulder sleeve. However, he was rumored to be transferred to the 3rd Infantry Division, as they were low in troop numbers and needed replacements greatly for a Southern France campaign. And for the fact that the 82nd was already deployed near the Ardennes, it would be criminal to transfer a single man for duty in a combat zone.
Aside from his standard paratrooper style uniform and other clothing in his bag, Howard had his canteen, his ammunition belt, fully loaded, his M1 Garand, an entrenching tool, and his combat knife. He was assured by the supply officers aboard the troop transport ship that more equipment and weapons were to be distributed once he had arrived at his deployment area. He was soon to see just how truthful the Army really was. And he wasn’t holding his breath. Otherwise he’d be on a white sandy beach in Hawaii with the local girls drinking to the tunes of the tropics.
Howard put all his thoughts away when the truck came to a sliding halt. He was jolted to the side directly into the private that sat next to him. The cigarette he had hesitated accepting dropped and rolled across the floor, putting itself out. When the truck finally stopped and the men cursing and laughing, Howard picked himself up and collected his things. He didn’t have much time before an officer approached the rear of the truck.
A lieutenant came to the back and opened the tailgate and shouted out orders. ”Do not salute! Drop and move men! Let’s go! Collection’s waiting for you! If you have your orders, head through the gate on the right, if you are unassigned, remain in the vehicle, this isn’t your stop. Move!” This was Howard’s stop, as he had written orders to deploy to the 3rd Infantry Division’s primary base in England as a temporary replacement NCO. That didn’t mean he had any special duties. He was just another uniform for Eisenhower.
He gathered his belongings, helmet on head, and leaped from the back of the truck. He looked up and to the left of the truck and saw several defensive barriers around a hokey looking military encampment. He looked over to the lieutenant. ”So is all that barbed wire and all those guard towards to keep Gerry from getting in? Or us from getting out?” Howard grinned and chuckled with a sense of humor as the Lieutenant shook his head in annoyance, turning from Howard to ignore the conversation.
Howard shrugged and began to walk towards his gate. At the entrance were two military policemen with machine guns. A small line ran from the entrance down a snow filled path where Howard found himself standing for almost ten minutes while the guards checked the papers of the men before him. While waiting, Howard decided to hum a tune he had heard on the radio while on the truck earlier in the day. He hummed to the tune of “It’s a long way to Tipperary.”[/I] It wasn’t a hit, but it kept his spirits up in this frosty weather. Something he had shut from his thoughts until he was standing still long enough for the cold to take affect.
He didn’t have to wait too much longer. It was his turn to enter the gate. A guard approached him and motioned for him to present his papers. Howard gave him his Army identification and deployment orders. The guard read over it for several seconds. His eyes bouncing around it made Howard wonder if he had actually read the paperwork or did it all just to look important. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get inside some place warm and begin his career as a soldier.
Howard was given back his papers and he put them in the left breast pocket of his coat. With his rifle in his hands and his bag slung around his back, he headed in, chin up and eyes wide. He looked around and saw a sign directly in front of him that read “3rd Armored BDE - 3rd Infantry Division ‘Rock of the Marne!’” Next to the quote unquote “welcome sign” stood a wooden post with directional arrows. Each arrow directed to either company barracks, the mess hall, officers’ quarters, motor pool, and other buildings and sections of the base. Howard was assigned to Charlie Company, a support company. Not exactly the prime pump of a battalion, but work was work.
Howard found the directional arrow to Charlie Company’s barracks and followed the path in which it pointed towards. All around Howard, fellow servicemen and all types of uniforms moved from area to area as if the base were a large ant colony. The chitter chatter of individual conversations could be heard as he passed up groups of men. But he didn’t care to eavesdrop. He was ready to check in with his company commander, and then rack in for the night.
Several minutes later, Howard found himself outside a row of several barracks, with a smaller office in front that had a sign posted in front of it. It read Charlie Company HQ. Howard put all his chips in on this being the place to check in. He approached the entrance of the office and pulled the door open. He walked inside and closed the door with his boot. The sound went from windy loud chatter, to quiet furnace humming. It was nice and warm inside. Not stifling hot, but enough to make you appreciate that you weren’t out on guard duty. In front of him was a small clerical desk, unoccupied. To his right was a working restroom, and to his left a door that was labeled Captain Patterson - Charlie Company C.O..
Not wanting to be a pest and bother his C.O. he felt it was best to check in with someone less in rank. He left the HQ building and headed to the left, next door, to one of the platoon’s barracks. Once inside, the sounds once again went from the loud chitter chatter of business, to a more calm sound. This time, however, there was music. To Howard’s immediate right was a record player quietly emitting the sounds of Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug.” Howard smiled, he had enjoyed this song countless times, and it was a welcoming sound to his ears.
After listening to the tune for several seconds, Howard looked back up and saw that the barracks were typical Army fashion. Bunk bed style wooden boxes that were on either side of the barracks with just enough space in the middle to walk to the back, where a latrine was established. Howard could hear men talking towards the back, but couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. He didn’t worry much about it. All in time he’d meet the men.
Instead, he looked around and tried to find a fellow NCO or even an officer in the barracks who could assist him in settling into the company…
