I am signed up for a Google Search Alert. Began using this feature several months ago. I have it set to notify me anytime that is finds an entry for someone or something related to the 540th Combat Engineers.
I have received several reports already and some of them I've already known about and some have been things that I was not aware of.
This morning I got one and almost fell off my chair. Why? Well this one is "hot-off-the-presses" and concerns a gentleman who is still amongst us. Here's the article and you can bet your sweet "your-know-what", that I will be on the phone later today contacting the editor. I MUST get in touch with this fellow.
Also more good news... I've heard from two more family members within the last 24 hours. One grandson and one daugther of my members of my dad's unit. What a fantastic way to begin my week.
This is a photo of Dickens, the man featured in the article.
Over the last couple of weeks, a gentleman named Marty Lee from Norway, has been in contact with me. Seems he has a real love for WWII "green" machines and is currently restoring another vehicle for his collection.
The really cool part of this, is that he is going to use my father's unit designations, VI Corps, 540th Combat Engineers. When he asked if that would be okay, you can imagine what my response was. Yes folks, of course I replied with a hearty OKAY!
So right now we are working on getting the correct numbering and lettering for the truck. This is going to be sweet and I can't wait to see actual photos of "OUR" truck. Dad would be delighted!
Here's his latest letter to me:
Hi again!
I thought I’d send you a photo of my 1942 Dodge with unit numbers as of today. These are the ones I’d like to change and make as of the 540th which was your dads company. Did it belong to the 5th or 7th army? That would be the first number on the fender. 540 would be the next one I guess followed by the star and then VI? I’m not quite sure of the last one. I’ll await your historian.
I’ll use these numbers on both trucks and the trailer I’m currently restoring. I really should tell you that the other truck belongs to my father, a man who is 62 and recently bought this truck. He was in the engineer corps in the Norwegian army in the late 60s, which might be my reason of interest. He too found it very interesting changing the unit numbers to the VI corps.
The other picture shows me and the two trucks. As you may see the other Dodge has a camouflage pattern, which will be painted in green.
You can check out more green cars at my old web sites:
My earliest recollection of a motorcycle goes all the way back to 1925 when I was four years old. My parents, my sister and I lived in a second floor apartment in Jersey City, New Jersey. We had no car, but my father owned a red Indian motorcycle with a sidecar, which he kept in a nearby rented garage. On a pleasant Sunday, my mother would sometimes say, "Let's take a ride up to Sussex County for a breath of fresh air." My father would get the motorcycle while my mother fixed a picnic lunch and off we would go to spend the day in what was then sparsely populated farm country. In winter, my father removed the engine and transmission and stored them under his bed when he wasn't overhauling them on the kitchen table.
So, not surprisingly, my first ride on a motorcycle was a very memorable event. It took place in France in 1944. I was platoon leader of the 7th Infantry I & R platoon and I spoke French quite fluently at that time. We had just liberated another French farming village and the villagers crowded the roadside to offer us hugs, kisses, fruit and wine. But one old farmer heard me speaking his language and came over to my jeep to begin jabbering away, as the French were wont to do. He had a greater gift to offer. He told me that the Germans had left behind a motorcycle in apparently good condition, because they had run out of gasoline, a constant problem for them. He had put it in his barn with the intention of turning it over to the Americans. We had a policy of not using enemy vehicles because we had enough of our own and to drive Kraut equipment was an invitation to death by "friendly fire." Besides, we had an image to maintain. We were an advancing American Army, not a bunch of gypsies!
But there is a certain mystique about motorcycles. My curiosity and pleasant memories of the old Indian demanded that I at least go look at the German machine. I told the farmer to climb in the back of the jeep and he guided us to his barn. I wheeled out the huge BMW (Bavarian Motor Works) machine and was fascinated by it! It radiated raw power and superb German workmanship. It was painted in the Wehrmacht light earth/dark earth flat camouflage colors and it was beautiful! I turned to my jeep driver. "Steele, how about getting that spare jerry can of gas off the back of the jeep and let's see if we can start this monster." We filled the tank, I turned on the ignition, kicked the starter crank, and was rewarded with the throaty roar of the engine. It was sweet music to my ears and my spine tingled. I familiarized myself with the controls. The temptation to ride it was just too great.
I had never ridden a motorcycle before, but I convinced myself in no time at all, that years of experience on a bicycle were sufficient training. I shifted to low gear and sedately cruised out of the driveway and onto the paved road. For the next half hour, I rode serenely through the beautiful French countryside at a leisurely pace. The feeling of exhilaration, the joy of the wind in my face, the sensation of controlling such power, and the complete sense of freedom I felt is indescribable. It was truly a one of a kind experience.
I took a different route on the way back and soon found myself on an unpaved road. I drove slowly and carefully, but as I leaned into one curve, the wheels slid out from under me and I found myself sliding down the road on my hands and knees at about 20 MPH. I picked myself up and sat at the edge of the deserted roadside for five or ten minutes and examined my scrapes, cuts and bruises while the shock wore off. The knees were gone from my wool O.D. trousers and both knees were raw and bloody. But my hands were worse. Both palms were lacerated and bleeding. The BMW was lying on its side, stalled out, but apparently no worse for wear. I cursed it soundly, stood it up and climbed back on. No piece of Kraut equipment was going to get the better of me! I started it up and the engine responded with a smooth musical burble, which I took as a welcome apology. I drove back to the barn and told the farmer to hold onto the Hog and give it to the rear echelon troops, which would follow us. Only then did I stop at the aid station to have the cuts and abrasions cleaned and sterilized.
But by far the worst part of the experience, was facing the men of my platoon. The
story had traveled like lightning, and although no one said a word, I knew what they were all thinking. "How the hell could the Lieutenant do such a damn-fool thing? We would never have fallen off!" But we moved out the next morning, the lacerations healed and the motorcycle adventure was history.
I never rode a motorcycle again. The closest I came was on a Bermuda vacation, forty years later, when my wife and I rented Honda mopeds to tour the island. The moped was a far cry from the BMW and doesn't even count as a motorcycle. But I do remember passing a teen age native on his beat up moped. As I breezed by, he shouted after me, "GO, GRANDPA, GO!"
Marion: Could not post pics on where you posted this topic. So started another topic.
Ah yes, the "cigarette camps". Most of us in the ETO finally ended up in one of them.
All that time and then the waiting to go home. When my turn came to return, I was
transported to Camp Philip Morris at Le Harve Fr. Nothing fancy, but who cared as we would be leaving within a few days to a week. I and most others didnt know anyone as we came from many different outfits. All strangers with one thing in mind. Within 4 days our group of about 700 boarded the La Crosse victory ship in early spring for a 10
or so day cruise to NY . A very strange thing happened on boarding. Saw one of my old
high school friends who I palled around with prior to the war. We kept in contact after
the ETO war was over. He was in a different Infantry division from me, but we had a
planned meeting once about 3 months after V.E. day and had a 3 day get together in
Fulda Germany. Neither of us when we were returning home exactly. Am posting a couple of pics of Camp Philip Morriis.
