This is the story of how WWII came to an end for one U. S. Army infantryman, my dad, PFC Clarence Nation.*

An infantryman in the IV Division (Ivy), 12th Inf. Regiment, in November of 1944 he was in Blegium slogging his way toward the Hurtgen Forest, a battle that became a meat grinder that decimated his unit. Concussed by an artillery round and subsequently infected with influenza, he was removed to a hospital in England where he recovered. However, “in an interview with the doctor and a counselor, I learned I was no longer available for combat duty. My thought was, ‘Good, I’m going home.’ No, not yet."

He continues:

Running on Empty

Although not anxious to go back into battle, there was a feeling of emptiness. Perhaps it was a feeling of demotion.

This feeling I had to overcome. Being trained and qualified only as a Combat Infantryman-Rifleman, and all that applies to the job, they offered me a learning experience at the American School in Srivenham, England. My choices narrowed to becoming a mechanic or a baker. My aptitude at that time was greater in automotive mechanics. Therefore about the last week in December I started to school learning to become proficient as a mechanic…. This school lasted four full weeks with 10-hour days, Sundays off. After the shop and hands-on training, there was an extra week of classroom work, such as Army maintenance requirements, specifications and procedures. After that, another physical was in order.

Before D-Day, I had attained a weight of “14 stones,” English weight for about 168 pounds. After all the fun I’d had since D-Day (wounded, concussed, stricken with flu) I weighed 152 and was feeling just fine.

Paris

About a week later, I was taken to London, boarded a ship to LeHavre, France and on to Paris. I had become part of the 3104th Ordnance Base Armament Vehicle Maintenance (OBAVAM) Company.

When I went to work, all of the equipment was there and about 25 local French mechanics were on the job. A captain was my commanding officer and a Master Sergeant was my supervisor. There were about 6 other GIs. As it turned out, my job was to work with the Frenchmen and keep them busy as well as to supervise their works. I learned enough French quickly and got along pretty well in conversations and instructions.

Anyone who drives a military vehicle must have a valid military drivers license. I qualified for about all vehicles except “large tanks.” However, the small tanks - OK.

Richard, a guy with whom I worked—a pretty nice guy—was from Kentucky and I got him to drive one truck, and I drove the other. On the ledge under the door window, one of the men printed “Big Richard.” He was 6’5” and just barely heavy enough to get into the Army. We really called him “Slim.” On my truck was printed “Little Bud."

Now that I think about it, things must have been going pretty good for me. I had a permanent gate pass for me and my vehicle both day and night. Some nights, several guys would gather and we would go to a community building used to entertain service men. There were girls who were there, as well as several parents. It had been four months since I had heard an artillery shell, and that’s OK.

It’s Over

Sometime in late March, I learned that I had been written up to become a T-3, equivalent to a Staff Sergeant, which would be equal to the job I was doing. About a month after I learned of the promotion request, the captain told me he had promoted me but had just now learned that all promotions had been halted. At least he tried. This was getting real near war’s end.

It may be payback for not getting my name there in time, but I seemend to have more privileges than most of the men. I just didn’t get paid as much as I might have otherwise. 

To offset the bad news, there was good news. On May 8, 1945, the Germans surrendered unconditionally.  Our War is over.

New frustration set in. We began anticipating how soon we would be sent to the Pacific. But that didn’t happen because that part of the war was about to come to an end too, althought we didn’t know it. Our jobs in the shops continued, but now we’re preparing trucks and equipment for shipment back home. Our work was steady, but the pressure wasn’t as great.

One afternoon in late September another soldier and I started to leave the post to the Paris post office on a mail run. I was armed, as I had to be any time I left the post in an Army vehicle. We were about 200 yards from the gate and suddenly two men jumped out in front of us. We stopped abruptly. There were CID—Criminal Investigation Division personnel—making a raid.

A nearby barn stored tousands of tires, a much sought after commodity. The investigation had been going on for three months. The result was 24 men, plus a major, two lieutenants and two non-coms were involved in stealing tires and selling them on the Black Market in France and Belgium. We sat in the truck for about 45 minutes until they were wrapped up because we were within range and there was gunfire. This was the most excitement for me since I left the front lines.

Let’s Go Home

On December 7, 1945 … (we) boarded the Victory Ship Gustavus Adolphus, a 480 foot almost-new vessel. We stayed on board and sailed for America on December 9…. We docked in New York City on December 18.

Things went smoothly at the port of entry. After three for four roll calls, we boarded railcars for a long train ride. This time we did not have sleeper cars and stayed on the same car all the way to Camp Chaffee, Arkansas for mustering out.

There were several interviews, a few films of indoctrination to help us ease back into society with as little stress as possible. It had been nearly three years without seeing very much that was at all familiar, but I didn’t anticipate any problems.

One of the interviews was about life insurance. My mind was geared to say “no” for fear of saying “yes” if asked if I would like to re-enlist. When asked if I wanted to keep my insurance, I said no. Dumb, but true.

Except for that one mistake, everything else went well and I received my Honorable Discharge at 3 p.m., December 24, 1945. The Army delivered several of us to the bus station in Ft. Smith in a familiar Army 6x6 truck. They paid $8.45 for my bus ticket to Hartshorne, Oklahoma.

Merry Christmas

I arrived in Hartshorne about 8:20 p.m. The driver let me out where the highway crossed the street where my sister Lois lived. I walked two blocks to her house. She came to the door, saw me—and screamed. Earl, her husband, came to the door to see what was going on.

We had a wonderful time that evening. And a wonderful breakfast at about 9 a.m. the next morning. Lois could make such good biscuits!

They weren’t expecting me and I wasn’t expecting to be at their house during the Holiday. But gifts were not important. It was just good to be a civilian and at home with my family.

It was just good to be home.

*Excerpt from Don’t Give Up: A Life Remembered by Clarence M. Nation (Tulsa, OK, 2007).