Harold Howell and I liberated two Wehrmacht motorcycles, scrounged around for some gasoline intended for our jeeps and other vehicles and took off cycling on mountain trails through the Alps. I've never felt more exhilarated in my life. A few days later orders came down that we were to desist. We desisted for two days. On the second day Colonel Donovan P. Yuell went riding by in an open liberated Mercedes staff car. "The heck!" we said. We borrowed a truck (an erstwhile weapons carrier, that is), stowed the motorcycles in back and drove far off where we could ride to our hearts' content without any officious interference. We turned the cycles in before moving on, of course. No looting allowed!

Elsewhere I have written: And that wasn't the last time [Hall] saw the indomitable colonel up close.... which was when he (the colonel) drove by in a liberated Mercedes Benz staff car, or rather, was driven by by his fearless driver. That was near Innsbrück, Austria and they had come a long, long way. [Hall] failed to note whether Yuell was flicking his highly shined-up boots with his riding crop, his focus being entirely on how grand the colonel looked in that grandest of all Boche vehicles.

Our platoon had taken up quarters in the Lehrer-Ferienheim Habichthof (Teachers Vacation Home "Hawk House"). There were bunks for sleeping and actual inside plumbing as I recall. It was located in a fantastically beautiful Alpine valley. A one-time Art major, I found a sheet of stationery with the Habichthof letterhead on it, turned it over and sketched the scene below with a pencil—not of the Habichthof, but just beyond it. How I wish I had been able to do it on canvas with oils, but I captured the sublimity of our surroundings the best I could. I folded it in an envelope to send home to my mom and dad and you can see the creases. (Reduced in size for faster dial-up access.)


I'll use that term "best buddy" again, though readers might begin to believe that all of my comrades were. I hope that is close to the mark. The bonds that joined us were strong. I'm referring to best buddy Joe Podrebarac, official weapons carrier driver of our third platoon. A corporal or sergeant was always up front with him and as his official assistant I drove only once before war's end... A short distance from the front in Alsace. We were encamped below a forested ravine with a steep road leading up out of it. In a weak moment, Joe said, "Here, Rugged, take these keys and practice driving the vehicle a little."

So out I started, up the muddy road. I got about half-way up, didn't shift properly (you had to double clutch the thing), and the vehicle stalled. What a predicament. Enemy shelling was starting up—quite audibly not far away. The road led toward it, so I had no wish to proceed in that direction. There was nowhere to turn around, the road was so narrow—the drop-off on one side of the ravine and rocks and trees on the other. Believe me. I don't reserve prayer for crises. I try to pray always. But you can imagine the urgency of my prayer then. Well, with the clutch in, braking all the way down, struggling to keep away from the edge and not roll, slide or skid off it, I managed to back all the way down to the far away bottom.

Actually not a bad feat for a rank beginner, considering how little visibility there was from the rear view mirror through the opening in the tarp above a high tail gate, and with the big vehicle so high off the ground, it was impossible to see the road directly behind. Yes, I took quick looks into the side mirror too, though afraid to break my concentration by dividing it. Down below, at last, it took me a while to get the monster (to me) in gear—any gear that would move it forward without jerking would do—and I was finally able to drive back to Joe as if nothing had happened. "How'd it go, Rugged?" "Er... uh... Just great, Joe. Thanks for letting me drive it."

Hey, oh man, this was so great! The war over at last, some Russian prisoners of war in the Innsbrück area had to be transported to Vienna. And, hey, this time I got to sit up front with Joe. Joe's parents were Croatian immigrants and Joe had learned to speak Serbo-Croatian fluently. (One and the same language, actually, though Serbs—of the Russian Orthodox persuasion—write it in Cyrillic characters and the Croatians—traditionally Catholic—write it in Latin-derived letters.) A Slavic language, like Russian, Joe's Croatian enabled him to converse with them.

They were so jubilant. Going home! All the way to Vienna they loudly sang and rejoiced through the night. Free, at last! Going home! I took it very personally and my grief was great on reading later that Stalin considered all prisoners of war to be traitors. They should have fought on to the death before allowing themselves to be taken alive. Our Russian friends no doubt were either executed or imprisoned in horrible Siberian Gulags.

The trip going was at night, but coming back we were able to see stretches of the Danube and some of Austria's incomparably beautiful Alpine scenery. Shortly after that, traveling only in the daytime, we saw more of Austria plus Germany's fabulous Black Forest as we transported cargo to Strasbourg and returned with supplies. No convoy. Just us. We were happy as larks on a lark, singing and carrying on all the way there and back. Joe let me drive once. I got behind the wheel and was cruising contentedly along when we came to a very long steep hill leading down to one of the -gens.

We passed through Tuttlingen, Schwemmigen, Villigen, and other othergens too, it seems. My atlas doesn't show a river by any of them, so I can't pinpoint the location today. I allowed the weapons carrier to build up such speed and momentum that I think Joe's hair turned white as I curved around toward a bridge and the frightened pedestrians scattered and appeared ready to jump into the river. Joe was a tough, solidly built guy with lots of endurance. I offered to spell him off now and again after that but he claimed he wasn't one bit tired.



Tom also reported several interesting incidents passed on to him by his dad:

Someone tried to sell candy bars accidentally soaked in oil while on the troop ship bound for Europe. [So the sight and smell of those is why we were throwing up, and I thought it was seasickness. No way! So that explains it! We were hardened, sturdy soldiers not susceptible to soft civilian ailments. Note by W. Hall]

When my dad's cook friend sent a hundred pound bag of pancake mix up to him at the front, he did nothing for several days except make pancakes while the guys took his time out in the hole. [Joe, who passed away July 4, 2006 in Kansas City, Kansas was a very multi-talented guy. Corporal Podrebarac had to stand guard like the rest of us, but who wouldn't take over for him to make possible any variation from our K-ration diet.

On Christmas Eve he heard a drunk German soldier with a bottle of schnaps who came across the line singing songs and surrendering. [This notable incident deserved being written up in the Stars and Stripes, the Army newspaper us soldiers up front scarcely ever saw.]

Some lieutenant, I believe, had the nickname "Blood and Guts" because he got a minor back wound while running bent over. [Let's be fair. Didn't we all hunch down as low to the ground as possible when under fire? Hey! He should have got a purple heart medal for it, like presidential candidate John Kerry.]

When the Army was handing out liters of wine to the soldiers, one of my dad's buddies passed his on to Joe and then they wouldn't give Joe his because he already had one in his hands. [I have no recollection of this. As a teetotaler, I would have gladly given Joe mine.]

Back from our journey to Strasbourg, an announcement on the company bulletin board captured my full attention. All soldiers with relatives serving in the European Theater of Operations were invited to apply for permission to visit them, all travel arranged and paid for by the U.S. Army. I immediately applied, and oh, wonder of burocratic speed and efficiency, I was soon on my way by train, truck, ferry—whatever transportation was available—to visit my virtual twin brother Donald in England. Early on, as a little child, I was Nin, so he became Din. A cute little fellow, the diminutive form Dinny soon became attached to him. Darn! If I had been that cute, maybe I could have had a comparably tender and loving cognomen. Valuable linguistic note: The expression pickaninny derives from Spanish (or Portuguese) pequeño niño/pequeno menino (little boy).

A speculation:  My oldest brother Tracy, a renowned scientist and inventor and very brainy, nonetheless couldn't handle my name when he was three years old. English /w/ is a difficult sound to master, as is also our lateral /l/, so I became Nindo—Nin, for short. I sometimes use Nindo as a web name. Kool, eh? Baby talk evidently is the source of a number of fine nicknames.

Arriving in London, at last, I asked directions to a center which supposedly could give me Din's current location. My first lessons in British English. A fast learner, even today you will occasionally hear me say, "Thrigh skwahrs stright awigh. You cawn't miss it." Well, I found the center and was sent on my way to Weston Super Mare. My Latin was deficient at the time and I was decidedly curious and excited to get a glimpse of the amazing animal this town apparently was named after. O.K., don't laugh! I'm sure you know without my telling you that it means Weston on the Sea.

It was great traveling from the British Channel to the Irish Sea. And then back to London again, where I was directed to Camp Blandford, at Blandford, Dorsetshire, England. Donald was a sergeant with the 185th General Hospital. Casualties from the 103rd Division had ended up at his hospital and it was always in his mind that I might turn up there too. Well, hey, I'm not one to ever disappoint a little brother! I quote from Donald's report of what transpired.

We were there [at Blandford] only long enough to get settled in when the feelings of homesickness and loneliness settled in with me also. Sunday, June 10, was just another day for me, made especially more lonely because of the fact that just about everyone else was out doing things for the weekend, enjoying the victory, but I was on duty, as usual, because of the many things that had to be done on a daily basis. I went to lunch lamenting very much my assignment that kept me in camp practically all the time. I was eating with about 20 others in the mess hall because everyone else was gone.

Sitting alone, I was feeling especially blue, probably at the lowest point in my life as far as morale was concerned. In that mostly deserted place, I noticed someone standing in the center of the mess hall looking around. I was conscious of his presence, but did not raise my eyes to look. At that moment I finished eating and collecting my tray and utensils to take to the dishwashing area, I turned in front of someone approaching. Still I didn't raise my eyes to pay any attention, but continued on my way in downcast dejection, not alert yet to anything special—even ignoring the presence of someone falling in at my side, until I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice that said, "Well, aren't you even going to speak to me?"

We had a lot of catching up to do as to what had happened to each of us. Wendell spent the next 4 days in camp with me until I was able to get a pass so that we could go places together. While in camp his letter came telling that he was coming to visit me. That indicated one of the reasons why none us knew anything about his whereabouts and what had been happening to him. Conditions were quite disorganized toward the end of the war. Troops were moving speedily and communications breaking down somewhat in the furor of the finish, with the result that he got to me in person before his letter did.....

We went to London together, visited all the famous places—Hyde Park, Tower Bridge, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, The Tower of London, Buckingham Palace—and had our picture taken by a street photographer in front of that famous landmark, Big Ben and the British Houses of Parliament.

Comment: How strange it was to hear myself called "Wendell" rather than by my true handle, "Rugged." About the first thing we did at Blandford was to sit down and write our folks a letter.


We hit on a brilliant idea. Days later, when Mom retrieved the mail, she announced to Dad, "We've got a letter from Donald." Then she stopped herself to say, "No, it's from Wendell!" Then, recognizing that the return address was in Donald's handwriting and the forwarding address was in mine, she shouted: "It must be from both of them!" What a wonderful surprise, eh?