O'Hare's WWII Diary: Half-Starved Soldier Worries About Brother in South Pacific

This is the latest installment from my dad's short-lived diary, penned shortly after his release from a German POW camp. In these entries, my eighty pound and half-starved father worries about his brother, Art, who was then serving in the South Pacific.

Uncle Art was wounded shortly after my father's posts, but not seriously. He was shot in the ass. When I once questioned him about it many years later, he snarled, "I was in front of the front lines, going for extra ammunition."

That's about all he ever shared. He kept no diary. He drank a lot, too.
5/20/45

All of my equipment, loot, real and personal property was once again in moving order waiting to be donned on my aching back as soon as the order to move was given. I waited and waited, a practice at which I have become very adept, for hour upon hour but no such order came. As we were lined up for midday chow ten G.I. trucks pulled up as only G.I. trucks can and I thought that this day would at last see me back to our own lines. However, due to the absence of certain documents or some such reason we are again detained by the Russians. I'm becoming a firm believer in the Vonnegut statement that "getting out of Germany is like walking in sand." The rumor now seems to be that we will pull out tomorrow when the trucks return with the proper papers. More of Hq. Co. showed up today in the persons of Sgt. Shuve and Pfc Sabbatino. Both look OK except for the loss of weight common to all POW's. Neither could give me any info regarding the whereabouts of Sgt. Boyle, Heinbeck, or Edgeworth. I'd certainly enjoy seeing those boys again.

The war in the Pacific seems to be progressing favorably, although we are meeting stiff resistance on some of the islands. I have an uncomfortable feeling that I'll learn more of that phase of our international troubles through first-hand experience. I'd like to see that part of the world but it would be just my luck to accomplish the feat through the medium of being a POW of the Japs, and twice in a lifetime is too much. The Russian band serenaded us again tonight. I'm getting to really like Russian music. The Russians are very much like Americans in their outlook on life. I suppose that is what queers the English with them. A few of us went across the hall to where we had discovered a radio in the room of one of our comrades. We listened for a while and left being driven out by static and by the system the joker in charge was using to operate the darn thing. He's one of that particular species of mankind who thinks he's operating the blue network whenever he comes across a radio with more than two dials on it. We are now preparing for bed at the end of a rather uneventful day.

5/21/45

Lo and behold I am still in Riesa. No trucks appeared today or had been rumored. However, we did receive a visit from two chaplains - one Protestant and one Catholic. They both held services and I heard mass and received communion for the first time in five months. The chaplain who was from the 69th division claimed that we would be out of here in three or four days. He seemed pretty confident that we would be back in the states within a few weeks after we hit our own lines. My inbred scepticism [sic] prohibits me from placing too much stock in his optimistic statement. Time and time alone will tell. The chaplains also brought some V-mail along with them. I wrote to my parents and to Aunt Mae. The letters are supposed to be on their way, having been brought back to our own lines with the chaplain who left here seven o'clock this evening.

5/22/45

A very routine day. I slept through reveille and all the morning, arising only for breakfast. Most of the afternoon was spent by all of us chewing the rag in the room where we were assembled. I thought of home today. Nothing now seems more welcome than news of the family. I am worried especially about Art. I certainly hope he has been as lucky as I in regard to ducking bullets and artillery.

It is early evening now and all of us are in the room now writing, reading, playing cards and talking. Things will no doubt continue along the same line until bed time. Blogger's Note: First published 12/17/07.

O'Hare's WWII Diary: Still No Word About Dresden Firebombing

This is the second in a series of entries from my father's recently-discovered dairy. He kept it about a week after his release from a German POW camp. This second post, like the first, is strictly present tense. Yet just three months before, my dad and writer Kurt Vonnegut had ringside seats, as POWs, to the American and RAF firebombing of Dresden - Florence of the Elbe.

POWs hid in meat lockers underneath a slaughterhouse during this incineration. One POW blurted out, "I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight." I can't help but think that was my dad. That was his humor.

In a public radio interview, Vonnegut speaks of a conversation he had with my father, some twenty years later.

"What did you learn?" Vonnegut asks.

"I will never believe my government again."

Churchill, who had advocated the firebombing, was knighted.

5/18/45

We moved over to the other compound today. That seems to be the chief benefit accruing to those who have been deloused. The rooms here are much cleaner and better equipped. We eat three times per day restaurant style and the shilly (chile?) is both good and thick - a happy set of circumstances not found readily in Germany. We spent most of the day getting our loot in order and this afternoon learned to our gratification that we were scheduled to move out. About an hour later a sergeant from the 1st Rangers division put in an appearance and announced that trucks were on their way to bring us either to Riesa or Leipzig where there are concentrations of former P.O.W.'s. I had no idea the sight of a G.I. would be so sensational. Needless to say, the limeys hogged him before any of his own countrymen had a chance to learn much from him concerning the good old U.S.A. Well, the trucks finally arrived and after the normal red tape we piled into them and took off. Approximately two hours later we found ourselves in Riesa. Temporary quarters were provided for us in some Jerry barracks. We are supposed to move in the morning to some other place in town where there are more G.I.'s. Our present barracks aren't at all bad except for the lack of anything soft upon which to lay our weary bones. There are some limeys here who have been waiting to get out for almost a month. It seems that Stalag W-B was liberated by the Russians on April 23.
Blogger's Note: This was originally published on 12/12/07.

O'Hare's WWII Diary: "We are Being Looked After Like Pet Children by the Russians"

Writer Kurt Vonnegut's letter home, written soon after his release from a POW camp, was published here yesterday*. Believe it or not, my dad was the real writer back then - he even kept a diary for an entire week.

Unlike Vonnegut, he sheds no light on what had actually happened to him as a POW. He provides no explanation about his weight going from 150 lbs. before the war to 80 lbs. as Adolph's guest. Mum's the word. He'd stay like that the rest of his life. Vonnegut's three-page letter tells me more about my dad's POW experience than he himself ever shared.

He just drank. A lot. Especially at Christmas time. That didn't kill him. Neither did the Germans. The cigarettes did.

But for one week, my father chronicled his post-release experiences in amazing detail. Just twenty-two at the time, he was a pretty good writer himself. Occasionally, he mentions Vonnegut, who was just a "minor being" at the time. For the next few days, I'll share my dad's thoughts with you, day by day.

5/17/45

Our mangy but well-fed crew left DiHille's at noon today. We proceeded over the Elbe to Russian headquarters in the city and after much confusion - due to our ignorance of the Russian language and vice versa - we were directed to the Hitler Caserne on Konigsbage Strasse. Here we find ourselves confronted with the perpetual situation of no one knowing anything about anything. However, we are being looked after like pet children by the Russians. We have been here only four hours at the most and have already been fed twice, showered, de-loused and billeted. As near as we can gather from speaking to the limeys and G.I.'s here, we are to stay put until our troops come seeking us. Except for the anxiety that we all have concerning our parents and families, we don't give a damn how long it takes them to root us out.

I heard my first radio program since I was captured. Dannine and I went across the compound and fell in with a few Tommies who have a wireless set in their flat. We heard an A.M.G. broadcast from Hamburg. That American music certainly sounded good. The Tommies surprised us before the evening was over with a meal of spuds, meat and beans. We rejoined our crew with a full stomach and a highly satisfied mien. I don't believe I'll ever get up out of bed again. Goot nacht.

*) Vonnegut's letter home will be published here on Christmas Eve, 

O'Hare Describes WWII Firing Squad: "German Justice Taking Its Usual Course . . ."

As time marches on, we are slowly forgetting what military historian Charles B. MacDonald has called "the greatest battle ever fought by the United States Army." The soldiers who fought in it are dying at the rate of 1,000 per day, and with them their history.

Unlike the talkative baby boomers in my generation - with our cell phones, the Internet and blogs - the soldiers of that Greatest Generation are strangely quiet and modest. They managed to save the world from a real Axis of Evil in spite of being caught late and off guard, and then went to work to make our own lives easy.

Although our memory is dimming, Blue Coyote tells us that in some portions of Europe, Americans are still considered "prima." The people of Bastogne still remember.

In his diary, my father never discussed what had actually happened during his captivity as a POW. Below you will find the only instance in which he speaks about the war. It's a letter he sent to the War Department in 1947, responding to an inquiry about one of his fellow POWs who never came home.

In reply to your letter of the 14th inst., I beg to express my regrets that you were required to make two inquiries concerning the above-noted matter. The receipt of your first letter was never called to my attention or you would most certainly have received a more prompt response.

Pfc. Michael Palaia and myself were sent with a detachment of American soldier-prisoners from Stalag IV-B to Dresden, Germany. After Dresden was bombed (about Feb. 14th, 1945), it became necessary for our captors to remove us to a new section of the City which, although not quite, was practically in the suburbs. It required climbing a rather steep hill to reach this place, from the summit of which it was possible to see practically the whole city. At the base of the hill was a moderate-sized street car barn and also a building in which German prisoners were hospitalized. I mention all of this as it may be necessary for you to fix the location of this place, and it is the only way I have of describing it, never having known the name of the section. Dresden is divided by the Elbe River and the section to which I have reference was on the eastern side thereof.

Our work after the bombing consisted wholly of cleaning cellars of their casualties and streets of their refuse. Our food ration per day was very low and survival made it necessary to pilfer food from cellars in which it was found from time to time. Unfortunately, Pfc. Palaia was discovered while doing this and at the time of the discovery one jar of string beans was found on his person. His number (prisoner number) was taken by the guard. The very next day when we had lined up ready to march to work, Pfc. Palaia was taken from our ranks by the German in charge - his official title being to the best of my recollection "Feldwabel." When we returned from work that night we learned that he was on trial for his life. Naturally, German justice taking its usual course, he was found guilty and four days after his apprehension he was killed by a firing squad. Four of our fellow-prisoners had witnessed this shooting, identified his body, dug his grave and buried him.

The shooting took place at some German military installation which, from the witnesses' reports was from five to seven miles from the location of our barracks. It must have been in a general westerly direction therefrom as I recall their stating that on their way they had crossed the river Elbe. I am not positive in my recollection of this, but I believe they also stated that they had constructed a cross for his grave to which they attached his dog tag.

The Month of his death was march, I am certain, and March the l6th, I believe. One of the witnesses was a Frank Terterici from Boston, Mass. I have a record somewhere of at least one of the other witnesses and his address. I will forward this information yo you as soon as I am able to locate same.

I hope the above account will be of some aid to you. Please have no hesitation in making further inquiry if you deem it feasible.

Asking your pardon for not having replied sooner, I am

Very truly yours,

B.V. O'Hare, Jr.

Americans are Prima, not Schwein

This is the third in a series of entries from my father's recently-discovered dairy. He kept it about a week after his release from a German POW camp. Just a few weeks before, German people cursed and threw rocks as my father and other prisoners carried dead bodies to huge funeral pyres in Dresden. Now they are "Prima!"
5/19/45

I was awakened this morning by that good old American "you gotta get up" bugle call. I must confess that it was the first time in my life that it ever sounded good. No doubt in four or five days I will be back in the old routine of cursing it. All eight of us met the chow line early in order to assure ourselves of 'seconds.' We were successful in the endeavor. In fact we were successful for all three meals by religiously following the same procedure. It makes one feel piggish but I know of nothing better to help that empty stomach feeling.

The highlight of the day consisted of the introduction and confirmation of a rumor that we are moving back to our own lines tomorrow. It seems that we will march out to some motor pool about three kilometers from here and there we will entruck. G.I. coffee and 'shokolade' here I come.

The Russkies had a band serenading us this afternoon. It consisted of 15 pieces and stressed the bass section. They were very good and we all enjoyed the Russian music. One American piece "Rose Marie" was played, and it brought down the house. Aside from listening to the band concert and eating, all I have done all day is sleep. I won't be worth anything when I get back to the states.

However, I am becoming anxious to get to law school. I hope I won't have to go back to college to finish earning my degree. Nevertheless, if there is one thing I have learned in the past half year it is 'things will be as things will be.' I don't believe I'll ever be demonstratively impatient again.

James, Kruse and I have plans to play a little rummy this evening. We played last night and of course Jones won. That joker has more pure, unmitigated luck than anyone I have ever come across.

All the fellows here expect to be flown back to the states. I can't picture myself admiring the Atlantic ocean from the windows of a C-47 but I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Should it so happen it will certainly be wonderful. The sooner I get to see the best set of parents in the world the happier I will be. I'll bet a Jerry luper there are a lot of changes in the old town. With luck I will soon see for myself.

There was a Tommy over to see us today. He came uninvited and when he left statements such as "come back soon" were conspicuously absent. All of us Americans are set up in much finer style here than the English. It seems that Joe [Stalin?] doesn't care too much for them. After the way they've bled us we can appreciate his sentiments. They've had no cigarettes issued since they've been here whereas all of us are smoking ourselves silly on Chesterfields, Luckies, and Camels. That's just one more condition that the end of the war has set back to normal.

Everything that we have been or rather had been reduced to by our stay in Germany has been rectified. I've had Germans beg me for food, clothing, and cigarettes. The mention of the magic word 'American' elicits "prima" instead of 'schwein.' The past week has effected quite a change in Germany and certainly as far as we are concerned it is a change for the better.

(First published in 2007)

Battle of the Bulge: Language Error May Have Saved Lives

December 16, 1944: The Battle of the Bulge begins. December 19, 1944: My father and Kurt Vonnegut, two intelligence scouts in the 106th Infantry Division, are captured by advancing Germans. Looking through a phrase book, my father screams, "Nein Scheissen," thinking he's asking them not to shoot him. He's actually saying, "Don't shit." That little mistake may have saved their lives.

(First Published 2007). 

O'Hare's WWII Diary: "We are Being Looked After Like Pet Children by the Russians"

Writer Kurt Vonnegut's letter home, written soon after his release from a POW camp, was published here early this week. Believe it or not, my dad was the real writer back then - he even kept a diary for a few days.

Unlike Vonnegut, he sheds no light on what had actually happened to him as a POW. He provides no explanation about his weight going from 150 lbs. before the war to 80 lbs. as Adolph's guest. Mum's the word. He'd stay like that the rest of his life. Vonnegut's three-page letter tells me more about my dad's POW experience than he himself ever shared.

He just drank. A lot. Especially at Christmas time. That didn't kill him. Neither did the Germans. The cigarettes did.

But for one week, my father chronicled his post-release experiences in amazing detail. Just twenty-two at the time, he was a pretty good writer himself. Occasionally, he mentions Vonnegut, who was just a "minor being" at the time. For the next few days, I'll share my dad's thoughts with you, day by day.

5/17/45

Our mangy but well-fed crew left DiHille's at noon today. We proceeded over the Elbe to Russian headquarters in the city and after much confusion - due to our ignorance of the Russian language and vice versa - we were directed to the Hitler Caserne on Konigsbage Strasse. Here we find ourselves confronted with the perpetual situation of no one knowing anything about anything. However, we are being looked after like pet children by the Russians. We have been here only four hours at the most and have already been fed twice, showered, de-loused and billeted. As near as we can gather from speaking to the limeys and G.I.'s here, we are to stay put until our troops come seeking us. Except for the anxiety that we all have concerning our parents and families, we don't give a damn how long it takes them to root us out.

I heard my first radio program since I was captured. Dannine and I went across the compound and fell in with a few Tommies who have a wireless set in their flat. We heard an A.M.G. broadcast from Hamburg. That American music certainly sounded good. The Tommies surprised us before the evening was over with a meal of spuds, meat and beans. We rejoined our crew with a full stomach and a highly satisfied mien. I don't believe I'll ever get up out of bed again. Goot nacht.
Blogger's Note: First published 12/11/07.

Mr. Matz

Blogger's Note: This wonderful little story was submitted to me over the weekend. I am keeping the author's name a secret, although you're free to guess. It is yet another tribute to the Greatest Generation. 

I remember having a neighbor across the street in a German neighborhood of a small Pennsylvania town. His name was Butch Matz. He was an aloof guy and seemed strange to me as a child. But hey, I was a strange kid, who am I to judge? Mr. Matz had an Irish Setter dog named “Red.” He loved that dog and it was obvious. Treated it like a human child, he did. His wife, Dotty, was a little odd too, but we all accepted it. I never saw her leave the second floor of their home. She’d yell out the window to talk over the fence. That’s the best it ever got. They didn’t have any children. Dotty’s mother, Mrs. Spohn, lived across the street. Mrs. Spohn was a tough PA Dutch lady. It was a tight knit community.

One day when I was a troubled teenager, having just dropped out of high school, my Grandmother asked me to go over and help Mr. Matz, who needed his fence painted. Although I loathed working, I respected the sacrifices of my Grandmother and would do anything for her, so I agreed. Upon reporting for the work detail, Mr. Matz had a can of silver coat paint for the chain link fence and a brush. I set into the task on a hot August day in the late 1980’s.

During the laborious process Mr. Matz came outside occasionally to supervise. During one such excursion he enlightened me on the younger days of his life. Oh brother, I thought. He began by telling of the outbreak of WWII and being a young male he felt obligated to enlist to serve his country. He continued in telling the rite of passage in boot camp for he and his platoon of 50 service men. At the end of boot camp training everyone except he and another man got their orders of assignment. He went to his platoon sergeant and inquired about the omission. The sergeant told him not to worry.  The orders; they would come in a few days. He sat idle and eventually his orders did come through and he served in the European Theater. He stated all 48 men in his platoon who received the first set of orders perished on the beaches of Normandy during D-Day.

He said he knew then that his calling was to be a minister. Upon discharge he was a minister in a church and eventually retired. I had no idea and thought, at the time, it was an interesting story. Later, I was to be incredibly impressed. More than 20 years later, and after my own service in the Marine Corps, I came across Mr. Matz’s obituary. He was the recipient of a purple heart and five (5) bronze stars. My eyes welled with tears. He never said a thing about what he did, and no one will probably ever know the specifics. Such an unassuming man, but one never knows. Just the old neighbor next door.

I still own my childhood home. It is vacant and out of respect to the neighbors, and maybe my own unwillingness to let go of the past, it will remain as such. I check on it occasionally and think of the experiences in life’s growth I had there, Mr. Matz being one of them. Thank you Sir, I won’t forget.

O'Hare's WWII Diary: A Final Glimpse at a Time When We Were "Prima"

These are the final entries from my dad's brief writing career, a diary which he started almost immediately after being released as a German POW. My father was a complicated man, and I considered him a cold bastard much of the time. These diaries, and some other letters he wrote to his own "mommy and daddy," opened my eyes in many ways.

I wish I had been a better son.

In addition to the personal impact, these diaries provide a brief glimpse into that greatest generation. Like my father, most WWII vets share very little about the sacrifices they made when the entire world needed them. Sadly, a thousand of them die daily, and with them the memory of a time when Americans were considered "prima."

5/23/45

My lazy senses responded sluggishly to the blare of a bugle that had commenced blowing about 5:30 this morning. Some character dramatically announced that it would be appreciated if everyone fell out. A true count was needed due to the fact that today had been chosen as 'the day' by the powers that be. I did not fall out. Soon after we drew rations and packed. At 11:30 we fell out, were issued cigarettes and were given cigars by the Russkies. Then, after waiting for the usual period, we marched to the exchange lot. As is usual in all these matters nothing went as scheduled. We waited in the exchange lot for almost three hours during which it rained most of the time. The trucks finally arrived and we loaded and were off.

Vonnegut, Dannine and I were lucky enough to get a civilian bus instead of a G.I. truck. Kruse, Jones, Coyle, Watson and Burns also piled into a civilian bus but unfortunately not the same one. After three hours rolled around we arrived in Halle. According to the authorities we will be here three days at the most waiting to be flown via C-47 to LeHavre, France.

I have just digested my first Army food in 6 months - '5 in one' rations consisting of ham and sweet spuds, cheese, crackers, pineapple, rice pudding cigarettes and chocolate. How amazed the limeys were when we told them that the above was for one meal and not one day! We got separated from Jones, Kruse, Coyle, Watson and Burns.

5/24/45

Awoke, washed and drew more '5 in 1' rations of the same unsurpassed American caliber. Before much of the day had passed we moved to a new area of camp. They are separating the English and Americans. I wish they had done that six months ago. Spent the rest of the day on my lazy back reading.

5/25/45

Routine day. I showered, deloused, read, ate and am about to turn in. Red Cross Clubmobile presented itself and I basked in about six doughnuts and a cup of real coffee. Prima.

Blogger's Note: First published 12/17/07.

How Two American POWs Spent Their 1944 Christmas

They consume just eight entries on this blog. They include old letters from the writer, Kurt Vonnegut, and a diary my father briefly kept.

You can thank my brother Mike. He's completely unlike me. For one thing, he's responsible. If it were up to me, those old letters would probably be rotting at Chrin landfill. But he preserved everything. It's all in nice three ring binders. He even has labels and plastic paper protectors.

Those eight posts are more instructive than anything I've written in nearly one thousand entries on this blog. I thought I'd group them together for those of you who stumble across this blog over Christmas. You can read about some Americans who spent their 1944 Christmas crammed in boxcars with no food or water.

Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!

A Christmas Present From Kurt Vonnegut

O'Hare's WWII Diary: "We are Being Looked After Like Pet Children by the Russians"

O'Hare's WWII Diary: Still No Word About Dresden Firebombing

Americans are Prima, not Schwein

O'Hare's WWII Diary: Half-Starved Soldier Worries About Brother in South Pacific

Battle of the Bulge: Language Error May Have Saved Lives

O'Hare's WWII Diary: A Final Glimpse at a Time When We Were "Prima"

O'Hare Describes WWII Firing Squad: "German Justice Taking Its Usual Course . . ."

Update: The Morning Call has published Vonnegut's 1945 letter in its Christmas Eve edition. "If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is."

Battle of the Bulge Remembered at Easton Library

I stopped by Easton library yesterday, hoping to listen to WWII vets discuss their experience during the Battle of the Bulge. I expected a half empty room, but was astonished by the number of people who packed the place. I stood in a stairwell with about five or six folks and listened. The Express Times has a detailed account.

One of the fellows I heard is Ray Christman, an 84-year-old Nazareth resident. Like my dad, he was a POW. He described being loaded up in box cars and then being strafed by British aircraft on Christmas Eve. Yet that is the "best Christmas I ever had because I was alive." He spoke of sleeping next to a cow when being moved to a work camp. "A cow is just like a heater." His weight dropped to 70 lbs. in captivity. Fellow POWs, being fed doughnuts after being released, actually died. Their bodies could not handle the rich food.

Vets provided a handout with these details about the Battle of the Bulge.
Where: The heavily-forested Ardennes region of eastern Belgium and Northern Luxembourg.
When: December 16, 1944 - January 25,1945
Who: More than one million men:
• 600,000 Americans (more than the combined Union/Confederate forces at Gettysburg)
• 3 American Armies and 6 corps (equivalent to 31 Divisions)
• 500,000 Germans
• 3 German Armies and 10 corps (equivalent of 29 divisions)
• 55,000 British
• 3 British divisions plus contingents of Belgian. Canadian and French troopa
Casualties:
German -100,000
American - 81,000 including 19,000 killed
British - 1,400 including 200 killed
Equipment:
800 tanks lost on each side, 1,000 German aircraft.
The Malmedy Massacre was the worst atrocity committed against American Troops in Europe during the war.

Tomorrow, I'll publish a letter my dad wrote to the War Department in 1947 about one of his fellow POWs, who was shot by firing squad after being found with a can of string beans.