Sam F. Kibbey
Company K
143rd Infantry Regiment

This is not a story. This is a remembrance...

"My name?" "Sam Kibbey."

"Where am I from?"

"Kentucky."

"Where am I going?"

"To Waco, Texas."

"What am I going there for?"

"To attend my Regimental Reunion, the 143rd Infantry."

"Really?", the person sitting next to me on the Boeing 737 said devoid of enthusiasm.

She was a rather pretty girl, forty-four going on thirty-five. She had dark hair and the kind of blue eyes you see mostly out of doors. She wore cowboy boots and a bit of a skirt (not much, but a bit.) Her face had plenty of country sunshine upon it. The skin was lightly blistered, but becomingly so. When she talked she had a yodel in her voice.

"Are you from Fort Worth?", I asked.

"My, now, how did you guess that?"

"I just know about girls, I reckon." I replied, reminding myself that most girls with a yodel in their voice are either from Nashville or Fort Worth.

We were in flight from Nashville to Fort Worth-Dallas Airport, I had boarded a Delta 737 in Lexington, Kentucky being escorted to the Airport by my daughter, Carol, and my three year old granddaughter, Shelly. Having grandchildren is one of life’s pleasures, an antidote for aging. A cure for self-centeredness. Enjoyable disquiet.

The "737" cautiously crept through the skies at 31,000 feet. At 31,000 feet an airplane drones like unambitious bees going in and out of a run down bee hive. At 3 1,000 feet, one senses the endlessness of time, the infinitude of the human soul. One can almost hear hymns being sung through the open air valves over the seat. Clouds go by aimlessly and almost anonymously. Airborne, we grind our way toward our destination, impressed by the grandeur that is God’s.

In 1943 the United States was at war: generically speaking, World War II. I became 18 years old on September 5, 1943. Four days later, on September 9, 1943 the Thirty-Sixth Infantry Division, a Texas National Guard outfit, invaded the mainland of Europe by making a landing at Salerno, Italy. This represented the first allied troops on European soil in World War II. This was four days before my 18th birthday. It was about nine months before the landings at Normandy. It was also nine months before I joined Company K, 143rd Infantry as a replacement.

After I became 18, I signed voluntary enlistment papers. I had a 17 week basic training course at Camp Wolters, Texas, which I recall now as something of a bleak prairie, a throw-back to when cattle were driven by callused cowboys to Fort Worth, sometimes beyond.

I had a 17 day leave home on the way overseas. (Mom fought back the tears. I did, too.) I joined the 36th North of Rome, going all the way through the War and coming home as a T-Patcher on a Victory ship in December, 1945. 1 was a Staff/Sergeant at discharge by dint of casualties. A 20 year old Staff-Sergeant. I missed the tough slugging in Southern Italy. I have pride that I later soldiered with some GIs who did battle with the mud, mules and mountains in Southern Italy.

The 36th Division was mobilized into service on November 25, 1940. Certain units were splintered from the 36th, notably the 2nd Battalion, 131st Field Artillery. The remainder of the 36th went overseas in early 1943. At Salerno, Italy on September 9, 1943 the T-Patchers became the first American troops on European soil. The Division suffered 27,000 casualties, the third highest of World War II. The Division men earned 15 Congressional Medals of Honor, 80 Distinguished Service Crosses, 2354 Silver Stars, 5407 Bronze Stars, 10 Presidential Unit Citations.

At Salerno the untried troops of the 36th Division fought gallantly. Company K, chock full of Waco boys, was outstanding at Altavilla. So was Charles Kelly, who won the first Congressional Medal of Honor awarded in the ETO Command. Commando, you are remembered.

My reverie was interrupted as I discovered the plane was descending. Just moments before I seemed to be brushing against time and eternity. My very being and my innermost feelings had seemed to be suspended. Now, the plane was swooping toward the ground like a half-starved chicken hawk.

Alvin Amelunke is a fine representative of Waco. So is his wife, Janice. I met Alvin and Janice several years ago at a National Reunion in Dallas. The Amelunkes are very popular in the 36th Division Association. Alvin was an officer in M Company. He came back to Waco with the Silver Star, and excellent combat record, and a keen desire to help others.

"Hey Kibbey," Alvin half shouted, "glad to have you with us. Where you staying?"

"The Sheraton," I replied.

"I’ll give you a lift in," Alvin said.

The person with Alvin I later learned to be Bob Hand who now hails from Colorado. Alvin had looked Hand up in Colorado last summer. Now Bob would see men at the Reunion he hadn’t seen for over 44 years. Bob had been the C.O. of M Company. He went overseas with the 36th and after Italy pushed across France and Germany as a T-Patcher.

On the way in, Alvin tried to give us a little commentary on the city of Waco. We passed the suspension bridge famed throughout the U.S. which was built in 1870. It looks like a fortress or a castle. He told us about the low water dam that had formed Lake Brazos. Lake Brazos is the new centerfold of the revitalized community of Waco.

We made a fast stop at the Monument site. We watched a few "run throughs" directed by amiable Bob Hawkins. Julius "Duney" Phillips was there. Phillips is from Houston. He is the Executive Secretary-Treasurer of the 36th Division Association. He travels many miles every year in the interest of veterans, but especially T-Patchers.

Arriving at the Sheraton, I met with Col. Henry Gomez of San Antonio and his wife, Mary Louise. Hank has been a Past President of the 36th Division Association. Later, we shared part of the evening with Len Wilkerson and his help-mate, Frances, of Malenkoff, Texas. Wilkerson is as down to earth in attitude as he is dynamic in spirit.

Most of the guys in the outfit are older than I am. Many of the men are in their 70’s now. "Hank" Gomez, age 78, told me, "I went away for a year. Stayed 22." That brings to mind the early World War II song about the mobilization, "I’ll be back in a year little darling." With most, it took much longer than a year to get back.

In my motel room, I became contemplative. The plane rides out, one high and one low, my first exposure to Waco and the sizzling hot sun at Fort Fisher, plus my usual late afternoon kaput-ness, forces me into the prone position on the motel bed, clothing askew.

Back my mind fades to Grosetto, Italy. It is 1944. For five days now we have tried to "catch up" with the 36th Division as replacements. We had been assigned to the 36th Division.

I had 28 days on a Liberty ship going over. I had touched down in Africa for several days. Those Repple Depples were for the birds. Yeah, buzzards. Then I was frisked across the Mediterranean from Oran to Count Ciano’s farm. Just one more repple-depple to cross.

From thence we were sent to the Anzio beachhead. All we did on Anzio was dig in and catch strafings. The 36th had left Anzio toute de suite. Thanks to a brilliant piece of Engineering by the 111th Engineering Battalion under Col. Oran Stovall of Bowie, Texas, and some good soldiering by the line companies, the 36th broke through at Velettri.

As we were taken forward in Army trucks we saw evidence of a war. Not as much as the 36th men would see later in 1944 at Montelimar in France where the "T"-Patchers had given the German 19th Army a terrific thrashing.

My time on the line in Italy was brief. I was assigned as an ammunition bearer in the 4th Platoon, Company K, 143rd. My graduation from High School at 16 and attendance at college on a basketball scholarship at 17 failed to impress anyone. I know. I tried to tell them about it.

Suddenly, it was August 15, 1944. We had boarded the landing ships near Naples. The Mediterranean seemed as vast and mysterious as the ocean. Apprehension was prevalent but fears were concealed.

The night before we went in Ben Foster, a machine gunner from upstate New York, sang with a nice clear voice, some of the popular songs of the day.

The Navy excellently laid down an early dawn bombardment of gigantic proportion on August 15, 1944 in Southern France. On the Beach, where Company K, 143rd landed, there was only sporadic opposition to our landings. We moved inland being admonished to "not get too close together. One shell will get you all."

That afternoon, following the attack plans, we cleared the hillsides around St. Raphael. I saw one Jerry whose bicycle was blown one way and what was left of his body blown another. Undoubtedly, a direct hit.

That night we captured St. Raphael. Some resistance, but not much. Two fatalities in Company K. Ben Foster was one of them. He was the first buddy I lost to death in combat. He was not to be the last.

Fort Fisher is one of Waco’s show places. Here is housed the Texas Rangers Hall of Fame. This is appropriate as the Rangers were organized here in 1835. As the Monument is on the grounds of Fort Fisher, that fact alone makes me proud.

At Knox Hall, tables had been set by Units. You just visited with folks you hadn’t seen for years. I had not seen "Bo" Moore since 1945. "Bo" had been Company K’s Mess Sergeant and probably the best Mess Sergeant in the E.T.O. He received a Purple Heart in trying to do his job well. A most unique person.

Then there was Porky Schlichting, who was our Supply Sergeant. Easily recognizable to me. I don’t think either "Porky" or "Bo" recognized me. I weighed 100 pounds more than I did when I was overseas. I, also, have become a bottled-scarred veteran down through the years.

I saw Ray Waller. Ray was Company K’s Aid Man. Ray Waller was one of the bravest soldiers I knew. I observed his valor on several occasions. Notably at Bitschofen where Ray lost a foot, but received a well deserved Silver Star.

And, of course, Carl Vierege and John Wheelis, were there. Both of these men served as my sergeants. Carl took me in tow when I first got with the Company. John Wheelis was everybody’s favorite. The best thing I liked about John was that he didn’t treat me like a kid. Back then, that was important to me.

The Reunion was conspicuous by those I missed seeing. Boyd "Private" Morgan (he was actually a Tech-Sergeant) was not there from East Texas. His brother Norris, who lives in Garland, would not be attending. Norris had become ill and learning the nature of the illness almost took me to the ground. Two subsequent phone conversations with Norris allayed my fears considerably. We all hope Norris will be able to be in Houston with us come September at the National shindig.

Ed Will is gone. I had learned of Ed’s death in the T-Patcher Newspaper. (Bill Jary of Fort Worth, the Editor of the T-Patcher, a truly great one, has also died in January of last year.)

It is written that he who has achieved success is one who has "lived well, laughed often, and loved much." In truth, they "do not die in hearts they leave behind."

Ed Will had God’s grace about him in war and peace. He was a Machinegun squad Sergeant; and later Machinegun Section Sergeant. He was a quiet man, of deep humility. Few people have served this country and the city of Waco as well and as unceremoniously as Ed Will.

At Camp Edwards this handsome Texan met his wife, Virginia. They married before Ed went overseas. Then Ed came home. Virginia left her native New England and they came to Waco where she still lives today. Theirs was a happy and productive marriage.

Virginia was there in the auditorium. It was obvious she was trying to hide the hurt she was experiencing. She and Ed have made many of these Reunions together. She had supported Ed in the great work Ed did at VA Hospitals and with the VFW to which Ed, John Wheelis, and Carl Vierege belonged. As she walked by I squeezed her arm. She squeezed my arm back. There was no need for words.

Virginia, if life is indeed a shadow, all our good wishes for you lengthen as each of our suns descend. Ed’s memory is sacred to us. Sacred and real.

Bet you never heard of Task Force Butler? After the invasion of Southern France on August 15,1943 elements of the 143rd did an "end round play" on the German Army. We ran Northward toward the Alps. Say, this was the way to fight a war! Riding on trucks. Liberating town after town. Southern France. The champagne campaign. War’s hell, uncork another bottle of vino.

The Zenith of this historical military maneuver was attained at Grenoble, France. Grenoble is a city fifty miles from Geneva, Switzerland. The City, as I recall it, was a smaller city then, but a joyful town none-the-less.

The happiness of a Frenchman freshly freed from Nazi tyranny flashes to mind.

The paper in Grenoble had the following front page welcome:

"Welcome!" Shouted the town’s newspaper on the first Page.

"Yesterday, without warning, we saw them suddenly rising up at the far end of the Cours Jean-Jaures... those well-built boys in kahki, those strong, calm fellows who in 1918 had shared with the Poilus in horizon blue all the sufferings of battle, all the joys of victory...

"Welcome to you all! You who have come from the distant providences of Illinois, Ohio, Alabama, or Texas... Welcome to the citizens of New York and San Francisco, you all who have come after a stage in our North Africa to help France get rid of a nightmare which has lasted four interminable years, and to aid her to rediscover her true soul.

"Welcome to Grenoble, our town. Welcome to the Dauphine, our province!"

Even now, forty-four years later, I can recall the happy faces and spirited songs of that long ago on that memorable day. Precious memories, how they linger...

From Grenoble the 143rd made some forays. It was at Montelimar that a minor Armageddon occurred. Task Force Butler was positioned above the 18th German Army. The 18th German Army was retreating from Southern France. At Montelimar a battle ensued.

This was actually my first exposure to fierce combat. I had ducked a piece of shrapnel or so in Italy. I had evaded small arms fire in Southern France. St. Raphael’s capture was a feather in our cap. But Montelimar was the real test.

Lt. Stephen Gregg of Bayonne, New Jersey received a CMH for his activity at Montelimar. I lost a good friend, Ken Blish, there. I became acquainted with Ken at Fort George Mead. He was from Buffalo, New York. He was a Radio Man in Company K. He and I had gone swarping in Baltimore together. We had drunk an inestimable amount of beer together one day. We were shipped overseas together and both came to Company K together. We were at Montelimar together. Now, Blish is gone. It hurt me, then as now, but big soldiers don’t cry.

The dedication of the Monument was at 3 p.m. that steamy Saturday, June 3rd. We walked from the Hall to the Dedication site. The Texas sun on all burners, its heat permeated Fort Fisher including all areas the 143rd stood, awaiting unveilment. Some of the wiser ones scurried for the shade. I took a seat in the Fort Fisher Section in one of the folding chairs facing the stage. Hard working Bob Hawkins was the M.C.

The program was well-planned and colorful. Colonel Richard M. Burrage, who was reared in Waco made an award to Wiley W. Stem, Jr. of Waco. The 36th today is an active National Guard Unit consisting of G Company, 143rd Infantry Airborne, headquartered in Houston with a detachment in Austin.

Billy E. Kirby of Clifton, Texas is probably one of the best known guys who ever served in Company K, 143rd Regiment. Billy was a machine-gunner who had been hit in Southern Italy. He was gone when I joined the weapons Platoon of Company K several months later. Back then, his name was often mentioned. He is National Commander of the D.A.V. Everybody in Texas should be extremely proud of Billy.

On this day—June 3, 1989—Billy was in Waco-back with his war buddies, back in his native North Central Texas, where the Brazos meanders and the Bluebonnets bloom. To Bill goes the honor of unveiling the Monument. After a short dedication from Kirby the parachute covering the Monument is raised. There is a large T within an arrowhead at the top of the Monument; a bluer than blue insignia of the 143rd Infantry with its motto "Arms Secure Peace." Then on the Monument the words chiseled thereon:

143rd INFANTRY 36th DIVISION
DEDICATED IN REVERENT
MEMORY OF AND TO PROUDLY HONOR
ALL WHO SERVED
June 3, 1989

On the back side of the Monument is a listing of all the home towns of the units of the 143rd Infantry and all the Campaigns the 143rd fought in during World War I and World War II.

This beautiful Monument was designed by Glen Rucker of Dallas. His Uncle, Payne Rucker, who now lives in Dallas, served in the 143rd Infantry in wartime. Payne has served well in various capacities in the 36th Division Association. The Monument approaches true art and has a proper blend of simplicity and magnificence.

The dedication address was given by George R. "Bob" Scott of Waco. It was a touching tribute to some great American Soldiers. It was an intelligent appraisal of the price of liberty and why we pay it. There were times during the address that a lump arose in my throat. My tear ducts became incontinent at times. (Oh, God, a broken and contrite heart, Thou will not despise.)

The dedication ended. Eyes were dried. Pride prodded us forward. "Life must go on..."

"So we are saying goodbye to them all.
As it’s back to the barracks we fall.
There will be no promotions
This side of the Ocean
So, cheer up my lads, bless them all.

This familiar old World War II song ricocheted in my mind as we "fell back to the barracks" at Knox Hall on Fort Fisher awaiting a dinner to be catered and a dance to be endured.

The chat I had that day with Ray Waller will long live in my memory. We talked quietly and confidently about the day Tech Sergeant Clyde "Tack" Walker and Sergeant Francis Crowe were killed. I can still hear the sound of the German burp guns. "Tack" and Crowe had just gone around a curve, on foot, seeking, as I recall, how Tack’s weapon platoon and Crowe’s rifle platoon should position themselves. This was in the Vosges Mountains, near Bruyeres, France.

Ray and I talked on as soldiers do when discussing those they honor and respect. Buddies who are lost in battle. Ray mentioned the white parachute scarf "Tack" was wearing and the black gloves received recently from home. These, too, "Tack" wore. It is guys like "Tack" Walker and Sergeant Francis Crowe that I think of often when I hear the phrase "supreme sacrifice."

"Tack’s" sister is Lelia McDugal. Her husband, Archie (now deceased), once headed the 36th Division Association as President. I met him back then. Lelia is here at Fort Fisher. Upon arrival, she was instantly met by friends of "Tack’s" and Archie’s. The face of "Tack" Walker swims before me. That prairie gruffness, that Texas pride, that individualistic twist—the wearing of the white parachute scarf and the black gloves received from home. And Crowe? Well, he was a bold leader, too. (God be with you—both of you—till we meet again.)

The outstanding victory at Montelimar won for the 143rd Infantry a Presidential Unit Citation. Much of the credit for the fast advance in Southern France must go to the Marquis—the famous French Forces of the Interior. The Marquis was unrelenting in its desire to have France free of the dreaded "Boche."

After Montelimar, the 36th Division had a "blitzkrieg" all its own going. There were some sharp fights along the way to the Moselle River which was reached on September 21, 1944.

As Colonel Vince Lockhart in his excellent book, "T-Patch To Victory" points out many of the French in the Vosges and Rhine Valley were Germanic citizens of Southern France. Thus, after huge artillery poundings by our forces we were met with cold, icy stares and not with the warmth or the grateful glances we received in Southern France.

That cartoonist-genius of World War II, Bill Mauldin, captured this fully. Bill was in the 3rd Division, a native of Oklahoma, and he was to win the Pulitzer Prize for his World War II cartoons.

Mauldin showed Willie and Joe going into this French town. A chateau had been demolished. The lady of what used to be her house was looking defiantly at Willie and Joe. Willie said, "Don’t blame us, lady. We didn’t start this war."

The 143rd Infantry rubbed elbows with elements of the 3rd Infantry Division. Besancon fell and the 36th and 3rd both moved Northeast where at Vesoul a torrid battle was pitched. On the 16th of September the 143rd captured Luxeuil-les-Bains. Zeb Sunday, then corporal, and my good buddy from Pasadena, Texas acquitted himself well under some trying circumstances and was responsible for the location of the bodies of thirty-two Frenchmen who had been executed by the Germans. The way Zeb made the German Captain talk is representative of the grim humor of combat as experienced in the E.T.O. during the Second World War.

At the Moselle the Germans, backed to the wall, decided to make a determined stand. Remiremont was taken after fierce fighting.

Next, came Bruyeres, Laval, LaChappelle and Belfontaine. Near Bruyeres another Regiment was added. That was the 442nd combat team, composed of Nisei troops. The story of how these brave men rescued the survivors of the "Lost Battalion" of the 141st and been cut off. The Japanese-American bravely brought the "Lost Battalion" to safety.

The campaign in the Vosges Mountains began to resemble the fighting in Italy. I would be the first one to tell you in no way was it as rough, but plenty rough enough. In Southern Italy—at Cassino—was disaster. At Rapido and San Pietro the Jerries were always looking down the T-Patchers throat. At least here in France, despite the rain then the snow, the 36th was on the move. We had the offensive, even if we had to counter-attack a time or so to sustain it.

Ahead loomed all the important Alsace Plains.

"Deep within my heart lies a melody,
A song of Old San Antone,
It was there I found beside the Alamo,
Enchantment strange as the blue above
... my Rose of San Antone. "

The dance floor was not crowded. The young band playing for the 143rd Infantry Reunion knew a surprising number of songs of the 40’s and 50’s. Gradually, as if testing the water, a few couples would take to the floor. I think I danced once to prove that just because I’m getting too old to cut the mustard, that, now and again, I still try to be a hotdog.

On the dance floor, personifying true love, to me, was Julian Phillips and his wife, Ruby. They are tireless workers and, I assume, tireless spouses. That’s quite a feat these days.

Bill Kirby and his wife, Emelyn, mingled with us onlookers at the dance. Kirby is top drawer in any league.

Sam and Ruth Petty were very much at the dance. I don’t specifically recall seeing them on the floor, but they seldom took their eyes off each other.

Zeb Sunday was cutting a rug with his permanent side kick, Eloise. (The tempo for me on cutting a rug is "Rock of Ages.")

Near the dance’s end Alvin and Janice Amelunke danced by, both regal Texans exemplary of what teamwork can do.

I think about my buddies and their wives.

We five in an Acquisitive Society. People are judged, or motivated too much, by what they have, not what they are. This constant struggle for vanity and status has fathered a plasticity of promiscuity in this land.

We live in a world of sperms and germs. Life these days is mostly a "throw away." Permissive sex is the way it generally goes these days. To my mind, permissive sex is tawdry and cheap and is as temporary as a Turkish Bath.

Everywhere you look you see "gimme" eyes. You see "gimme eyes" in an airport, in a bar, or at the horse races. The male with "gimme eyes" no matter how nattily attired cannot hide his avarice. As far as the gals, well with some their "gimme eyes" is their performing art.

Sitting there listening to the very good music (my kind of music), I think back of how many of these couples went through the war together, either married to each other, engaged to each other, or fated to meet after the war.

To me, these true-blue gals were (s)heroes of World War II. If we didn’t have a wife or girl friend, we mostly had mothers or sisters or a high school chum that you had a crush on and who cared, at least, enough to write you while you were overseas. "Mail call" in combat brought a little sanity to the war.

This Acquisitive Society has begat people who are so vain they believe there are four members of the Holy Trinity. Oh, I see them everyday at lunch or seated at a bar or a pew in church just trying to impress everyone with their superior airs which they haughtily call "Class." Some have affidavit faces. Some have prayer meeting smiles. All of them are sanctimonious. Many of them are so heavenly that they are no earthly good. These are the kind of people who speak most eloquently when their mouth is shut. Just about all of them are the people you like the least the more you know them.

I read once in an Encyclopedia that the human female egg necessary to produce four billion people would not fill an empty chicken egg. All the sperm needed to fertilize those eggs would rest on a pin’s head. Tennis anyone?

The dance ends. (The dance seems to end earlier each year.) I am shuttled back to the Sheraton, not only proud of the fellowship I’ve found in the 143rd Infantry Association. I’m proud of the gals, too; those (s)heroes of World War II. Thank you, T-Patchers, thank you, T-Patchees.

The title of this little piece? From the Bard of course. It bears repeating here:

In peace there is nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility
But when the blast of war blows in our ears
Then imitate the action of a tiger.

After the dance I caught the "shuttle bus" back to the Sheraton. The lobby had more than its share of men wearing 143rd Infantry caps with pride and a feeling of togetherness. Many of the hats had been sold by Thruman Moore of Waco who served in M Company along with Amelunke and Bob Hand. I remember M Company from my combat days. Super soldiers!

Time was many of we bottle scarred veterans would have rehashed the war into the wee hours. Old age has been said to be a regret. Whoever said that didn’t have grandchildren. We Senior Citizens realize our limitations. Regrettably, so do people about us.

Again, Dahlquist's dauntless doughboys went to their wheels. The Germans were wanting to retreat to the Belfont Gap, its proposed passway to the Fatherland. The T-Patchers made advances of from 25 to 40 miles each day.

The 36th Division pushed and wheeled it to the Doubs River near Besancon. The 111th Engineers, Stovall’s Spaders, built a 120 foot span in 22 hours which you might say cut off a lot of Jerries before they got to the pass. Colonel Oran Stovall of Bowie, Texas remains to this day to be one of the most revered men in the 36th Division Association. Indeed, he was a Bird Colonel with the look of an eagle.

Then the beat went on, Vesoul was taken. In the face of growing resistance Luxeuil fell. It was September 15, 1944 then. The 36th has come a "fer piece" since the August 15, 1944 landing on the Rivera.

The Moselle River was near. A challenge which promised to be a plum ripe for taking. On to the Moselle!

Actually the crossing of the Moselle was easier than expected. The water was about waist high where the first crossing was made. Finally, the city of Remiremont was taken on September 23rd.

There still was no respite for the 36th. In the army it seems if you have a good work horse, work it.

The Vosges foothills was of that "old bog-down" variety which the 36th Division had found in Southern Italy. And, like Italy, it was something of a forgotten front. The fighting was on ridges, again reminiscent of Italy but, in my opinion, not as rough.

With the 442nd Regimental Combat Team aboard the 36th now had four Regiments.

With the added strength the 36th captured Bruyeres to the height overlooking the Meurthe River. "K" Company, 143rd Regiment participated in the capture of Laval. Then there came Biffontaine. The Vosges I shall never forget because of the cold rains and the combat fatigue that can grip one like a strangler at your throat.

As I write this I am removed in point of time by over forty-four years from the hardship I endured. Forty-four years removed from pain I experienced in losing buddies—and by the time we reached the Vosges Mountains this had increased—exposure to seeing people dead, both American and German, some as if taking a siesta but many mutilated by artillery or mortar fire. Death is always a tragedy. All things are devoured by death. Most of us are apprehensive about death from childhood. We seek to solve the mystery or escape its finality.

Fears, faith and death: three important considerations.

I have no answers, "pat" or envisioned. I only know this: Seeing death in a war and experiencing it in the family or with a friend brings to my lips this song to sing:

"I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness
Where is death’s sting, where, grave thy victory?
I triumph still if Thou abide with me. "

We assembled at 8 o’clock at Knox Hall for it was billed as an old fashioned G.I. breakfast. It was a good one. I believe Bob Scott said it was "good enough to make a man to re-enlist." (Now come on, Bob.)

After the breakfast was a short but very symbolic Memorial Service which consisted of lighting seven candles. One for each U.S. War. The last candle lit sort of brought a mist to my face. The last candle was for all our Association who had died in the past year. They read their names.

I was sitting with John Wheelis. When the names of those dying—including Ed Will—were read. John softly said, "There were twenty of them." My thoughts, too, sped to Bill Jary of Fort Worth, a Public Relations man of great mind and vigor. "Bill" edited the T-Patch Newspaper and The 36th Division Quarterly, probably a one-of-a-kind publication in the U.S.A. Bill encouraged me to write. He encouraged others to write. Bill to me personified the spirit of Texas.

The 36th Division moved through the Vosges Mountains. At this point the 36th Division who had no relief in ninety-eight consecutive days was given a subsiding role. The rest was short-lived. The 36th Division jumped back into action by making a bridgehead across the Meurthe. A prominent actor in that drama was Lt. Col. James Minor of Post, Texas, who was Commander of the 1st Battalion 142nd was the youngest Battalion Commander in the 36th Division—he is one of the great ones who survived the war but is now gone.

On December 2, 1944 the 36th entered Selestat. The 36th Division had the role of taking Ribeauville. The Alsace Plain had become flooded and swampy. The Germans struck back. Selestat was successfully defended. This counter attack almost succeeded. The fighting became ferocious around Bennwihr, Mittelwihr and Riquewihr. I still have a picture of Mittelwihr in my mind. The town had been "blown to smithereens." This had become almost house to house fighting.

After 122 days on the line the 36th was relieved. We weren’t sent home folks. We switched positions with the 3rd Division which had been "garrisoning Strausbourg." Here we were just across the Rhine from Germany. We were there five days!

After the Ardennes offensive proved unfruitful for the Jerries, and the Bulge was being reduced to a less critical situation, Hitler and his brain trust turned on the 7th Army as a possible way to pull their chestnuts out of the fire.

At midnight on New Year’s Eve 1944, der Fuhrer sent his troops, in force, to push the Yankees back south of Bitche. There was much confusion because of the tactics now being used North of us where Germans wore American uniforms and other acts of deception.

When this flurry by the enemy failed the Krauts switched its heavy armored attacks to positions North of Haguenau.

At Haguenau there was encountered Panzer Units. But we had Texans—damn good Texans with men from every state in the Union working with them in solid team work. Soon these towns were either captured or recaptured. Names like Bischwiller, Weyersheim, and Drusenheim became familiar. Also "Bowden Woods" became a place of which all were proud. Here, Lt. Col. Marion P. Bowden, Commander of the 2nd Battalion 143rd Infantry staged a counter attack that killed 83 of the enemy and captured 176 of Germany’s crack troops.

Now, the move was on to the Rhine. It was no picnic. House to house again. Oberhoffen and Rohrwiller. The enemy concealed itself in woodlands near the towns in this area. The Germans over-ran us in Oberhoffen. It was the only time I remember when the 143rd retreated in France.

There followed a lull but, indeed, a lull before the storm. It took four hard days to clear what was called the Gambsheim pocket. I remember the rest we had briefly again. Thank God for the Red Cross girls.

On March 15, 1944 Company K, 143rd of which I am very proud to have served in spearheaded the jump off at the Moder River. Lt. Col. Charles Denholm’s 143rd Infantry was superior in their efforts. No Company in the 143rd out stripped the effort of Company K at Bitschoffen. One of World War II’s truly great heros, O’Dean Cox of Waco, as a First Lieutenant (later Captain) directed Company K. Cox was later killed in Korea as he stayed in the Army. In World War II he went overseas as a private and came home as a Captain. Why he was never awarded a CMH remains a mystery to me.

The war was winding down. We crossed the Siegfried line, once considered unimpregnable, and onto Victory rolled the Fighting 36th.

On Monday, June 5, I toured Waco with my good friends, John Wheelis and Carl Vierrege’s car, a Fifth Avenue Chrysler, just happened to be magnetically drawn to Post 2148 VFW, located at 321 Tennessee Avenue. Vierrege has been Post Commander of this Post, which has won "All-American" Post Awards several times. John Wheelis is proud to be a life member. Ed Will was a "wheel horse" in post activity. His loss is sensed.

The Brazos River, and its offspring, Brazos Lake are murky looking, nonchalant waterways that, when not enraged, move as silently as Indians in moccasins. In the past this River has unleashed its fury wreaking death and damage to the citizens of Waco. The full name of this river is Brazos de Dios, which means, "Arm of God." Lake Brazos just hangs around Waco all day, dusky and serene. Along Lake Brazos one senses a new spirit extant in Waco.

"The River Walk", along Lake Brazos, is there asking you to ingest the history of this place, to become intoxicated by its beauty and its charm. These days songs of success fill the air in Waco, Texas. The tragic tornado of 1953 has left its scar on the psyche of this city. However, there is a newness of spirit, a resoluteness of purpose that is everywhere you look.

Carl Vierrege received several awards for his long combat service going from the Purple Heart to the Silver Star. In 1945 in the midst of the war, Carl actually was rotated back to the States for a furlough! He rejoined Company K later in Germany.

John Wheelis, another Waco native, would never have been a Sergeant stateside. He was then, and is now, too nice-of-a-guy.

I started working on this epistle on the way out of Waco. Somehow, someway I wanted to say, "thank you" to Waco for allowing me to be a part of your history.

I was encouraged in this by Roger Cannon. Cannon is a "one of a kind" guy.

He and his wife, Ruby, have been married humpteen years. They have left their stamp on Waco.

Ruby and Roger have proved that Buddyhood makes for good Spousemanship.

Waco, Texas like Phoenix (not Arizona) of old has risen above the major catastrophes it has suffered.

Let the word go forth: "Waco is on the move!"

Carl and John drove me through Waco. One sees the empty spaces where imposing buildings once stood before the tornado of 1953. The tornado was a staggering blow to Waco: 114 dead and $57 million in damages. 1953 was a time of travail and solemn prayer in Waco.

Carl drove through portions of Baylor University’s Campus. Baylor is the largest Baptist School in the United States. My Mother would have been delighted that we drove through the Baylor Campus. Mom never saw a Baptist she didn’t like.

One gets the feeling that the forward moving spirit that seems now to possess Waco has somehow extended to motivate Baylor University. As you drive along the Brazos you almost hear a chant in your ears:

"We have a team and we don’t care
You just can’t beat the Preachers and the Bears.

Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote:

"And time, a maniac scattering dust
And Life, a Fury slinging flame."

Tennyson sort of caught the treachery of "time" in a departure from his usual laudable verse.

Any way you slice it, time moves on and whether you view it philosophically or religiously, time remains a fleeting thing. In a sense, a vapor.

Forty-four years!! Once I helped liberate towns, a brash Kentucky basketball brat, a "payday poker" kind of a guy. Now I am old and fat and grey. What’s your problem?

I prepared to check out of the Sheraton. There was time on my hands. Outside the Texas sun was almost too hot to handle. On the Baylor Campus resides the Armstrong- Browning Library with many kudos to Robert Browning. My great teacher, my beloved Aunt Clara, had drilled English Literature into me. Therefore, I’m familiar with Browning.

Life has its stresses and strains. It has its temptations. We do not just live our own life. We share the lives of others. Then, suddenly, your life and mine is old.

I am impressed that the motto of Texas is "Friendship."

I thought of the friendships I had made overseas in the 36th Division and those many more friendships added to that at National Reunions and Reunions of our strong Mid-West Chapter. It is said that what we find at the end of a perfect day is the soul of a friend we’ve made.

I walked to the lobby of the Sheraton. The desk was being wo-manned by two very pretty girls, one short and one very tall. As I said before, bless ‘em all.

The Waco paper had already been sold out. I was disappointed. I retrieved a sensation oriented paper published in Florida. What fools we mortals be!

I recalled some of the guys I’d seen at the Reunion: Marvin Steitle, the President of the National Organization was there. He and Posey arrived from San Antonio and fraternized well with the members. Euel Fuller President of the 143rd Regiment Association and his wife, Helen, were there from Temple, Texas. Euel Fuller has had a very successful year as top kick of the 143rd.

Bert Carlton and his wife, Clara, had arrived from the Big D area with Payne Rucker and Liz Rucker. Carlton is a razor sharp guy. He now heads the T-Patch Newsletter as Editor. It seems that so many of my favorite friends live in the Dallas area.

I had seen Roy Goad at the Reunion. Goad is a good one. Roy was in D Company and lives In Temple, Texas. Andy Simonton, who served with Fuller, was there. Gene Jameson who also served in D Company, was there. Gene is a popular T-Patcher. He hails from Dallas now and swears he has no connection with the "Ewings."

My friends, Riley Tidwell and Erwin Teggerman, Past National Presidents, attended the Reunion. Both staunchly support the 36th Division Association. Tidwell, as the youngest regular T-Patcher overseas, earned his laurels at San Pietro in Italy.

Rufus Cleghorn of Waco was there. I can still picture Cleghorn as he looked overseas. Rufus was a Standard Order of Procedure guy, very imbued with a desire to do his job in a military manner. The work he has done in the 143rd Infantry’s Flower Fund shows how deeply he reveres his wartime comrades.

I am taken to the airport in Waco in the Courtesy Car of Sheraton’s. The humongously happy Hispanic makes me more cheerful as faces like "Tack" Walker’s and Ken Blish’s kept coming to mind.

I asked the driver about Bluebonnets. "Mostly here and gone," he said. "They leave about this same time every year."

The Bluebonnet is a wild flower with frail blue blossoms, dressed in a silk leisure jacket giving it a look of casualness. In Springtime, the Bluebonnet carpets the fields of Texas, bringing a profuse and hauntingly beautiful floral display. Then the Bluebonnets are gone. They had disappeared, for the most part, when I was in Waco on June 2-4. The Bluebonnets burrow into the earth once their season is over.

Are the Blubonnets dead or sleeping? It is, perhaps, a distinction without a difference because early next Spring the Bluebonnets will come again, sprouting forth from the earth in the starring role in God’s nursery out Texas way. Each Spring the Bluebonnet shakes the sleep out of her tassels and comes forth all abloom.

If we could solve the mystery of the Texas Bluebonnet perhaps we could solve the mysteries of the universe.

Alvin Amelunke and Bob Hand were at the Airport. Bob and I were catching the Commuter to the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. I was getting scorching hot again at 1 p.m. They announced the flight.

I had said this will be a "once in a lifetime" trip.

"Come back, next year, Kibbey," Alvin said.

Spontaneously I said, "I will." You know, I think I shall."