Saint-Lo

Grandpa landed in France on June 13, 1944, but I've never firmly established what exactly he did until the 808 Tank Destroyer Battalion went into action in September 1944.

Based on things he said over the years, I think that he went to France as part of a replacement company, a group of men not assigned to a particular unit, that followed behind the frontline combat troops and were doled out as need. My guess is that grandpa was assigned to the 808 as a replacement in September 1944. I'll have to do some more digging to see if this is true.

I do know that he was close to the French town of Saint-Lo (or St. Lo) during the battle for it in June 1944. He was not a participant however. For some very in depth discussions of the battle, I would recommend check the following links (Link 1 and Link 2).

The short version is the town of Saint-Lo blocked inland movement of American troops from the beaches of Normandy to the interior of France. The Germans fought fiercely to keep the town. The Americans tried using close air support to break through the German defenses, and proceeded to carpet-bomb the entire town. While it did ultimate lead to the American forces taking Saint-Lo, over eight-hundred American soldiers were killed by their own bombers.

The only concrete memory of the battle grandpa ever shared with me was this:

"I was watching a flight of four B-17's flying over in a diamond formation. Then, suddenly they were gone. German anti-aircraft fire hit the bombay on one of the planes and it exploded. It vaporized the whole formation."

And, as grandpa pointed out at the time, each of those planes carried around thirteen men. A lot of men died in the blink of the eye.

A Matter of Time

Sorry for the long absence. It was regrettably unavoidable.

One problem that I’ve had with trying to put my grandfather’s stories in order is that they were given to me in no particular order. Basic training could jump straight to the Battle of the Bulge and then back to Wales before D-Day in a short span of time. Chronology is a chronic problem.

The short version of the order of things is basic training and such in Texas and Mississippi followed by a brief stop over in Washington, D.C., on their way to “grand ol’ England.” After a prolonged stay in Wales and England, grandpa finally went ashore on June 13th, 1944, a week after D-Day. Then he made his way across France, on to Luxemburg during the Bulge, to Germany, and finally Austria by war’s end. It has been left to me to fit all the stories and sundry bits into this rough time line.