Recall, Remount, Retread

Randomly assigned by U.S. Fifth Army Hdqts. in Italy were "names" or radio call signals referring to regiments of the Tenth Mtn. Division. They were "Recall" (85th Reg.), "Remount" (86th Reg.) and "Retread" (87th Reg.).

There are five men whose names I have known for nearly sixty years and whose photographic images I have been familiar with to varying degrees for the same length of time. Four of the five I met at least once while growing up and one man was perhaps my Dad's dearest friend who I always referred to and addressed as "Uncle" by early custom and habit. These men were my father's buddies during the closing months of the Second World War in the mountains and valleys of northern Italy while serving with the U.S. Army's Tenth Mountain Division. The mutual fondness of Dad and "Uncle" Henny spoke to a certain bond that only war and its intense fostering of camaraderie could forge. I perhaps always took all the men's existences for granted and it was not until a fortnight ago that I seriously (and futilely) sought to locate and contact the three whose demises I was not sure of. Now sadly, I am. News of a reunion for veterans (and mostly descendants) of this division of the Army next month spurred my search.

All of them were a part of the Infantry, Detachment 2680th Hq. Co. attached to the 10th Mtn. Div. Hq. Co. and with the exception of my Dad were all either foreign born and/or of German extraction. Because the men were all part of G-2 or M.I.S. (Military Intelligence Service) and their chief duties included work as interpreters, interrogators and translators of captured enemy personnel, civilian refugees and their personal property (diaries especially), a working knowledge of German and/or Italian were obvious assets and hence it was not by chance that these men were proficient in these languages. "Uncle" Henny was born in the Bronx of German immigrant parents, Fred had been born in Germany at the dawn of the Weimar Republic, Adolf (who understandably preferred the nickname "Al") was also born there several years later while Gerhard was born in the last year of the German Empire (1918). Stephan, a.k.a. "Big Steve"was a native of Poland and my father was the only other native born American and only one born to Sicilian immigrant parents in Manhattan.

They were all really part of our extended family, especially Henny, whom my family visited and was visited by regularly for nearly thirty years after the war. "Big" Steve came to our home when I was still a pre-schooler and I remember distinctly thinking that a friendly giant was our guest. Exchanging Christmas cards with them, including Al and Fred, helped to reinforce our memories of them and familial ties.

There is an expertise in a field called psycho-photography. Like handwriting analysis or the art and science of body language, photos tell a tale that the learned can reveal. My estimations are just hunches, but they're educated ones. The photographs that I possess of my father and his friends are ones that speak of men purposeful and contented. I know the basic history of the war and these are comrades in arms who, to use the modern parlance "have each other's backs." Loneliness and doubt are non-existent (well, they're easily suppressed thanks to the strength afforded by friendship's power) and this despite a dedicated foe and the ever present threat of mayhem and death. Perhaps they are inured to the conflict. Destruction is wreaked daily by their side against the enemy. The end is inevitable and the victory is envisioned if not yet at hand. One photo shows my Dad (in the middle) and Al and Henny in particularly relaxed poses; so much so that they're perhaps not poses. The foliage about them is especially leafy and their smiles are broader, more relaxed than other similar snaps. Al is even playfully reaching out behind Dad's back to attempt a pat of Henny's prematurely balding pate. My guess is that the war is already over and summer, in more ways than one is nearly here. But the other photos tell also of affection but of a determination with hostilities not yet ended. In one, my father is exiting (or entering) a jeep with his Lt. (Gerhard) and though perhaps posed, it seems a polite pause for the photographer as their visages tell of business still pending and the date written in Dad's hand on the reverse which reads "March 1945" confirms that Axis forces are still operating somewhere nearby and are perfectly capable of causing trouble however battered they may be (arguably a glaring understatement given the then recent, now famed battles of Riva Ridge and the slaughter then yet to be in April's heartaches).

I guess my favorite photo is that of my father interrogating a captured Italian prisoner (reportedly the first one) on 29 January of '45 (a soldier of Mussolini's puppet state: the Republic of Salo). Growing up, this image was so matter-of-fact for a pre-schooler's understanding ("that's Daddy working while in the Army"). His non-threatening style, whether relating to a refugee or a prisoner, is evident in this shot and it was a great part of his success with friends, foes, civilians and commanding officers alike.  Only the passage of so many decades and the receding of memories of my aging "boomer" generation as well as those of the Greatest Generation (or their now approaching eradication as primary sources of history whether by advanced senescence or death) alerts me now to the preciousness of this and other images from that seminal era in world history.

What Al, "Uncle" Henny, Fred, "Big" Steve, Lt. Bromberg and Dad taught me was this: heroes don't usually come home to brass bands, confetti, and Medals of Honor placed around their necks or with offers for work in Hollywood or on television (with absolutely all due respect and love for the late, great Audie Leon Murphy). They come home (if they are lucky) in relatively good health: the same normal set of biceps, same non-Herculean physiques, with most of their hair, even if grayer, familiar (if wearier) smiles and the quiet ardor for the continuation of the life they had led. Scars, both visible and invisible (the latter surely immutable) attest to the thievery of at least some of the "best years" of their lives. But this return to "normalcy" and the willingness of most of our men under arms to give their assent to life again and the now realized prayer for peace, is another aspect of their true heroism and yet another gift to a grateful land.