Gertie

When our basic training was over, we rookies were sent to outfits throughout the 2nd Armored Division. With several others I was assigned to B Company 41st Armored infantry Regiment. Being the first selectees, we were a source of curiosity to B Company. They were all regular army, the non-coms having served two or more hitches. As a whole, they were tough but fair to us one-year men.

After a week of orientation, we started what was called The School of the Soldier. The course was to last six weeks, and generally go beyond basic training. The officer in charge was a second lieutenant, but like no other officer I’d ever been exposed to.

He was of medium height and weight, neutral coloring, and squinted through round-lensed glasses. His features were small and he had a down turned, pursed mouth.

From that mouth issued the least euphonious sounds any of us had ever heard. It is impossible to describe that voice. A semi-hysterical girlish screech, a rasp of punished metal, a stick scraping along a picket fence and several cats in heat having their tails trod on suggests it, but fails to do it justice.

His personality was as obnoxious as his voice. Nothing pleased him. He upbraided the non-coms as well as us privates, almost stamping his foot in rage over absolute trivialities. His name was soon forgotten by us, as Sgt. Robert Locke began referring to him as "Gertie."

Gertie treated us as if we were toy soldiers to play with until he tired of us. This situation continued for two horrendous weeks.

Sgt. Locke, who later attended O.C.S, was a non-com liked and respected throughout the regiment by officers and enlisted men alike. We knew that the intolerable situation had to come to a head as Sgt. Locke was about to explode.

Fortunately the training ended that second week, as the Tennessee maneuvers were due to start, and all men were to undergo rigorous training. The Second Armored division training bore fruit, for we established in Tennessee its great capabilities in combat. After the maneuvers we new men felt like real soldiers, for we had integrated well with the regulars, and were respected.

Time and training passed, North Africa was invaded on 8 November, 1942. We landed on the beaches of Sicily 10 July, 1943, conquering and securing the island.

With the fighting finished, the troops were left to our own devices. The local vino, though not choice, was plentiful, and some of the men sought and found willing women. Some of us read, wrote letters, and slept. We had a minimum of duties--reveille was the only formation.

As we gradually resumed training, it was soon decreed that men who couldn’t drive half-tracks were to learn. The training site was perfect--a large level field, at the side of a road. We students from my company arrived at a scene of utter confusion.

A great number of Sicilian kids were swarming all over the area. Those not begging or trying to peddle items of dubious value were trying to liberate anything detachable from the half-tracks. A Chinese fire drill would have been more orderly and disciplined. Above this chaos we heard a strident and hysterical voice. Those of us who had been exposed to it at Fort Benning recognized it at once--Gertie.

Finally, despite Gertie’s efforts some semblance of order was established. Groups of students, six to a half-track, were selected, each with a driver instructor and a non-com in charge. Gertie assumed the instructor’s role and commanded the half-track to which I was assigned. It should be mentioned that the vehicle had wind shields which folded down over the hood when not in use. Our half-track’s windshield was in such a position. It fell my lot to be the first driver while Gertie, as track commander, stood upright on the passenger side of the cab.

I started my engine, but because of the children darting around the vehicle, I was reluctant to set it in motion. When I informed Gertie of my concern for the safety of the kids, he screeched for me to take off, saying that the kids were in no danger, and could look after themselves.

Glancing apprehensively at a scamp who was running parallel to our path, I put the vehicle into first gear and, attaining the necessary speed, shifted into second gear and fed the gas.

Immediately Gertie alarmingly shrieked, "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

Fearing that a child had been run over, I floored my brake pedal. The vehicle stopped instantly, but Gertie kept going. He went over the dash and landed face down on the hood, not moving.

Quickly dismounting, fearing to find the beautiful child who had been running along side us crushed and broken under our track, I looked, but thankfully no child had been harmed.

The other men riding in our half-track had heard the urgent "Stop!" order, and had followed me out of the vehicle. We were at a loss to understand the reason for the order, for there had been no emergency to justify such a halt.

I did not screech, but I doubtless roared at Gertie, demanding an explanation of his bellowing, "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

"You didn’t double clutch," he rasped, and repeated it over and over as he was placed in a jeep and evacuated for medical attention.

Most of the men thought I had rid us of Gertie in a clever way. They laughed and congratulated me, shaking my hand and slapping my black. Disclaiming the honor only seemed to attest to my modesty. This caused me concern. Could I be charged with assaulting an officer?

Gertie’s injuries, we learned, were a hair line fracture of the jaw and several contusions and abrasions of both shins. The Brass must have known of Gertie’s ineptitude, for we learned that he had been sent to a rear area. None of us was ever questioned about his accident.

Pyle, the regular half-track driver, painted a large 1st lieutenant’s bar on the hood of our vehicle. When I asked him why, he replied, "Hell, Forrest get four more lieutenants, and you’ll be an ace."

Edwin F. Forrest A Rifleman Remembers     ©1997 and 1998