Although the stories I am writing are of events in which I participated, I feel compelled to pause and pay tribute to the little known but all-important junior officers: the lieutenants.
The lieutenants came from all strata of society, and in all shapes and sizes, usually through the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps or Officers Candidate School--the so-called "Ninety Day’s Wonders."
Our new Army was growing at a fast pace, and new officers were needed quickly.
If he were fortunate, the fledgling lieutenant trained with his platoon in the states, where he and his men learned their craft together. He practiced command and honed his leadership skills. The wise ones were able to associate with their men while keeping their respect and obedience.
The morale of the men could be judged by their griping or lack of it. The good lieutenant knew when to look the other way and when to rein his men in, and when to give a little slack. Such an officer was liked and respected by his platoon, and they caused him few disciplinary problems. The officer and men when overseas went into combat and their baptism into battle together.
Not so fortunate was the lieutenant who, fresh from officers’ training was sent as a replacement officer to a veteran combat platoon. Such a "2nd John" was looked upon with dismay and suspicion.
The smart ones sought advice from experienced officers, and asked the non-coms for help, heeding their advice. If the lieutenant survived, he became a good experienced platoon leader.
Casualties and transfers of promoted officers meant a steady supply of new lieutenants. We men helped them all and looked after them as best we could.
Though fifty-odd years have passed, these brave, good men parade past in my memory: Lt. Fazig, killed with others manning a 37 mm. Gun; the young lieutenant who despite many warnings from us would pass openings in hedge rows, and who was literally cut in half by a burp gun. The young lieutenant who ordered us to attack non-existent tanks with fixed bayonets. He had, while serving faithfully, slipped quietly around the bend and was hospitalized.
Lt. Phillips, who, though small in stature, had the heart of a lion. He lay wounded, and as we tried to reach him, was run over by a tank before our eyes. Capt. Goodman wept.
Lt. Fisher, who had lead our platoon so capably was promoted and lead our company as Captain Fisher. To our regret he was sent to the First Armored division with other replacements. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross posthumously. He had called for artillery fire on his own position and broken up a German attack.
Some of our lieutenants attained their rank as a result of battlefield promotion. One such, Lieutenant Garza, joined us in combat in Sicily. He earned our undying respect not only for his leadership abilities, but for his part in the following incident.
After being on the attack for over a week, we were to have a two day rest in a recently captured village. Rest and cleaning of ourselves had to wait until proper security had been seen to.
In the midst of these tasks, a jeep braked to a halt. Ensconced in the rear seat beside his two foot lockers sat an immaculately groomed and uniformed Lt. Colonel.
After Lt. Garza gave him the directions he requested, the Colonel barked, "You and your men are a disgrace to the uniform. You look like a bunch of bums."
"Sir," Lt. Garza replied, "my men and I have been in constant combat for over a week. Furthermore, sir, we have no jeeps to carry foot lockers full of fresh uniforms as the Colonel has." He then saluted smartly, and walked away. The lieutenant was our kind of man.
I have fond memories and sad memories of the officers. They fought the battles with us and shared our hardships, having at the same time the officers’ responsibilities of command. As an infantryman I mention them in that context.
Our other combat arms, however, had men of the same brave breed.
The top brass planned the strategy, but the lieutenants and their small units, no matter what the combat arm, assured our ultimate victory. Perhaps in Valhalla there is a special place for them.
Edwin F. Forrest A Rifleman Remembers ©1997 and 1998