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"My father's story"
Six decades after a young infantryman fought in Europe, he revealed to his son the deep mark his wartime experiences, long held secret, left on him
Al Nadler in Brooklyn in July 1945, on leave after serving in Europe, and about to be sent to the Pacific.
Published: Saturday, December 5, 2009 at 3:00 a.m.
Last Modified: Saturday, December 5, 2009 at 11:05 p.m.
Infantryman Abraham Nadler was on his way to invade Japan when World War II ended, almost four years after the Dec. 7, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor.
Six decades later, he handed a small metal box to his son, Sonoma County Presiding Judge Gary Nadler, that rekindled memories of the fears, the fighting and the inner demons that could not remain silent.
It is a story of bravery and sacrifice from what has been called The Greatest Generation.
General Order 48, dated October 29, 1945, simply stated that Private First Class Abraham Nadler was awarded the Purple Heart for “wounds received in action at Troisdorf, Germany, on 12 April 1945.”
He was with the 97th Division, 303rd Infantry, Company G, and had just turned 19 years of age two weeks prior. When he arrived at the field hospital, the Army inventoried receipt of $42.25 from him. His clothing included a hand-made silver ring, a deck of cards and two Jewish prayer books. I have since wondered why he carried two prayer books with him while in combat. I will never know.
Before my father died three years ago in Santa Rosa, he called me aside. Reaching into his closet, he extracted a nondescript metal box. Separating long-hidden documents, stored since 1946, my father began reliving an emotional journey long held secret to all but him. I understood, without words spoken, that what I was about to hear needed to be passed on during his lifetime. I also knew that my father understood that he was nearing the end of his time on earth.
Words were spoken of only a few of the long-buried reminders. He looked at a photo of a young sailor. I remember looking at the photo, and wondering whether the young boy had started to shave yet.
Tears welled up in my father's eyes. Was he killed in the war, I asked? Surprisingly, my father didn't know. But, he described their pact, two young boys about to journey to life unknown. If one dies, the other was to contact their family. I never learned more of the details, too painful for cross-examination.
There was a telegram informing my grandparents of my father's fate, delivered on April 26, 1945, almost nine years to the day before my birth. The Secretary of War expressed his deep regret that my father was slightly injured, but that mail should continue to be addressed to him as before.
A year later, another telegram, this time from my father, happily exclaiming to my grandparents that they would be seeing their son in seven or eight days, and that he missed them. I learned three years ago from my father that, while in the hospital, he pleaded with the clerk to include the word “slightly” when informed that the notice of his wounds would be disclosed to his parents. He didn't want them to worry while he lay in the field hospital.
The 97th Division was trained to make amphibious landings in the Pacific Theater. After training at San Luis Obispo, they learned that they would instead be sent to the European Theater. This change resulted from the Battle of the Bulge, during which the German Army launched a massive offensive against the Allied forces. By the middle of January, 1945, American units had suffered approximately 75,000 casualties. The 97th was thus earmarked for European combat. The division was moved to the East Coast, and shipped out to Europe in February 1945.
During the passage to Europe, my father recalled hearing a torpedo narrowly missing the troop ship as it passed by the hull that contained his bunk. Arriving in France in March 1945, the unit entered Germany through Belgium. From there on, fierce resistance was encountered. The Battle of the Ruhr Pocket, as described by the U.S. Army, became my father's brief battleground.
According to accounts of the battle, after exchanging fire along the Rhine River, Company G of the 303rd crossed near Bonn, and took position along the Sieg River. On April 9, the 97th went on the offensive. In what was described as one of the toughest battles of the Ruhr Pocket campaign, the 303rd was charged with clearing Siegburg, a small town, and the Glockner Works at Troisdorf.
Elite German troops defended Siegburg, and the city had to be taken street by street, house by house. I asked my father about that time in the war. In response, I heard a tale of survival, and heroism. Dad did not think himself a hero, and would refuse such credit if he were alive. But, having survived this ordeal, he described the events shaping this young man's future.
My father was a “first scout,” an unenviable assignment. When he was training for Pacific island landings, he considered himself to be a “dead man,” since he was the first soldier in the amphibious boats when the hatch was lowered, and thus, the most likely to be killed when the Japanese opened fire. When he learned that he would instead be sent to Europe, this was good news — or so he thought.
Upon arriving, he learned that first scouts typically lasted three days before injury or death. After clearing the Glockner Works with great loss of life, my father's platoon was ordered to proceed. The first scout and the second scout were ordered to proceed in advance. The second scout, who my father recalled by name, simply refused to go. Sixty years later, my father casually excused his refusal, since he was married and had a family. Someone else was assigned, with whom my father had never trained, and this lack of training led to my father being unaware of the platoon's movement away from his position.
Thus, he found himself alone in a field. He was targeted by a German machine-gun nest and some light vehicle mounted cannon trained on him. According to my father, he dropped to the ground in a fetal position. The machine-gun bullets kicked up dirt all around him. The cannon started firing at him. German “88” artillery shells also were exploding. The next thing he remembered was flying through the air, and then waking up on the ground. A shell had exploded, and the Germans left him for dead.
Somehow my father's unit found him; he could not recall how. My father volunteered, with others, to “take out” the very machine-gun nest that had been firing at him. He successfully did so, although back pain increasingly hampered his ability.
The pain grew intense, and he was sent back to the field hospital. He agreed to take German prisoners back with him. By the time he got to the hospital, he could hardly move because of the increasing pain. He was strapped onto a stretcher and found himself unable to feel his lower extremity.
It was then that a German prisoner was brought to the hospital on a stretcher, and placed near his. Both the prisoner and my father were on stretchers, immobilized. Regardless, my father recalled an overwhelming need to get to the German and to end his life. He groped for his rifle, but it had been taken from him. He tried to reach for his hidden bayonet, always stashed in his boot, but he could not reach his boots because of his own injuries. Army personnel had to restrain him. This conduct bothered my father for the rest of his life, one of the several instances of “dark conduct” that plagued his soul.
Upon examining my father's feet, the Army doctor ordered that both of his feet should be amputated due to “trenchfoot,” a common condition resulting from wet, cold feet often leading to gangrene. Heeding my father's pleas, the surgery was not performed. As it turned out, those feet were never a serious problem throughout my father's life. As an afterthought, the doctor noted that the heel of my father's boot had been shot cleanly off, likely by the machine gun trained on him. Until then, my father was unaware that he lost his heel to a bullet.
After recovering in the field hospital, my father demanded that he be permitted to return to his company, which had fought its way into Czechoslovakia. Still in pain, the injury was not, in the mind of this just-turned 19-year-old, enough to keep him from his duties. Informed that he would be reassigned to another unit, my father refused under threat of court-martial.
You see, my father explained, these were the men that he trained with, and trusted. They were a “Band of Brothers.” The Army let him find his way to his original company, which he did, arriving just after VE Day. Fighting was over, and he shipped off, with his fellow soldiers, to Brooklyn, N.Y., for leave. They were then deployed to the Pacific, to take part in the invasion of Japan. The Japanese surrendered while they were en route, and the intended invasion became occupation duties. He came home in 1946 and, of course, married Mom.
It was not until my father chose to tell his stories that I became aware of the heavy burden that he carried. He alluded to, but refused to describe, taking many lives. He was haunted by his “dark side” that he came to know as a young teenager at war. He would not discuss these events during most of his lifetime. I am flattered that he chose me to pass his history on to, and accept the honor as praise from a parent to child.
Now that my father has died, milestones such as his birthday lead to reflection. He was always my hero, as only a father can be. He made me realize that all soldiers who honor their country are heroes, not just those who receive medals.
The depth of my father's anguish, smoldering through his lifetime, underscores the depth of the commitment that our armed forces make, and the debt that we owe to each veteran. Those serving our country, past and present, are all heroes.
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