"And may God protect our troops."

My father served in World War II in the Third Army. He survived, lived a long life, married and had three children.

Robert Sage, on surrendered rifles, 1945

History is written by the survivors.

President Joe Biden ends every formal speech with these closing words: "and may God protect our troops."

Memorial Day, Part Two.

Beginning in 1996, when my father was 76, he began writing his memoirs, which turned out to be 317 printed pages. The midpoint of the book catches him at age 24, getting onto the Queen Mary which was serving as a troop ship bringing soldiers to Britain in preparation for moving into Europe. It was not a luxury ride. The Queen Mary was the fastest large ship afloat, and with 20,000 soldiers aboard it was a prime target for submarines. The Queen Mary surged across the Atlantic, bouncing and blasting into waves, hoping to outrace any attempt to torpedo it. The ship was awash with vomit--a chapter in the book.

I have read that this is typical of memoirs. The midpoint of a book written by old men is not the chronological midpoint of their lives, nor of their careers, but much earlier. The vivid memories of youth are the ones they want to share. The four years of his life as a soldier represent five percent of his life and a third of the book. A week in combat was more memorable than five years as a school principal, and a better story.

Robert Sage had been stationed in Boston, part of a group manning anti-aircraft facilities to protect Boston Harbor--a task that turned out to be unnecessary. Its real purpose was waiting and preparation for landing American troops into Europe. During that year he met, courted, and married Anne Kostarelos, an American-born woman who grew up in Boston's Greek immigrant community. 

He described his time in the Third Army as one of very good fortune. He was in the infantry and men in rifle companies got killed. That wasn't his assignment. He was a messenger, bringing troop movement orders from Headquarters up to officers who commanded troops at the point of battle. His primary job was to get the message through, not to seek out enemy soldiers. To do this, he needed to stay alive. Somehow--perhaps by dumb luck--the Army put a man with extraordinary skill at remembering routes and directions into a job that required that skill. Dad could hear just once complicated directions with multiple turns and obscure turning-points, but then follow them, in the dark, in a different season, in a different mode of transportation. He preserved this gift throughout his life.

His time there was dangerous. He was nearly killed several times--by a tank that blew his jeep out from under him, by rifle fire, by land mines, by decapitation by piano wire strung across a road, and by freezing to death after being soaked in water in January with no dry clothes. The photos here are of a relaxed, happy guy. He survived. His army won. He made it home. 

Robert Sage, Memories of a Table Rock Boy:

                                       Messenger Chapter.

Our regimental headquarters was located near there, but to get from our position at the airport required an intricate routing. My instructions were:

“Drive across this field to the autobahn.You’ll see four German soldiers’ bodies at the best point for climbing up the side. You have to go up fast or you’ll high center at the top. Drive on the autobahn until you come to a break, which you won’t be able to cross. Drive down the bank. Again, start off fast or you’ll high center. Cross the field to the unpaved road. Turn right and follow it. Don’t take any roads leading off to the left. That area has not yet been taken. Eventually you’ll get there.”

I had made the trip once in daylight, when Sergeant Major Jones called me to battalion headquarters. It was about ten o’clock at night. General Culin and his son had come in on an airplane and wanted to be taken to regimental headquarters. Since I was the only person who had made the trip, I was given this honor. “Could headlights be used?” It was decided they could be.

General Culin got into the front seat beside me. His son, a lieutenant, got in the rear seat. The route I would have to take had been somewhat frightening to me, even in the daylight. Now, with a general, I wondered if I might be court marshaled for endangering his life. I pointed out the bodies of the German soldiers to the general and explained that it would be necessary to go up the side fast.

He understood. “Just do as you normally would do.”

“How long have those bodies been there?” his son, the lieutenant, asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” I answered.

The three-mile trip on the autobahn went quickly, as I worried about the drive over the side. It came quickly. I would have to do it. The rear axle scraped and the rear wheels lost traction. Had I been too cautious? I held my breath. Yes, it was okay. We were moving down the bank, and a road came into view in the headlights. There was enough light to see without headlights and we were now in the area that I had been told was just two miles from enemy territory. I turned off the lights and drove slowly.

Where were those two dead horses that had told me I was on the right road? I continued on. Still no dead horses.

Then I passed a large building. I hadn’t remembered any large building. I pulled to a stop.

“What’s the problem, Corporal?” the general asked.

“We should have come to two dead horses in the road. I want to be sure we haven’t taken a wrong road.” I walked back to the building. A sliver of light was coming from a small window some distance above the
ground. I pulled myself up by the ledge and peeked in. It was a large room and seemed to be filled with people. I listened. They were speaking in a language I couldn’t identify. Were they locked in? Could it be I was now behind enemy lines?

I walked back to the jeep. The general and his son were out of the jeep and under a canvas on the ground. A light shining around the edges told me they were probably studying a map. I walked on ahead. In a short
distance I came to the dead horses. I rushed back to the general to tell him the good news.

We continued on.

“Damn.”

“What’s wrong?” the general asked.

“We have a flat tire. I’ll need to put on a spare.” I started to work. A soldier appeared in the darkness, a regimental headquarters guard. Yes, we were only a short distance from our destination. He would walk the general and lieutenant to it.

Before leaving, the general asked, “Tell me, Corporal. How long have you been doing this?”

“Since we went into combat in the Saar, sir.”

“Always alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No more, Corporal,” he said emphatically.

The next day written orders came out that mounted messengers were to work in pairs. Most battalions had already been doing this, but Sgt. Major Jones needed an order to get him to be reasonable. Paul Rega, a nineteen-year-old from LaGrange, Illinois, became my companion, and Philip Ridinger, a spunky young replacement who had been working in battalion headquarters, now had been assigned to work with Corporal Montgomery.

                                                                     ---   ---   ---   ---

Robert Sage came home.  Had wife pregnant with a son--me--, a daughter age two, and a later son, David. 

He had a career, starting as a teacher at Jackson School in the Medford School District.