Ancestry Magazine

They were our teachers, police officers, neighbors, fathers, mothers, and grandparents. In World War II, they assumed different roles—those of soldiers, sailors, WACS, and nurses.

I grew up listening to my father’s war experiences from his time in the South Pacific and learned to appreciate the efforts World War II veterans gave to this country. Today, we take our freedom for granted, but in the 1940s, men and women had a common cause: to ensure our liberties. They were bound to duty and were willing to make necessary sacrifices.

From my father’s tales, I gained an insight in World War II and the lives that were interrupted in order to serve our country. Years later as a commercial photographer, I decided to honor these veterans by embarking on a journey of photographing World War II veterans and collecting their oral histories. By combining photographs with oral history, the resulting work would celebrate their lives in a unique, compelling presentation. The photographs would create the visual appeal while the oral history would add the historical and emotional interest.

On the front porches and in the living rooms of World War II veterans, I listened to stories of tank battles, bombing missions, and hand-to-hand combat. I was inspired by stories of pilots who managed to fly through tremendous amo unts of enemy anti-aircraft flak and returned safely to base, sometimes with seriously damaged planes. I learned about WACS, WAVES, and veterans who served stateside. I listened to accounts from those veterans who served in far-off places that I never knew existed. I also heard tales about ordinary GI life when discussions about how food, showers (or lack thereof), jokes, camaraderie, and even an unsuspecting stray cat could relieve the frightening tensions of war. I heard all their stories.

But the first stories I heard were those of my father, Don Dusenbery, a machinist on the railroad in Chicago. Like most Americans, he didn’t know anything about a place called Pearl Harbor until that fateful day in December 1941.

I was working in Chicago on the railroad when the war broke out. We had been hearing about Hitler in Europe but we were so busy, we really didn’t have time to pay much attention to everything that was going on over there. I didn’t hear anything about the Japanese but of course, all that changed on December 7, 1941 with Pearl Harbor.

My buddies and I were going to volunteer for the Navy but before we got around to it, I got my draft notice for the Army. We were shipped out by train from Chicago and we didn’t know where we were going but it seemed that all of us were mechanically inclined so we thought we were going for training as machinists or something similar. We ended up in Camp Hood, Texas.

I was assigned to Ordnance. We were responsible to calibrate, repair, and maintain the sights and aiming mechanisms on artillery and small arms weapons. I eventually ended up in New Guinea where we stayed for six months and then on to the Philippines. When we landed in the Philippines, the Japanese had these huge railroad guns in the mountains—miles away. We would see the flash in the distance, then hear the shell whistling overhead as it got closer and then the explosion. This went on all the first night. Fortunately, no one was killed. I was never able to find out exactly what happened to those Japanese guns.

We set up camp not far from the beach. We saw an increase in activity with aircraft and vehicles, and rumors were spreading that the Japanese were close. Just beyond the perimeter of camp was a dense jungle that we used as an area to test fire repaired rifles and weapons that we had worked on. One day, the guys were test firing into the jungle when there was a big commotion—their test firing had actually killed two Japanese soldiers who were on some kind of scouting patrol. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My father never glorified World War II or his war stories—he just had a particular job to do and he did it. Growing up in the Great Depression, he’d seen his share of unemployment lines and the poor farmers in rural Illinois when he went home to visit his folks. While still a young man, my father’s family life, friendships, the railroad, his normal life, abruptly stopped when he went into the Army. Years later, he had a chest full of war souvenirs—Japanese artifacts including a Samurai sword, GI articles, ribbons and patches, a rifle—and I was in awe of the stuff.

Recalling the Stories
The initial reaction of World War II veterans when I first approached them about participating in the photographic oral history ranged from humility, reluctance, and shyness to enthusiasm and an eagerness to tell their stories. I often needed to remind them that what they had to say was important—that they had much to offer. Once the photography session and interview process was underway, they warmed up to the idea and felt flattered to be involved. Even the most camera-shy veterans allowed themselves to be photographed knowing how important their participation was.

Meeting and reminiscing with these veterans, I began to realize myself the importance of the project. History is replete with the larger-than-life figures whose lives are documented throu gh Hollywood. But I was tapping into a wealth of history and heroism that was, until now, hidden in the memories of neighbors and friends—these everyday heroes would otherwise pass into obscurity as their numbers diminished.

Many veterans like to tell their stories. They will relate their favorite anecdotes to anyone who will listen, often glorifying others in the process. They are modest and humble, and recall their stories with a sense of duty. Veterans like Evelyn “Mickey” Gilberg, an Army nurse, told details that she had not recalled for years.

I finished nursing school in 1940. Not knowing what I wanted to do with my professional life, I decided one year in the Army would help. I would get to travel, meet guys, and hopefully gain focus in my future profession.

In my third year in the Army, a hospital unit was formed to be named the 38th Station Hospital. We proceeded to the Port of Embarkation to board the USS Mariposa to cross the Atlantic. I was disgustingly seasick during the entire voyage. We arrived in Birmingham, England, nine days later and that night, the nurses were ordered to spread our blankets on the ground and get some sleep. It was a very bumpy resting place and the next morning, we discovered it was a cabbage patch.

On D-day, the 6th of June 1944, the Allies invaded Normandy on the northeast coast of France and all hell broke loose. I believed the 38th Station Hospital was being downsized as many of us were transferred to other units. After bouncing all over England we eventually boarded a ship at Southampton to cross the English Channel.

We met a couple of officers who had bottles of “cheer” which we helped them consume. The next morning we arrived at Normandy a bit hung-over. Weighted down with helmet, gas mask, musette bag, and blanket roll, we were ordered to climb over the side of the ship and descend a rope ladder to a landing craft below. Well, I got my body and equipment over the side of the ship but did not know how to climb down the rope ladder. I looked down and thought to myself”I’ll never make it. So someone gave me a push and I fell all the way down into the arms of some GIs in the landing craft. They transported us to about ten yards from dry land and we waded the rest of the way to shore.

A chief nurse told us to spread out blankets on the ground and get some sleep—on the muddy beach!? No way! The only dry area on the beach was the nurse’s latrine tent. Since it was not old enough to have that special aroma, we spread our blankets on the latrine boxes and tried to get some sleep. We were frequently interrupted by middle-of-the-night visitors but we would give the girls a hand and lift the latrine lids for them with our feet.

From August to November, we were shuffled through temporary duty at various units. The Battle of the Bulge started on December 16, 1944. This was the real thing—air raids, cannons, bullets, bloody wounds, and death. Over 23,000 American soldiers were captured, 81,000 were wounded, and 18,000 killed. We spent New Year’s Day, not celebrating with bells and whistles, but ducking under tables and cots to protect ourselves from flying bullets. Our shot-up quarters were beside a road where Allied tanks were moving up to Bastogne. The enemy was strafing these tanks and some of the bullets penetrated our quarters. We eventually persevered and our boys advanced.

For many years, I did not think about or talk about my wartime experiences. I was too busy with my family and nursing career. But today, I am a VBOB (Veteran of the Battle of the Bulge). I am proud to try to keep alive the experiences of the Battle of the Bulge and World War II. My one-year voluntary Army duty lasted almost five years on two continents and in six countries.

The Sacrifice
World War II has its famous battles and campaigns, like the Battle of the Bulge, and they are deserving of honor and notoriety. Bu t in talking with the veterans, I became aware that there were countless other battles fought at different locations and endless other commitments by veterans throughout the world.

Veterans are a living testimony to our national heritage, but the war into which America was thrust on 7 December 1941 is fast becoming a faint memory. Apart from a fleeting thought on Memorial Day or an occasional movie seen by the general public, many World War II veterans fear that the war is merely another concept or lesson to be learned from a textbook—battles in forgotten towns, lost generals’ names to be memorized.

Robert D. Stewart, 1st Division, U.S.M.C., related to me the story of Guadalcanal—a five-month ordeal that for him is far more than a forgotten battle in a faraway land.

I was selling cars for Holler Chevrolet when the war started. Holler was the only dealer in Orlando, Florida—things have changed a bit since then. As a Staff Sergeant, I was wire chief of the 1st Battalion, 11th Regiment. I was in charge of telephone communication in the Battalion. The 11th Regiment was artillery and my job was to see that a field telephone switchboard maintained communications between the forward observers and the fire direction center and the artillery cannons. An enemy target coordinate would be relayed to this artillery and pinpointed until we could tell them, “Fire for effect!”

On Guadalcanal, we were under fire for five months—the longest of any U.S. Forces in history. A Japanese flat top had been hit by several torpedoes and was sinking fast off Guadalcanal. The 21 Zero fighters on the flat top were ordered to attack Henderson Field and do as much damage as they could before going down.

They came in strafing and dropping small bombs. Our 1st Division Air Wing of eight Wildcats was ordered up to fight them. The dogfighting started in the morning and lasted until the afternoon when all the Zeroes had been shot down—nineteen Zeroes by our Air Wing an d two by our anti-aircraft. This was the greatest air show I ever saw. We lost one fighter plane. This happened towards the last days of our five months on Guadalcanal.

There really wasn’t any time to relax on Guadalcanal, but a few of us were singers, and when there was a lull in the fighting, we would sing barbershop songs. As you might expect, we could not communicate with our families back home. It was a long five months.

Remember
Many Americans hope the efforts and sacrifices put forth by veterans will be remembered. I asked a veteran if he was bitter about the war. “It’s been over fifty years; no, I’m not bitter. It was a long time ago. But I can understand those veterans who are. There was too much suffering, devastation, and cruelty. War is terrible and it’s certainly not glorious. I just want people to remember,” he emphasized.

William C. Tuck, A Co. 91st Chemical Mortar Battalion, told me a little about his career plans before the war and how they changed due to the impact of war.

We had heavy mortars to give close support to infantry. Other shells were used to provide smoke screens and still others exploded white phosphorus.

One insignificant little memory was of a chicken found by one of our men in the shell-torn town of Echternach, the only living creature left there. It was adopted as Annabelle and went with us through Luxembourg and Germany and up to the Austrian border, carried in a jeep in a wicker basket. It managed to make it back to the United States after the war, incognito, and then to a new home in Pennsylvania.

Two years of college as a pre-med student preceded enlistment in the Army. The experiences of the war years led me to decide on the ministry. While the camaraderie and friendships were a positive experience, others were not. Time for relaxing on quiet nights led to card games and making hot chocolate from D Ration bars. But the wounded bodies, death, and des truction and evidences of inhumanity gave me a different idea as to what I wanted to do. In addition, some German language training brought me in occasional conversation with German civilians, whose lives and goals were not so different from ours.

I learned many things from completing the Veterans Voices project. I found that the veterans’ favorite stories are those that are lighthearted. The pleasant experiences, if they can be so called, are the recollections about people. However, I also realized that most disturbing stories to tell, and to hear, were the accounts of the horrors of World War II—things men and women could not have been prepared to witness.

There were no insignificant stories from the Veteran Voices project—all are important; all are worth hearing. Whether photographed at their hobbies, in their homes or residences, or proudly holding their medals and ribbons, the goal of each photograph and oral history was to communicate the veterans’ wisdom, experience, spirit, and immeasurable service rendered to America. More than that, it is hoped the project will celebrate the lives of today’s senior citizens who, for a few crucial years in the mid-twentieth century, gave up their youth to attend to matters of the world.

Eric Dusenbery is the owner of Dimensions Photography in Orlando, Florida. His work has appeared in numerous publications, and he is the recipient of several national awards for commercial/editorial photography. His interest in family history was piqued when his great-grandfather’s Civil War swords, and later his father’s World War II collection, were handed down to his household.