My Uncle John: A World War II Soldier

By Janice K. Jarosz

Several years ago, I interviewed my late uncle, John Martin Penney, to learn about his service in the Armed Forces. Uncle John was born at home on April 8, 1916, at 125 Howard Street, Saugus, Mass. The following is what he shared with me.

I graduated from Saugus High School in 1934 and in 1942 was drafted into the Army and sent to Fort Devens. After 19 weeks of basic training, I was put on a large convoy headed for England. It was a limey ship and I was put in charge of a 12-man squad. One of the worst parts of being in charge was having to serve the soldiers some of the ugliest oatmeal ever cooked accompanied by one can of milk for all of us. The food was terrible but we survived on cookies. The trip took five days and during that time I read Plato on deck, never figuring I would ever have that kind of time again. It took two days to disembark in Liverpool but no one was happy to learn that the other ship, the Queen Mary, served two great meals a day with ice cream for dessert!

My group was stationed in England for a month in preparation for the invasion of France. During that time, they cut our hair short just in case anyone sustained head wounds. Little did I know at the time that it would be me. Before we left Southampton to cross the English Channel, we could see the town of Bristol being bombed and full of fire.

We arrived at Omaha Beach and were faced with a harbor full of dead soldiers floating face down — almost a whole division wiped out. Those who witnessed that tragic sight never forgot it. The first wave of men was killed on D-Day just two days before we landed. As we entered the beach, many of the boats were damaged. The Germans had placed bars of steel wrapped with barbed wire — doing a heck of a job trying to destroy our vessels because when the tide was in the traps could not be seen. We finally made it to shore late in the day, and I found myself up to my waist in water.

All of us knew the Germans were waiting for us. They were stationed on the high ground 18 miles into their main line of resistance, and when we looked up from the beach all we could see were German soldiers. They had machine guns pointed at us and the only reason some of us made it to shore was when they ran out of bullets and had to reload. Some soldiers in the first wave were shot in the crossfire while others drowned.

I was trained in heavy weapons and carried a 45 pistol. Our weapons, 81 mm mortars and heavy 30 caliber machine guns, were on the shore. The first convoy in was wiped out and I do not know if we were the second one in or not; all I knew is that we were not the first.

A sergeant met us on the beach and said he needed two mortar men and it was me and only one other guy from Springfield. I told him I was trained in rifles, but he told me we would be together in the mortar squad. We turned in our 45s and took bolt action rifles. The rifles were World War One versions — Springfields and Enfields.

Most of the soldiers did not even know how to load a clip; they thought the rifle took one bullet at a time. I showed them how to put five bullets in, and for each shot you had to lift the bolt, drive it forward and shoot and lift the bolt to eject. The mortar squad is supposed to be back behind the guys in front with the rifles, and our job was to fire over their heads.

Because of the heavy loss of our men, we all had to become riflemen. My buddy Ray got shot and with the help of another soldier, we dragged him into the hedgerow. He had pieces of steel sticking out of his wrist and some in his back. We gave him first aid as best we could and he begged me to write to his wife. During the rest of my combat I never knew whether he lived or died.

I was hit in the head and as I tried to get down low, I passed out. The warm blood came pouring down my face and I came to. Another soldier helped point me in the direction of the aid station, but I could not find it.

I turned around and started walking up a hill that the Germans held 18 miles in. They saw my silhouette and started shelling me. I jumped into a hole and someone finally came over and told me to stay put. He left to get another guy and while he was gone, I waited, but by this time, I lost so much blood I did not care if he ever came back.

He finally came back and took me to the way station, which was a couple of miles down the road. A doctor was there and when he saw me, he thought that because I was covered with blood, I had a stomach wound. He took a straight edge razor and sliced my shirt open. I kept telling him I was hit in the head. I had given myself first aid by wrapping a first aid packet around my head to stop the bleeding.

He finally noticed that my head was bleeding — but there was not too much he could do at that time, as they could not give morphine to anyone with a head wound. He called for an ambulance and I was driven to a field hospital. There wounded soldiers were placed for help in the order of the most serious.

Two medics debrided my head wound and a doctor stitched it . At this point in my life, I did not care whether I lived or died — I thought I was going to die anyway.

The order of the day was if the hospital staff could get you up on your feet within 10 days you were not to be evacuated to England. The doctor tapped me on the shoulder and told the two medics not to evacuate me and told them I was going to make it. During those 10 days I do not remember getting any food. In combat I had gone several days without anything but I did have water. On the 10th day a doctor took out the stitches, put two compresses on my wound and sent me back to division headquarters by truck for reassignment.

At Division Headquarters I was supposed to get a carbine but there were none left. The one I did get had the words “Here comes Hell” written on it. I wondered whatever happened to the guy who used it before me. We were losing about 60 men a day, in each company, as we hit the main line of resistance, and the Germans were as accurate as a bastard, as they had been in France for four years, and knew every nook and cranny.

I lasted three and a half months at the front except for the 10 days in the field hospital. I was hit again in Vire and evacuated from Cherbourg. There were almost 10 months of continuous combat from the beaches of Normandy to the heart of Germany.

On D-Day, in support of the 4th Infantry Division, they hit a German armored column at Sainte-Mère-Église, captured the town and opened the road to Montebourg.

On July 25, the great drive from Saint-Lô began. The battalion made one of the first penetrations of the Siegfried Line at Aachen. Against counterattacks, we held this wedge for more than a month. After the Battle of the Bulge, we crossed the Rhine on March 8 and on VE Day the tankers were in the heart of Germany chasing the retreating Wehrmacht.

During the bitter fighting in Europe, 2,999 men of the 2nd Infantry Division were killed, 10,924 wounded and 109 listed as missing. Those of us who made it back to the USA are grateful to this day.

Uncle John was discharged after 13 months in the hospital on November 21, 1945. Once out of the Service, he graduated from Boston University with a degree in business and a master’s degree in engineering from Northeastern University.

At the end of our visit, he said, “I was able to complete my education thanks to Uncle Sam and the G.I. Bill. God Bless America!!”

Prior to World War II, Uncle John served six years in the United States National Guard. While in the Service he earned a Purple Heart with a Gold Leaf Cluster, a European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal, a Good Conduct Medal and a World War II Victory Medal. After college he was employed at General Electric, and then Raytheon and assigned to the Hawke Missile Project. Uncle John passed away, at home, on March 11, 2013, just shy of his 97th birthday.