My Redacted Life: Sunday Break

As the month of August grew near, I contemplated our upcoming marriage. Appearances indicated success, but who could tell? I grew increasingly fond of Brenda’s parents, particularly her dad.

Robert Julius Cole grew up in the rich farmland country of the Arkansas Delta, the oldest boy of three and brother to three girls, one a half-sister who was born before her mother was widowed at age 16. By the time Julius was nine, he was managing a mule as it plowed the dark soil.

Having made it through the Great Depression, his generation saw the world head directly into World War Two. Although, as the eldest son on a family farm, he could have claimed an exemption from military service, he took the place of a younger brother and went into the army.

He found himself assigned to the 313^th Regiment of the 79^th Infantry Division. The unit had come ashore at Normandy on D-Day plus seven. By the time Julius joined it they were well into France and headed for Belgium and Germany by way of the Battle of the Bulge.

Some of my favorite memories involve sitting around the supper table and listening to his stories about the war. I’ve always felt that the supper table helped produce so many fine writers from the South. Kids learned the art of story-telling from master craftsmen. Julius was one of those. One time he would tell about when, during the last days of the war, as the Germans were listlessly expending the last of their artillery shells, and his company was lined up for chow, a random shell killed the shortest soldier in his company.

Another time, he might tell about the time he told a young French girl that she had a nice puppy, whereupon she disappeared and returned holding a roll of toilet paper. He might tell about his comrades, after the war while on leave in Rome “Itley,” placing prophylactics on the statues of naked men in the plazas.

“Many of our guys got killed by our own artillery,” he would recount. “Most of those killed were new kids who would freeze during an artillery barrage and not move out when they told us to.” Or, “I spent one night in a fox hole with a dead German boy. As soon as I jumped in, the fleas left him and crawled on me.” Or, “Jimmie, you would say just let me live one more second. Just one more.”

“Wounded by artillery shrapnel, he survived the war in Europe. They disbanded the 79^th Division and shipped him to another unit. It would be the First Infantry Division, the “Big Red One.” Had the war moved to the invasion of Japan, it would no doubt have led the way as it had at Normandy. The war ended, though, and he spent a year in Germany before rotating home.

There, he never, as far as I know, bothered another living soul. I still catch myself, from time to time, pitying those who never had the honor of knowing him.

A photo copied from the  Internet that
 may include Private Robert Julius Cole.