This one is pretty creepy, too, however.
This one is from my father. My father fought during the Spanish Civil War, in the Republican side. He was a medic.
This needs a little prologue, though – When I was a kid, once a year there would be this old guy who would come home, always on the same day. My father would invite him in. Then they would go to my father’s studio, lock themselves in with a pot of coffee and a bottle of brandy, and spend a few hours there. Then they would go out of my father’s studio, the coffee pot and bottle of brandy having been emptied, and my father would accompany the old guy to the door, saying goodbye until the next year.
I felt a bit curious about this yearly ritual, but didn’t think too much of it. I was just a kid, after all.
Then, when I had just become 16 years old, after the yearly visit from the guy, my father took me with him, sat me down and said: “You must be wondering why this man comes here very year to spend some hours with me here in my studio.” I replied, “well, yes, a bit.” And then my father told me the following story.
By late 1938 things were going very badly for the Republican war effort. The battle of the Ebro was getting close to an end, and it would end up being the worst disaster for the Republican armies in the whole of the war. My father was part of what had been a batallion (or equivalent term in whatever your military is – a unit of roughly 400 men).
Things were really bad, and they received the order to retreat just in time, as the enemy was getting real close. They engaged in what amounted basically to a protracted fighting retreat, for several days, through forested terrain. Their objective was to reach a pass that was basically the only path out of the area where they were. Of course everybody knew that the pass in question was essential, and the Republican military was keeping that pass protected with some military units. The pass was basically a roughly 300-meter stretch of open space between two forested covers.
By the time my father’s force reached that pass, his unit’s numbers had been reduced to about 200 men, through attrition from casualties and desertions. But they were about to reach the pass where they could expect at least some friendly forces to cover them.
The first people to go through the pass must have had the nastiest surprise of their suddenly short lives when they went into the pass and were greeted by enemy fire. The Republican forces were nowhere to be seen, and the enemy had taken position covering the whole place with machine guns and (very) light artillery (the terrain was rather rough; no way to put big guns there).
Those first guys were killed very quickly. The enemy, having seen where those Republican soldiers had come from, began concentrating their fire on that area, throwing in everything they had.
There was no coming back because the enemy was also not very far behind them, and during the Spanish Civil War no prisoners were made if they caught you in action. Both sides were guilty of summarily executing captured enemy soldiers. Keeping put was going to be suicidal; they were under severe fire. Also, their pursuers would eventually reach their position, see above.
So, the commanding officer of my father’s unit basically said: “Men, run like you have never run in your life, and do your best to cross that pass! NOW!”
Chaos, shots, explosions, shouting… My father remembered those 300 meters as the longest of his whole life. He told me that he was only looking at the forest on the other side; he literally did not see anything else.
Roughly 200 men began that mad dash.
16 made it.
Those 16 survivors somehow managed to elude their pursuers and reach their own lines, some time later. My father, the unit’s medic, had become the highest-ranked survivor, and led them during their trek back home.
By the time I was a kid, from those 16 there were only two left alive: My father and the visitor who came home once a year. The tradition was for them to get together on the anniversary of that event, reminisce and drink to their fallen comrades.
Roughly three weeks after my father told me this, he died. I have always kept this story in my mind, in my memory, and I will make sure to pass it on to my own descendants. I will do my best to prevent its being forgotten.
One of the better unreliable stories I heard was of the pickle jar behind a bar in Saigon full of penises bitten off by a Viet Cong prostitute. Not at all credible, but a welcome relief from the old chestnut about razor blades in the vagina.
One that was slightly more credible was a buddy who was being treated for the Black Clap at the naval hospital in Subic Bay Philippines. Ambling through the hall, he was asked for a light from a Black sailor. The sailor had a cigarette in one hand, and a transplanted penis in his other, though his new appendage was Caucasian. I don’t know if I believed that one , either.
OK, this one is true: in Busan Korea the ships chaplain organized a trip to a local orphanage, as an alternative to the whorehouses on Green Street. It was great: these adorable little kids starved for attention climbing all over us. The people who ran the place told us that these were the lucky ones: children of US servicemen and Korean whores are usually killed at birth. Thrown on the dump, no questions asked. After resisting foreign invasion for a thousand years, they tend to side against genetic diversity in favor of national integrity.
This one I believed, as opposed the story that out in the boondocks in the Philippines lived people who bought sailors’ bastards for human sacrifice.
A decidedly tame World War II story; but, I think, at least an unusual one. An uncle of mine, aged 21 when WWII began for the UK in 1939, registered on religious grounds, as a conscientious objector to military service. He was thus exempted from joining the military; but was obliged to go to do farm work in – of all places – the British Channel Islands. He had been there a few months when France capitulated to the German onslaught, and was German-occupied – this including the Channel Islands, just off the Normandy coast.
He remained thus caught on the islands, until their liberation at the very end of the war in Europe. The Channel Islands’ WWII experience was definitely not fun, but probably less horrible than most German-occupied-foreign-countries’ situations: the worst aspect being, according to my uncle, shortage of food – especially acute during the last year of occupation. My uncle had been in the middle of a teachers’ training course when war broke out; he found work on the islands as a schoolteacher. He met a local girl, and married her in 1944; after the war, they moved to England. Sadly they found – quite early on, but after they’d produced a couple of kids – that they were totally incompatible as spouses.
Many of the occupying German troops were perfectly decent folk. My uncle became friendly with one in particular; a guy in a non-combatant speciality. This chap confided to my uncle that he considered that Hitler was insane; however, he (the soldier) saw, as a loyal German, no alternative to going on doing what he was doing, until things came to whatever end might come about. He and my uncle exchanged addresses , and agreed to get in touch after the war. Around early 1944, the guy was transferred from the Channel Islands; to perform his same role in Caen in Normandy, not hugely far away. That city was of course devastated in the fighting shortly post-D-Day ; my uncle never heard from his German friend again. Although this does not necessarily mean that the guy was killed in Caen in summer 1944, that would seem the likeliest scenario.
From our family lore: During the Civil War, two family members were on a river and were picked up by the confederates and charged with transporting supplies for the union. They were on trial for their lives and someone in the room stood up and vouched for them and they were freed. They never found out who it was.
While I always found it a bit hard to believe, my dad told similar stories about the New Guinea headhunters. He told this one with great sincerity, though I never was able to tell when my dad was pulling my leg.
The one he told the most was of a conversation he had with a couple of them. He asked if they would ever eat him, and they replied “Oh, no, you’re a Christian!”. I guess missionaries DO make a difference!
Every time I wonder why I bother coming to the straightdope a thread like this pops up. Great stories everyone!
That reminds me of a small but well done scene in (I think), ‘The Longest Day’, a platoon of American soldiers are marching exhausted on one side of a high stone wall somewhere in Europe, there is a break in the wall where it has been damaged and the tail-end charlie glances over…and notices there is a similarly exhausted German column marching in the opposite direction on the other side and the last member of their troop looks across and notices the Americans, there is a moment of mutual surprise but then both groups move on most of them none the wiser. Fiction of course but the kind of silly thing that could actually happen.
Perhaps stretching the definition of ‘war story’ but I happened to be reading this article before I opened this thread:
Namely the photo taken of the car-bomb shortly before it went off. I once read a book on this terrorist incident where one survivor, who was a teenager at the time, told of how he was walking with a friend close to the bomb when it detonated. He walked away with only scratches. They never found his friend.
My Grade 10 history teacher told us a story about his granddad in WW1 or WW2, I can’t remember. It seems that his platoon was on a hillside and the Germans were approaching. There was a bridge that the Germans would have to cross in order to advance, and his granddad’s platoon had to protect that bridge. Anyway, long story short, all the guys were either killed or badly wounded except for his granddad. My teacher said “You ever hear the saying “scared shitless”? It exists. My grandfather actually voided his bowels.” Well apparently his granddad had the presence of mind to run between the guns that were positioned on the hill and fire them off randomly towards that bridge so it seemed like there were more people up there. It worked and the Germans retreated. He received a medal for courage. I guess so eh.
My uncle was in Vietnam. When in camp he and his buddies would pass their free time smoking and playing cards. They’d been stationed in one place a while and so had their specific spots around the table when playing cards. One day he and one of his friends switched places. That happened to be the day a shell landed in their camp. His friend died, and he lived, all because they switched spots that day.
He still has shrapnel in his back.
A family friend was a Navy Corpsman in Vietnam. For those that don’t know, the Marines don’t have corpsmen or medics, they use guys from the Navy.
I don’t remember all of the details, but his story was that he was assigned to a USMC platoon and one day got into an argument with the Marine in charge about crossing some bridge before nightfall. He refused to cross the bridge to make camp and was finally left by himself on one side while the Marines slept on the other.
He awoke to the sound of an attack and at daybreak found that the platoon was wiped out.
My friend’s father was a Marine in WWII Pacific theater. He was hunkered down, under fire with some guys. He crawled away to take a pee, and while he was gone, a shell hit and killed all the other guys in the hole they were hiding in.
My grandfather served in the Army during the WWII Pacific island hopping campaign. His group was advancing inland on one of islands (I don’t remember which, but it wasn’t one of the major ones) and were under heavy mortar and sniper fire. His platoon was tasked with linking up with some tanks that had their radio antennas shot off and were out of communication.
As they came around a bend, with the tanks in sight, they started taking sniper fire. They all lined up behind a rock outcropping and the lieutenant told the first guy to run over to the closest tank. He made it a few steps and was killed. The lieutenant told the second guy to go, but he refused. My grandfather was third in line, and went. He said this was one of the hardest things he’s ever done.
He sprinted and jumped under the tank but the snipers were still firing at him. One of the bullets ricocheted off the tank tread and lodged in his wrist. As he was pounding on the bottom of the tank to try to let the tank crew know he was under there he saw the lieutenant jump under the tank with him. The lieutenant looked at him and asked, “well, any ideas?” My grandfather had a few smoke grenades with him and told the LT as soon as he threw them to get out and run back. Both of them made it and grandpa got a bronze star and purple heart for his trouble.
Not a very creepy or amazing story, but my grandfather told me that story when I was eleven and it’s stuck with me. A gruesome part to tell an eleven year old was the offhand references to the trail leading up to that where he passed the bodies of numerous people he knew that had been hit by mortars. That was the only time I heard him talk about his combat experience, though he’s happy to talk about the time he spent in the Army using a typewriter.
Another close call happened to my brother in Iraq a few years ago. He was in the green zone but apparently that didn’t stop the base from regularly being targeted by rocket attacks. He walked through a courtyard and around a large wall and soon heard a very close explosion. A rocket had hit on the other side of the wall he had just walked around.
My friend’s father flew as a spotter in those single engine planes when we were still just “advisors” in Vietnam. He tells stories about how they were constantly taking small arms fire and found it very annoying. Those planes were unarmed so the spotters would shoot their M16s out the window and also put grenades in bottles (with the pin pulled) and try to drop them on enemy positions. The way he tells it makes it sound like doing this wasn’t really sanctioned, but something they all did as a way to get back at those firing on them. He says that he doubts he hit anyone, but at least he might have made a few duck.
Former Rhode Island Senator John Chafee was an Army officer in the Korean War and he once told a chilling (literally and figuratively) story about stumbling over a group of Chinese soldiers who’d frozen to death while lying in wait to ambush Chafee’s men.
A friend of mine related a story told by a relative of his, an uncle, I think. Anyway, said relative was in the USAAF during WW2, and was a gunner in one of the bombers. One day, they decided to liberate a keg of beer from the Officer’s Club, and had moved it to their tent where a number of them were imbibing. Anyway, the squadron executive officer walks in, and asks the suddenly silent sergeants if they had seen any beer that had been taken from the OClub. He walks over, grabs a glass, and mentions that if they see any to let him know. Then he drains the glass and walks out. That executive officer?
Jimmy Stewart.
That also happened to my grandfather in WW1.
My Grandfather never told me any war stories, but I was told this by my Grandmother: some time in the late 1960s they were on holiday in some quiet country town – just strolling along, enjoying a warm summer’s day in the English countryside – when my Grandfather stopped dead in his tracks. My Grandmother looked at him, and he was as white as a sheet. “Are you all right?” she asked him, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think I just did,” he said, turning to look at the couple who’d just passed them, who had also stopped and turned, the man as white as my Grandfather.
The two men had served together and were best friends in WWII – constantly together from Normandy, through France, Belgium and Holland, till, as part of Operation Market Garden, they had to cross a river in a small boat, which was shot up by a German machine gun. Both had bailed out and managed to scramble to shore, but they were separated, and each had believed the other had died. Until they chanced to visit the same small town on the same day, 25 years later, and meet each other in the street.
A former business partner, one of the best people I have ever been proud to call my friend, was in Vietnam for a while. There is no doubt that what he told me was true, but I may be a bit fuzzy on the details.
He told a story about a chopper pilot who picked up and brought back the wounded from the battlefield, often while the battle was still going on. He was either fearless or crazy, and probably a lot of both, but he went in like he was invisible and bulletproof and took a lot of chances doing his job.
One day, a group of Americans were told to take this hill, but there was a problem because Charlie had set up a bunker on the side of it and had either light artillery or heavy machine guns because they prevented anybody from getting in close or taking the hill.
Air strikes were called in and some kind of air craft support came in and tried to shoot or bomb the bunker out, but due to its position or something, nothing seemed to work. The bunker and its weapons had to be stopped in order to advance.
The above mentioned chopper pilot got tired of all the guys he was hauling out of there and just decided he was going to do something about it. Apparently, he got with my friend, who was in charge of giving out ammo and ordinance at that time, and “liberated” a bunch of grenades and/or Claymores, and then took off for the bunker.
According to my friend, the pilot flew right up and over the bunker, under heavy fire, landed in back of it, jumped out and ran to the bunker and started dropping explosives in the vents and openings of the bunker, basically blowing the occupants inside all to hell. The guns were silenced and the Americans moved on and took the hill.
Apparently, the pilot got back in his chopper, picked up more wounded and headed back. Never said a word about it to anybody and acted like nothing special had happened.
The mention of the headhunters in DrDeths posts reminded me that my friend also told a story about a camp he was in that had a contingent of soldiers from South Korea. It seems that the SK troops were super serious, no-bullshit guys, and got a lot of respect from the other troops. They took on jobs that others wouldn’t and were hardcore. The Vietcong were very afraid if the Koreans.
At night, Charlie would crawl up close enough to camp to set up a mortar and blast off a few before running off back into the jungle. The soldiers took turns on which group would patrol the buffer zone at night.
When it was the Koreans turn to patrol, everybody in camp knew that they were safe and there would be no trouble that night. When the Koreans were on patrol, there was little gunfire, never any incoming shells, and in the morning there were never any bodies of traces of Vietcong around the camp. They didn’t get eaten, but with no bodies there was no need for reports and such.
You didn’t screw around with the South Koreans.
A great-uncle of mine was a very highly decorated WWII vet. He was generally pretty reticent about the war. Towards the end of his life he casually admitted, in one of his rare moments of opening up, that in his unit they “never accepted surrender” from SS units.
We heard from his comrades, though he would never confirm or deny it, that he had at least once dressed as a woman in order to get close enough to a German soldier to stab him. It’s possible and even as a civilian he was a violent man…but he would have been a big, blonde, broad-shouldered, ugly woman.
This one’s a bit creepy.
I had a friend in the Navy who had been a Boiler Tech in the fleet Navy prior to becoming a plumber in the Seabees. We were drinking one night and I asked him why he left the fleet to become a shore sailor. He told me the following:
He was stationed on board the destroyer USS Frank E. Evans, which was operating with the Australian navy in Vietnam waters. For two weeks he had been having disturbing nightmares where he was trapped in a room where objects were flying around and debris was falling on him. He always awoke in a sweat.
He wasn’t getting a lot of rest, and when his bridge midwatch rotation came up June 2-3, 1969, he swapped with another sailor so he could get some sack time. Late that night, the Evans was struck broadside by HMAS Melbourne, an Australian carrier. The ship was cut in two. My friend said he awoke to mayhem, with shit flying all over the place and things falling on him. He thought he was having the nightmare at first, but quickly realized that it was actually happening, was able to escape from his berth, jumped overboard, and was rescued from the water.
The man who swapped with him was killed in the collision.
He was severely traumatized from the event and given the option of leaving the service with an honorable discharge. He chose instead to take a transfer to a different specialty that would pretty much guarantee he would never set foot on a ship again. Jack was a decent guy, but he really wasn’t quite right, drank heavily and pulled some crazy stunts.
My grandfather’s stories would often get decorated, but if he told you something being spitting mad you could believe every detail.
One time he was pissed off at suicidal bombers, and he told my mother “you know, back in the Ebro (1), your husband’s people (2), they weren’t afraid of dying and they did some crazy things, but there is a fucking difference between ‘not afraid to die because if I die killing Reds I’m going to Heaven’ and ‘so fucking nuts I want to die so I can get to Heaven faster’! I mean, those guys, forget about the uniforms historians draw, nobody had no fucking uniforms, even the regular Army didn’t half the time, all the carcas had was their red berets, and they’d stick ‘em in their shirts and crawl under the tanks before dawn, and then at first light you’d suddenly see a dirty guy with a clean red beret running back to their lines, and you knew he’d laid an egg under some tank, and you had no idea if it was your tank and I don’t know if I’ve ever been more scared; as much yes, but not more. If you jumped off the tank they’d shoot at you (3), but if the egg was under your tank the floor was the tanks’ weak part, when a grenade exploded underneath they became charnel tin cans… but even those suicidal fucks weren’t trying to die, they were running back so they could come back the next night and kill us some more!”
- battle of the Ebro River, near Tortosa - tanks against trenches against aircraft… I think it was the longest and bloodiest of the Spanish Civil War of 1936-9
- Carlistas, slang carcas. Dad wasn’t even born at the time, but several of his closest relatives were there.
- in general, the Nacionales (including the Carlistas) were west of the Republicans; at dawn they had better light conditions to shoot, plus from what I understand tanks aren’t really the best thing to be shooting at entrenched men, whereas entrenched men can shoot quite nicely at dudes jumping off tanks
- in case anybody needs it spelled, the “eggs” were grenades with the safety pulled off