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An article in the Tennessean Newspaper dated Tuesday, 03/27/07
(complete newspaper entry found in the honors section)
Raymond Sawyer reached into the cardboard box and pulled out two red,
tattered armbands with swastikas on them. His old hands shook as he lifted
the armbands to the living room window so he could see them better in the
light. On the other side of the glass, a blue jay ate seeds from a
birdfeeder.
But Sawyer didn't notice the budding of spring in the front yard of his
Franklin home. The armbands and other mementos in that box took him back to
a freezing, deadly month in Belgium more than 60 years ago. A month he
barely survived. A month when young soldiers, like him, fought and bled in
what history books now call the Battle of the Bulge.
"It stays with you," he said, sitting at a table next to the window. From
the box, he pulled out a wad of paper towels and unwrapped them. They
covered a metal spoon and fork used by a German officer in the field, a Nazi
symbol engraved on their base. They were strange to look at up close because
for a time, in the early 1940s, a human being knew that corroded metal so
personally. His mouth once tasted its bitter flavor, maybe even only a few
moments before he died.
Sawyer also unwrapped a German bayonet and a medal with that unsettling
swastika image on it. They were the souvenirs he collected from battle, but
as he sat at the window, talking slowly in the sunlight, you understood that
he didn't need anything to remind him of his role in history.
Training saw tragedies
In 1942, Sawyer was a handsome 20-year-old kid with an innocent, boyish
face. He lived in Brentwood but worked at Union Station in Nashville,
checking baggage. But that ended in December when he was drafted.
He trained at Camp Hood in Texas with other members of the 808th Tank
Destroyers Battalion. They worked hard in the months leading up to their
departure for Europe, but the excitement for Sawyer began while he was still
in America.
"When I was stationed in Wisconsin, one Saturday night, we were staying in a
two-story barracks, and one Saturday night everybody was gone, but just four
or five of us," he said.
He went to bed, but woke up suddenly about 2 a.m. He looked out the window
and saw bright lights, but he couldn't make out what was going on.
"I jumped up, put my clothes on and went outside," he said. "The top of the
barracks was on fire. I woke up the other fellows and told them to get out
of there."
A few firefighters arrived with a fire engine, but since it was the weekend,
they had a half crew. Sawyer was recruited to help, and he grabbed one of
the fire hoses.
"They turned on the water, and the pressure flopped me around," he said. "It
was like holding a young bull. You ought to try that some time."
They finally got the fire out. A few firefighters went upstairs into the
charred remains of the barracks and found, what they thought, was the source
of the blaze.
"They found a fellow in bed up there burned up. They figured what happened
to him, he came in intoxicated and was smoking in bed, set his bed on fire."
A few weeks later, Sawyer and 4,000 other men took a 13-day boat ride across
the Atlantic Ocean to England. From there, they went to France.
"They did everything after dark, so one night we crossed the English Channel
and landed at Utah Beach," he said. "The next night, we was up on the battle
lines fighting."
Fighting was 'miserable'
Sawyer was one of five guys crammed into a M-36 Tank. They rolled across the
countryside, shooting 90-millimeter rounds into other tanks, trucks and
German dugouts. When the tank fired, it lifted the front end of the metal
beast and hurt the ears of the men inside. They drove through explosions and
heard enemy bullets bouncing off the tank's metal plating.
"There was a lot of gunfire and smoke and it rained every day," Sawyer said.
"One of my crew said, 'I can't take this anymore.' He took his rifle and put
it down there on his leg and pulled the trigger. He went somewhere. They
took him off."
About three weeks later, the tanks pulled into a deserted town. Buildings
stood in ruins with gaping holes from artillery rounds. Crumbled bricks
covered the streets. The tanks stopped.
"We all got out, all but my driver. He stayed inside," Sawyer said. "We was
standing on the side and our leader, he told us, 'Y'all go look around. See
what you can find.' "
The men scattered, but they soon heard the screech of an incoming shell. It
exploded in the spot they'd just been standing.
"Our commander, he was blown all to pieces. My driver, he rolled out of the
tank and ran around there and looked at him. He just took one look and went
to pieces. I mean just had a fit. Medics came and took both of them off."
The explosion caused the supplies on the outside of the tanks to catch fire,
so the men hurried to put them out. Sawyer's tank would have to get a new
driver.
The tanks pushed on. They drove up to a stream late one afternoon and
started driving across. It was only about knee deep, but it was wide.
"We got about halfway across, and all at once a big wall of water, about 7-
or 8-foot tall, came and covered us complete up," Sawyer said.
It wasn't raining, so the best they could make out, the Germans had
destroyed a dam, releasing the torrent of water.
"We stayed there all night and about the middle of the day the next day.
Finally, somebody came in a flat-bottom boat and got us out. We was wet, the
bedrolls was wet. The next night, it started turning cold. I never was so
miserable in my life."
But, he fared better than the man he met a few nights later in a barn.
"I was going to stay all night, and I was in there a few minutes when I
heard somebody moaning," he said. "A German soldier had been wounded. He was
in really bad shape. He kept a-moaning and a-moaning. I knew he wasn't a
threat to me. I didn't bother him. I just laid down and went to sleep. The
next morning, I left at daylight and he was still there lying there moaning.
I don't know what happened to him. He probably died."
Bulge memories blanketed in snow
The war seemed to be going well for the American soldiers. They kept pushing
the Germans back, and there was talk the war would be soon be over. Then
came Dec. 16, 1944. The Germans launched a major offensive, cutting through
the Allied lines. Stuck deep behind the German lines was the town of
Bastogne. American soldiers defended it.
"They had some of our men surrounded right here," Sawyer said, pointing to
Bastogne on a map. "They called on (Gen. George Patton) to see if he'd help
'em. We came up this way."
It was December, and a recent heavy snowfall covered the hard ground in a
thick, white blanket.
"It was pretty bad. I remember the weather more than anything else," he
said. "I had to dig a foxhole and get some branches off trees and put them
in the bottom of the hole there. I covered it up with some branches and
that's where I slept. The bad part of that is you get under there and get
kind of warm a little bit, and they'd come around about one or two o'clock,
wake you up and say it's time for you to stand guard. It was pretty rough."
The battle went on in the cold until Jan. 14. The men didn't know it was
over. They just kept pushing forward, Sawyer said. It was the last German
offensive of the war, and weeks later, Sawyer's tank would be rumbling
through the German countryside.
War ends during leave
Sawyer opened an album on the table in his Franklin home. He flipped through
several black and white pictures of him and his buddies on tanks. On one
page, he pointed to a small card — a Christmas card from Patton to his
soldiers. Sawyer smiled with the same sweetness as the pictures of the young
boy in front of him.
"I went over there in August and I came back in August," he said.
When he returned from Europe, the army sent him to Alabama.
"They told us, 'We're going to give you six weeks training and send you to
Japan,' " he said.
More fighting loomed in front of him. But it was in his blood. His father
served in World War I. He'd had relatives who fought in the Civil War, the
Spanish-American War and the War of 1812. The Pacific theater of World War
II was about to be named to that list.
"I came home on a week's leave, and while I was home, the war ended," he
said. Japan surrendered.
He closed the photo album. He put the armbands and other artifacts back into
the cardboard box. He stood in the quiet house and seemed to want to say
more. He mentioned something about young people not understanding the
sacrifices that took place in World War II.
"It was the most important war we've ever been in," he said. "If they had
lost it, well, I don't know where we'd be today."
I am the stepson of CECIL C. BURROWS of LaPorte City, IA and am grateful for the opportunity to share some memories of this man:
Dad, like most WWII vets, did not share a lot of details with us about his experiences with the 808. Later he explained to me that it was because, "No one would understand who wasn't there." He was blessed in one major way, though. His youngest sister married ELSWORTH MUELLER, also of the 808, and they lived near to my folks. I am confident that these two men often, in the privacy of their visits, were able to "process" some of what they had been involved with, a healthy activity for them. I also remember while growing up that we would often visit with, and be visited by the families of MARION ECKARD of Ames, IA and FRANCIS WASER of Des Moines. We kids would be sent out to play, the wives would visit, and the men would spend hours together, re-winning the war, but mostly just talking it out. It is only with the advantage of maturity that I recognize these visits for what they were, a chance for these men to talk with someone who WOULD understand.
In later years, the 808 reunions became a fixture on Dad's social calendar. I say "social calendar" with tongue in cheek as my parents social life was mainly involving family and friends nearby. The reunions became a focal point of the year for both the Burrowses and the Muellers, and they usually would travel to them together.
It was my wife Sharon's and my distinct privilege to host the 808 reunion here in Dubuque, IA in the mid-90's. I remember that about 40 of the old guys and many spouses as well, came to Dubuque for three days and as I entered the hospitality room that first afternoon, seeing and hearing those men talking and greeting each other reminded me of a junior-high school lunch room without supervision. The talk was loud, the laughs were loud and the camaraderie was wonderful to behold. That weekend was followed by us by another a few years later in Waterloo, IA, hosted by Cecil and Elsworth and their wives, and close to where they lived. I had the privilege of being the MC at the banquet, and again, of spending time with persons that I had only heard of while growing up.
Dad passed away in 2002 of complications of Alzheimer's disease, and is buried in Westview Cemetery in LaPorte City. I am thrilled that this website will help to preserve his memory, as well as the memories of so many other heroes. Not a one of them would have even considered themselves as heroes, but the facts remain even though they usually replied "we were only doing our job" when pressed about their service, their "job" at that time was to save the world, and they did so. That meets my definition of HERO every time.
I will be forwarding some photos from the time as well as in later years for the "ROLL CALL" on this website.
Thanks for the opportunity to share my memories of this and a few other heroes.
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