My father, Donis Weldon Roberts, was driving from Garland, Texas to Sulphur Springs one Sunday in 1941 when he heard an announcement on the radio that Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor. Seven weeks later, Donis turned 31. He was unmarried, healthy and nobody was dependent on him for anything. In due time, he was drafted, along with every other eligible man in Hopkins County.
By whatever method such decisions were made (possibly because he had worked in a funeral home and had worked on human flesh), it was decided that Donis would receive medical training and serve as a Surgical Technician, a glorified term for a male nurse’s aid. To this end he was assigned to the Medical Replacement Training Center at Camp Robinson, on the outskirts of Little Rock, Arkansas. He also spent some time at Camp Carson in Colorado Springs, Colorado and Camp Barkeley in Abilene, Texas.
In 1943, he rode a train to New York City. From there he crossed the Atlantic on the Queen Elizabeth. His destination: Cirencester, Gloucester, England.
Donis crossed the Atlantic Ocean four times on three ships: the Queen Elizabeth, the Europa, and a smaller, less prestigious vessel whose name has eluded living memory. When telling his stories many years later, he may have called it the Banana Republic. If he did, he might not have been serious. The Europa was a German liner which was captured by the Allies in 1945 and briefly used as a troop ship. She would bring Donis back to the United States when the war ended.
The Queen Elizabeth was a British luxury liner and, at that time, the largest ship ever built. She had been refitted as a troop ship with little to suggest her former opulence. Thousands of soldiers lived and slept in crowded conditions. Much of their time was spent heaving over the rail. There was only enough fresh water aboard for drinking purposes, which meant the men were unable to shower for the duration of the voyage. They would arrive in England "pretty ripe." They had regular abandon ship drills, which involved getting into one's life jacket (called a "Mae West" in reference to the buxom film actress) and making one's way up to the deck as quickly as possible. There was a degree of admitted futility to these exercises: the life jacket would prevent you from drowning, but more than thirty minutes in the freezing water would result in death from hypothermia. If the ship sank, the suction would probably pull you down with it.
Donis never had to abandon ship. He was never rammed, torpedoed or bombed. Even so, after the war he spent the rest of his days on dry ground.
One of the first things Donis did in Cirencester was to acquire transportation. He bought a used three-speed "English racer" bicycle and was thus able to travel the several miles from the base into town. Along the way, he noticed a vegetable patch being tended by an old farmer. The fresh tomatos and onions were just what he needed to make the mess hall chow palatable. What the farmer wanted was cigarettes. The Army included cigarettes in the men's rations in those days, but Donis didn't smoke. The two worked out an arrangement by which they would exchange cigarettes for produce on a regular basis. The next time the mess hall served beans, Donis got a plateful of them, sat down, pulled a tomato and an onion from his pockets and proceeded to cut them up with his pocket knife. Heads turned. "Hey, Roberts! Where'd you get that?" He didn't answer. His mouth was full.
Donis had never been around any "yankees" before he entered the Service. They complained bitterly about being served beans, which they considered to be livestock feed. "They ain't like us," he said later. "They're a different breed of duck."
Barracks banter was usually bawdy. "I'm 180 lbs. of dynamite!" one would crow. Someone else would pipe up, "Yeah! With a two-inch fuse!" Other groin-related observations were directed at their Jewish buddies: "You guys cut half of it off before you know how long it's gonna get!"
Donis played the harmonica (he called it a "French harp") in an old-fashioned style, and sometimes he would get together with a fiddler and a guitar player. They would play such chestnuts as "Red Wing," "Over the Waves" and "Home Sweet Home." Sometimes the other fellows would gather around and listen.
Donis frequented a pub in Cirencester, where he quickly got used to the dark English beer, served at room temperature. A sign hung on the wall: "Drink 'til ten," it said. This was followed by the image of a pistol and the word "two." He thought this was hilarious.
He heard Major Glenn Miller and the Band of the Allied Expeditionary Forces broadcasting from London on the Armed Forces Radio Network. Like millions of others, he thought Miller "sure made some wonderful music." He especially liked "American Patrol," an old march that had been given a swing arrangement. Miller played Cirencester in 1944, but Donis never mentioned it. One assumes he was on duty.
One day a high-ranking officer needed a ride into London, and "Roberts" was appointed to drive him there. Neither of them knew their way around England, and all of the sign posts and station names had been painted over or removed in order to confound the Germans, if they ever got around to invading. Eventually they realized they were hopelessly lost, and the officer began to berate "Roberts."
"If you'd like to drive, you're welcome to it," came the reply. The officer declined and they continued their journey. Whether they reached their destination or turned back is unknown.
"I went through Oxford," Donis used to say, pausing for effect before adding, "on a guided tour!"
The medical unit to which he was assigned saw a massive influx of carnage after D-Day -- the Allied invasion of Normandy in June of 1944. Donis never talked about what he saw and experienced, but it is known that thousands of wounded and mutilated soldiers were sent to Cirencester to be treated for their injuries, and some of them died there. For the rest of his life, Donis had nightmares. The family would hear him desperately shouting, "No! Oh, no!" in his sleep. He also mumbled a lot of things which couldn't be made out. Many years later, when I asked my mother if she had ever figured out what he was saying, she replied, "Oh, dear Gussie! I didn't want to know what he was saying!"
Whatever transpired in the second half of 1944, Donis came home on furlough in December. Once again he sailed across the Atlantic. In New York City he boarded a train and rode back to Texas. In Dallas he caught a bus to Sulphur Springs. Things were different now: he had a wife and a baby. While he was there, his mother-in-law died unexpectedly. The days were filled with culture shock and grief. All too soon, Donis was once again saying goodbye and making the long trip from Texas to England. As hard as it was to leave the first time, this was much worse. He later said that spending his furlough time in England would have been easier than coming home and having to leave again, and referred to the trip as "the worst mistake I ever made in my life." He was in the Service "for the duration" of the war, and if anybody knew how long that was going to be, they weren't saying.
Germany unconditionally surrendered to the Allies in May of 1945. Japan surrendered in August. Autumn found Donis eligible for an honorable discharge, and he took it, declining any and all re-enlistment incentives. He had risen to the rank of Corporal and received a good conduct medal.
Donis went back to his old warehouse job at Huey & Philp in Dallas.
With the exception of the farcical "Hogan's Heroes," he steadfastly refused to watch war-related television programs -- especially documentaries. "I lived through it," he would say. "What do I want to watch it for?"
He never joined the American Legion, the VFW, or anything else.
He used to claim he had been a pilot in the cavalry. "I'd pile it here, and pile it there..."
Donis' dress uniform hung in his closet for the rest of his life. When he died in 1997, my mother wondered aloud what she was going to do with it. Apparently she never considered burying him in it. The uniform has hung in my closet since she died in 2003, in mute testimony to one man's contribution to a great achievement.
